PART II

Those delicate wanderers, The wind, the star, the cloud, Ever before mine eyes, As to an altar bowed, Light and dew-laden airs Offer in sacrifice. The offerings arise: Hazes of rainbow light, Pure crystal, blue, and gold, Through dreamland take their flight; And ’mid the sacrifice God moveth as of old. In miracles of fire He symbols forth His days, In gleams of crystal light Reveals what pure pathways Lead to the soul’s desire, The silence of the height.

Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose, Withers once more the old blue flower of day: There where the ether like a diamond glows Its petals fade away. A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air; Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows; The great deep thrills, for through it everywhere The breath of Beauty blows. I saw how all the trembling ages past, Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath, Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last And knows herself in death.

Why does this sudden passion smite me? I stretch my hands all blind to see: I need the lamp of the world to light me, Lead me and set me free. Something a moment seemed to stoop from The night with cool cool breath on my face: Or did the hair of the twilight droop from Its silent wandering ways? About me in the thick wood netted The wizard glow looks human-wise; And over the tree-tops barred and fretted Ponders with strange old eyes. The tremulous lips of air blow by me And hymn their time-old melody: Its secret strain comes nigh and nigh me: “Ah, brother, come with me; “For here the ancient mother lingers To dip her hands in the diamond dew, And lave thine ache with cloud-cool fingers Till sorrow die from you.”

When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies, All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam, With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes; I am one with the twilight’s dream. When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood, Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast: Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude, I am one with their hearts at rest. From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love Strayed away along the margin of the unknown tide, All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above Word or touch from the lips beside. Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream, Such primeval being as o’erfills the heart with awe, Growing one with its silent stream.

From the cool and dark-lipped furrows breathes a dim delight Through the woodland’s purple plumage to the diamond night. Aureoles of joy encircle every blade of grass Where the dew-fed creatures silent and enraptured pass: And the restless ploughman pauses, turns, and wondering Deep beneath his rustic habit finds himself a king; For a fiery moment looking with the eyes of God Over fields a slave at morning bowed him to the sod. Blind and dense with revelation every moment flies, And unto the Mighty Mother, gay, eternal, rise All the hopes we hold, the gladness, dreams of things to be. One of all thy generations, Mother, hails to thee! Hail! and hail! and hail for ever: though I turn again From thy joy unto the human vestiture of pain. I, thy child, who went forth radiant in the golden prime Find thee still the mother-hearted through my night in time; Find in thee the old enchantment, there behind the veil Where the Gods my brothers linger, Hail! for ever, Hail!

O pale green sea, With long pale purple clouds above— What lies in me like weight of love? What dies in me With utter grief, because there comes no sign Through the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line? O salted air, Blown round the rocky headlands chill— What calls me there from cove and hill? What calls me fair From Thee, the first-born of the youthful night? Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight? O yellow Star, Quivering upon the rippling tide— Sendest so far to one that sigh’d? Bendest thou, Star, Above where shadows of the dead have rest And constant silence, with a message from the blest?

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl’s feather! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. High on the hill-top The old king sits; He is now so old and gray He’s nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake. By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig up them in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trouping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl’s feather.

Where is thy lovely perilous abode? In what strange phantom-land Glimmer the fairy turrets whereto rode The ill-starred poet band? Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home, The sweetest singer there, Stealing on wingëd steed across the foam Through the moonlit air? And by the gloomy peaks of Erigal, Haunted by storm and cloud, Wing past, and to thy lover there let fall His singing robe and shroud? Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneath The red stems of the pine, And sunbeams strike thro’ shadow, dost thou breathe The word that makes him thine? Or, is thy palace entered thro’ some cliff When radiant tides are full, And round thy lover’s wandering starlit skiff Coil in luxurious lull? And would he, entering on the brimming flood, See caverns vast in height, And diamond columns, crowned with leaf and bud, Glow in long lanes of light. And there the pearl of that great glittering shell Trembling, behold thee lone, Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell, Now still upon thy throne? Thy beauty! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro’ Then melt as in a dream; The voice that sings the mysteries of the blue And all that Be and Seem! Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme That ancient Nature sings, That keeps the stars in cadence for all time, And echoes through all things! Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams, Thy light makes all lights dim; An aching solitude from henceforth seems The world of men to him. Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar, He follows with delight, Shutting behind him Life’s last gloomy door, And fares into the Night.

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave? Now, when alone, my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more. Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers, From these brown hills, have melted into Spring! Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering! Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world’s tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong. No later light has lighted up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee. But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. Then did I check the tears of useless passion— Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine. And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

A little sun, a little rain, A soft wind blowing from the west— And woods and fields are sweet again, And warmth within the mountain’s breast. So simple is the earth we tread, So quick with love and life her frame, Ten thousand years have dawned and fled, And still her magic is the same. A little love, a little trust, A soft impulse, a sudden dream— And life as dry as desert dust Is fresher than a mountain stream. So simple is the heart of man So ready for new hope and joy; Ten thousand years since it began Have left it younger than a boy.

Come, where on the moorland steep Silent sunlight dreams of sleep, And in this high morning air Love me, my companion fair! All the clouds that high in Heaven Rest and rove from morn to even, All the beauty that doth live By the winds—to thee I give. See below deep meadow lands, Misty moors and shining sands, And blue hills so far and dim They melt on the horizon’s rim. O how fresh the air, and sweet, And with what a footfall fleet O’er the grasses’ ebb and flow The light winds to the eastward go. Noon is now with us. Farewell To this mountain citadel. Come, and with your footing fine Thread the scented paths of pine, Till we see the Druid carn Shadowed in the haunted tarn. There the water blue and deep Lies, like wearied thought, asleep. While we watch, the storm awakes; Flash on flash the ripple breaks, Purple, with a snow-white crest, On the meadow’s golden breast. Roods of tinkling sedge are kissed By the waves of amethyst: Trouble knows the place, they say, But we laugh at that to-day. Onward to the glen below; Every nook and turn we know Where the passion-haunted stream Laughs and lingers in its dream, Making where its pebbles shine Naiad music, clear and fine, But not sweeter than the song Love sings as we rove along. At the last the grassy seat, Where of old we used to meet, Holds us in its close embrace. Hallowed ever be the place! Here we kissed our hearts away In a lovers’ holiday! Shall I dream a greater bliss Than the memory of this?

Over the dim blue hills Strays a wild river, Over the dim blue hills Rests my heart ever. Dearer and brighter than Jewels and pearl, Dwells she in beauty there, Maire, my girl. Down upon Claris heath Shines the soft berry, On the brown harvest tree Droops the red cherry. Sweeter thy honey lips, Softer the curl Straying adown thy cheeks, Maire, my girl. ’Twas on an April eve That I first met her; Many an eve shall pass Ere I forget her. Since, my young heart has been Wrapped in a whirl, Thinking and dreaming of Maire, my girl. She is too kind and fond Ever to grieve me, She has too pure a heart E’er to deceive me. Were I Tryconnell’s chief Or Desmond’s earl, Life would be dark, wanting Maire, my girl! Over the dim blue hills Strays a wild river, Over the dim blue hills Rests my heart ever. Dearer and brighter than Jewels or pearl, Dwells she in beauty there, Maire, my girl.

I placed the silver in her palm, By Inny’s smiling tide, And vowed, ere summer time came on, To claim her as a bride. But when the summer time came on I dwelt beyond the sea; Yet still my heart is ever true To Gracie Og Machree. O bonnie are the woods of Targ, And green thy hills, Rathmore, And soft the sunlight ever falls On Darre’s sloping shore; And there the eyes I love—in tears Shine ever mournfully, While I am far, and far away From Gracie Og Machree. When battle-steeds were neighing loud, With bright blades in the air, Next to my inmost heart I wore A bright tress of her hair. When stirrup-cups were lifted up To lips, with soldier glee, One toast I always fondly pledged, ’Twas Gracie Og Machree.

Prayer unsaid, and mass unsung, Deadman’s dirge must still be rung: Dingle-dong, the dead-bells sound! Mermen chant his dirge around! Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair, Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair: Dingle-dong, the dead-bells go! Mermen swing them to and fro! In the wormless sand shall he Feast for no foul glutton be: Dingle-dong, the dead-bells chime! Mermen keep the tone and time! We must with a tombstone brave Shut the shark out from his grave: Dingle-dong, the dead-bells toll! Mermen dirgers ring his knoll! Such a slab will we lay o’er him All the dead shall rise before him! Dingle-dong, the dead-bells boom! Mermen lay him in his tomb!

The Little Black Rose shall be red at last; What made it black but the March wind dry, And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast? It shall redden the hills when June is nigh. The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last; What drove her forth but the dragon-fly? In the golden vale she shall feed full fast, With her mild gold horn and slow, dark eye. The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last! The pine long bleeding, it shall not die! This song is secret. Mine ear it passed In a wind o’er the plains at Athenry.

He roamed half round the world of woe, Where toil and labour never cease; Then dropped one little span below In search of peace. And now to him mild beams and showers, All that he needs to grace his tomb, From loneliest regions at all hours, Unsought for come.

To Killiney far away flies my fond heart night and day, To ramble light and happy through its fields and dells; For here life smiles in vain, and earth’s a land of pain, While all that’s bright in Erin in Killiney dwells. In Killiney in the West has a linnet sweet her nest, And her song makes all the wild birds in the green wood dumb; To the captive without cheer, it were freedom but to hear Such sorrow-soothing music from her fair throat come. In Killiney’s bower blows a blushing, budding rose, With perfume of the rarest that the June day yields; And none who pass the way, but sighing wish that they Might cull that fragrant flower of the dewy fields. Through Killiney’s meadows pass, on their way to early Mass, Like twin-stars ’mid the grass, two small feet bare; And angel-pure the heart, where the murmured Aves start On their wingèd way to Heaven from the chapel there. And the pride of Irish girls is the dear brown head of curls, The pearl white of pearls, stoirin bàn mo chridhe; As bright-browed as the dawn, and as meek-eyed as the fawn, And as graceful as the swan gliding on to sea. Not for jewels nor for gold, nor for hoarded wealth untold, Not for all that mortals hold most desired and dear, Would I my share forego in the loving heart aglow, That beats beneath the snow of her bosom fair. Soon Killiney will you weep—for I know not rest nor sleep, Till swiftly o’er the deep I with white sails come, To win the linnet sweet, and the two white twinkling feet, And the heart with true love beating, to my far-off home. And O! farewell to care, when the rose of perfume rare, And the dear brown curling hair on my proud breast lie; Then Killiney far away, never more by night or day, To thy skies, or dark or grey, shall my fond heart fly.

Put your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above; Oh, mouth of honey, with 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 thyme for fragrance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?

O Mary dear! O Mary fair! O branch of generous stem! White blossom of the banks of Nair, Though lilies grow on them; You’ve left me sick at heart for love, So faint I cannot see; The candle swims the board above, I’m drunk for love of thee! O stately stem of maiden pride, My woe it is and pain That I thus severed from thy side The long night must remain. Through all the towns of Innisfail I’ve wandered far and wide, But from Downpatrick to Kinsale, From Carlow to Kilbride, Many lords and dames of high degree Where’er my feet have gone, My Mary, one to equal thee I never looked upon: I live in darkness and in doubt When’er my love’s away; But were the gracious sun put out, Her shadow would make day. ’Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss, As gentle as she’s fair. Though lily-white her bosom is, And sunny bright her hair, And dewy azure her blue eye, And rosy red her cheek, Yet brighter she in modesty, Most beautifully meek: The world’s wise men from north to south Can never cure my pain; But one kiss from her honey mouth Would make me well again.

A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, Uileacan dubh O! Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear; Uileacan dubh O! There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned; There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland. Curled is he and ringleted, and plaited to the knee, Uileacan dubh O! Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea; Uileacan dubh O! And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, For the fair hills of holy Ireland. Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground; Uileacan dubh O! The butter and the cream do wondrously abound, Uileacan dubh O! The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand, And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland, And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forest grand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Let all the fish that swim the sea, Salmon and turbot, cod and ling, Bow down the head and bend the knee To herring, their king! to herring, their king! Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’, ’Tis we have brought the summer in.[15] The sun sank down so round and red Upon the bay, upon the bay; The sails shook idly overhead, Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay; Sing, Hugamar, etc. Till Shawn the eagle dropped on deck, The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy; ’Tis he has spied your silver track, Herring, our joy, herring, our joy; Sing, Hugamar, etc. It is in with the sails and away to shore, With the rise and swing, the rise and swing Of two stout lads at each smoking oar, After herring, our king! herring, our king. Sing, Hugamar, etc. The Manx and Cornish raised the shout, And joined the chase, and joined the chase; But their fleets they fouled as they went about, And we won the race, we won the race; Sing, Hugamar, etc. For we turned and faced you full to land, Down the góleen[16] long, the góleen long, And after you slipped from strand to strand Our nets so strong, our nets so strong; Sing, Hugamar, etc. Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives, “Come welcome us home, welcome us home,” Till they ran to meet us for their lives Into the foam, into the foam; Sing, Hugamar, etc. O kissing of hands and waving of caps From girl and boy, from girl and boy, While you leapt by scores in the lasses’ laps, Herring our joy, herring our joy! Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’, ’Tis we have brought the summer in!

I’ve been soft in a small way On the girleens of Galway, And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare; But there’s no use denyin’, No girl I’ve set eye on Could compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare. O, where Can her like be found? No where, The country round, Spins at her wheel Daughter as true, Sets in the reel, Wid a slide of the shoe a slinderer, tinderer, purtier, wittier colleen than you, Rose, aroo! Her hair mocks the sunshine, And the soft, silver moonshine Neck and arm of the colleen completely eclipse; Whilst the nose of the jewel Slants straight as Carran Tual From the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lip. O, where, etc. Did your eyes ever follow The wings of the swallow Here and there, light as air, o’er the meadow field glance? For if not you’ve no notion Of the exquisite motion Of her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance. O, where, etc. If y’ inquire why the nightingale Still shuns th’ invitin’ gale That wafts every song-bird but her to the West, Faix she knows, I suppose, Ould Kenmare has a Rose That would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest O, where, etc. When her voice gives the warnin’ For the milkin’ in the mornin’ Ev’n the cow known for hornin’, comes runnin’ to her pail; The lambs play about her And the small bonneens[17] snout her Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail. O, where, etc. When at noon from our labour We draw neighbour wid neighbour From the heat of the sun to the shelter of the tree, Wid spuds[18] fresh from the bilin’, And new milk, you come smilin’, All the boys’ hearts beguilin’, alannah machree![19] O, where, etc. But there’s one sweeter hour When the hot day is o’er, And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above, And she’s sittin’ in the middle, When she’s guessed Larry’s riddle, Cries, “Now for your fiddle, Shiel Dhuv, Shiel Dhuv.” O, where Can her like be found? No where The country round, Spins at her wheel Daughter as true, Sets in the reel, Wid a slide of the shoe a slinderer, tinderer, purtier, wittier colleen than you, Rose, aroo!

When after the Winter alarmin’, The Spring steps in so charmin’, So fresh and arch In the middle of March, Wid her hand St Patrick’s arm on, Let us all, let us all be goin’, Agra, to assist at your sowin’, The girls to spread Your iligant bed, And the boys to set the hoe in.

Then good speed to your seed! God’s grace and increase. Never more in our need may you blacken wid the blight; But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore, May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

So rest and sleep, my jewel, Safe from the tempest cruel; Till violets spring And skylarks sing From Mourne to Carran Tual. Then wake and build your bower, Through April sun and shower, To bless the earth That gave you birth, Through many a sultry hour.

Then good luck to your leaf. And ochone, ologone, Never more to our grief may it blacken wid the blight; But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore, May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

Thus smile with glad increasin’, Till to St John we’re raisin’, Through Erin’s isle The pleasant pile That sets the bonfire blazin’. O ’tis then that the midsummer fairy, Abroad on his sly vagary, Wid purple and white, As he passes by night, Your emerald leaf shall vary.

Then more power to your flower, and your merry green leaf! Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight; But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore, May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

And once again Mavourneen, Some yellow autumn mornin’, At red sunrise Both girls and boys To your garden ridge we’re turnin’, Then under your foliage fadin’ Each man of us sets his spade in, While the colleen bawn Her brown kishane[20] Full up wid your fruit is ladin’.

Then good luck to your leaf! more power to your flower! Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight; But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore, May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

I’d rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold on a bough of the willow, To the shoheen ho of the wind of the west and the lulla lo of the soft sea billow. Sleep, baby dear, Sleep without fear, Mother is here beside your pillow. I’d put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat on the beautiful river, Where a shoheen whisper the white cascades, and a lulla lo the green flags shiver. Sleep, baby dear, Sleep without fear, Mother is here with you for ever. Lulla lo! to the rise and fall of mother’s bosom ’tis sleep has bound you, And O, my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest could love have found you? Sleep, baby dear, Sleep without fear, Mother’s two arms are clasped around you.

When, like the early rose, Eileen Aroon! Beauty in childhood blows, Eileen Aroon! When, like a diadem, Buds blush around the stem, Which is the fairest gem? Eileen Aroon! Is it the laughing eye, Eileen Aroon! Is it the timid sigh, Eileen Aroon! Is it the tender tone, Soft as the stringed harp’s moan? Oh! it is truth alone, Eileen Aroon! When, like the rising day, Eileen Aroon! Love sends his early ray, Eileen Aroon! What makes his dawning glow, Changeless through joy or woe? Only the constant know— Eileen Aroon! I know a valley fair, Eileen Aroon! I knew a cottage there, Eileen Aroon! Far in that valley’s shade I knew a gentle maid, Flower of a hazel glade, Eileen Aroon! Who in the song so sweet? Eileen Aroon! Who in the dance so fleet? Eileen Aroon! Dear were her charms to me, Dearer her laughter free, Dearest her constancy, Eileen Aroon! Were she no longer true, Eileen Aroon! What should her lover do? Eileen Aroon! Fly with his broken chain Far o’er the sounding main, Never to love again, Eileen Aroon! Youth must with time decay, Eileen Aroon! Beauty must fade away, Eileen Aroon! Castles are sacked in war, Chieftains are scattered far, Truth is a fixèd star, Eileen Aroon!

Rose o’ the world, she came to my bed And changed the dreams of my heart and head: For joy of mine she left grief of hers And garlanded me with the prickly furze. Rose o’ the world, they go out and in, And watch me dream and my mother spin: And they pity the tears on my sleeping face While my soul’s away in a fairy place. Rose o’ the world, they have words galore, For wide’s the swing of my mother’s door: And soft they speak of my darkened brain, But what do they know of my heart’s dear pain? Rose o’ the world, the grief you give Is worth all days that a man may live: Is worth all prayers that the colleens say On the night that darkens the wedding-day. Rose o’ the world, what man would wed When he might remember your face instead? Might go to his grave with the blessed pain Of hungering after your face again? Rose o’ the world, they may talk their fill, But dreams are good, and my life stands still While the neighbours talk by their fires astir: But my fiddle knows: and I talk to her.

She hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge, And all her flowers are snowdrops grown on the winter’s edge: The golden looms of Tir na n’ Og wove all the winter through Her gown of mist and raindrops shot with a cloudy blue. Sunlight she holds in one hand, and rain she scatters after, And through the rainy twilight we hear her fitful laughter. She shakes down on her flowers the snows less white than they, Then quicken with her kisses the folded “knots o’ May.” She seeks the summer-lover that never shall be hers, Fain for gold leaves of autumn she passes by the furze, Though buried gold it hideth: she scorns her sedgy crown, And pressing blindly sunwards she treads her snowdrops down. Her gifts are all a fardel of wayward smiles and tears, Yet hope she also holdeth, this daughter of the years— A hope that blossoms faintly set upon sorrow’s edge: She hath a woven garland of all the sighing sedge.

Mavrone, Mavrone! the wind among the reeds. It calls and cries, and will not let me be; And all its cry is of forgotten deeds When men were loved of all the Daoine-Sidhe. O Shee that have forgotten how to love, And Shee that have forgotten how to hate, Asleep ’neath quicken boughs that no winds move, Come back to us ere yet it be too late. Pipe to us once again, lest we forget What piping means, till all the Silver Spears Be wild with gusty music, such as met Carolan once, amid the dusty years. Dance in your rings again: the yellow weeds You used to ride so far, mount as of old— Play hide-and-seek with wind among the reeds, And pay your scores again with fairy gold.

My grief on the sea, How the waves of it roll! For they heave between me And the love of my soul! Abandoned, forsaken, To grief and to care, Will the sea ever waken Relief from despair? My grief, and my trouble! Would he and I wear, In the province of Leinster, Or County of Clare. Were I and my darling— O, heart-bitter wound!— On the board of the ship For America bound. On a green bed of rushes All last night I lay, And I flung it abroad With 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.

A honey mist on a day of frost, in a dark oak wood, And love for thee in my heart in me, thou bright, white, and good; Thy slender form, soft and warm, thy red lips apart, Thou hast found me, and hast bound me, and put grief in my heart. In fair-green and market, men mark thee, bright, young, and merry, Though thou hurt them like foes with the rose of thy blush of the berry: Her cheeks are a poppy, her eye it is Cupid’s helper, But each foolish man dreams that its beams for himself are. Whoe’er saw the Cooleen in a cool, dewy meadow On a morning in summer in sunshine and shadow; All the young men go wild for her, my childeen, my treasure, But now let them go mope, they’ve no hope to possess her. Let us roam, O my darling, afar through the mountains, Drink milk of the goat, wine and bulcaun in fountains; With music and play every day from my lyre, And leave to come rest on my breast when you tire.

’Tis the Breedyeen I love, All dear ones above, Like a star from the start Round my heart she did move. Her breast like a dove, Or the foam in the cove, With her gold locks apart, In my heart she put love. ’Tis not Venus, I say, Who grieved me this day, But the white one, the bright one, Who slighted my stay. For her I shall pray— I confess it—for aye, She’s my sister, I missed her, When all men were gay. To the hills let us go, Where the raven and crow In dark dismal valleys Croak death-like and low; By this volume I swear, O bright Cool of fair hair, That though solitude shrieked I should seek for thee there. To the hills let us go, Where the raven and crow In the dark dismal valleys Wing silent and slow. There’s no Joy in men’s fate But Grief grins in the gate; There’s no Fair without Foul, Without Crooked no Straight.

Her neck like the lime And her breath like the thyme, And her bosom untroubled By care or by time. Like a bird in the night, At a great blaze of light, Astounded and wounded I swoon at her sight. Since I gave thee my love, I gave thee my love, I gave thee my love, O thou berry so bright; The sun in her height Looked on with delight, And between thy two arms, may I die on the night. And I would that I were In the glens of the air, Or in dark dismal valleys Where the wildwood is bare, What a kiss from her there I should coax without care, From my star of the morning, My fairer than fair! Like a Phœnix of flame, Or like Helen of fame, Is the pearl of all pearls Of girls who came, And who kindled a flame, In my bosom. Thy name I shall rhyme thee in Irish And heighten thy fame.

Dear God! were I fisher and Back in Binédar, And Nelly a fish who Would swim in the bay there, I would privately set there My net there to catch her, In Erin no maiden Is able to match her. And Nelly, dear God! Why! you should not thus flee me, I long to be near thee And hear thee and see thee, My hand on the Bible And I swearing and kneeling And giving thee part Of the heart you are stealing. I’ve a fair yellow casket And it fastened with crystal, And the lock opens not To the shot of a pistol. To Jesus I pray And to Columbkill’s Master, That Mary may guide thee Aside from disaster. We may be, O maiden Whom none may disparage, Some morning a-hearing The sweet mass of marriage, But if fate be against us, To rend us and push us, I shall mourn as the blackbird At eve in the bushes.

O God, were she with me Where the gull flits and tern, Or in Paris the smiling, Or an Isle in Loch Erne, I would coax her so well, I would tell her my story, And talk till I won her, My sunshine of glory.

For thee I shall not die, Woman high of fame and name; Foolish men thou mayest slay I and they are not the same. Why should I expire For the fire of any eye, Slender waist or swan-like limb, Is’t for them that I should die? The round breasts, the fresh skin, Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich; Indeed, indeed, I shall not die, Please God, not I, for any such. The golden hair, the forehead thin, The chaste mien, the gracious ease, The rounded heel, the languid tone, Fools alone find death from these. Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm, Thy thin palm like foam o’ the sea; Thy white neck, thy blue eye, I shall not die for thee. Woman, graceful as the swan, A wise man did nurture me, Little palm, white neck, bright eye, I shall not die for ye.

Red Wind from out the East: Red Wind of blight and blood! Ah, when wilt thou have ceased Thy bitter, stormy flood? Red Wind from over sea, Scourging our holy land! What angel loosened thee Out of his iron hand? Red Wind! whose word of might Winged thee with wings of flame? O fire of mournful night! What is thy Master’s name? Red Wind! who bade thee burn, Branding our hearts? Who bade Thee on and never turn Till waste our souls were laid? Red Wind! from out the West Pour Winds of Paradise: Winds of eternal rest, That weary souls entice. Wind of the East! Red Wind! Thou scorchest the soft breath Of Paradise the kind: Red Wind of burning death! O Red Wind! hear God’s voice: Hear thou, and fall, and cease. Let Innisfail rejoice In her Hesperian peace.

A voice on the winds, A voice on the waters, Wanders and cries: O what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes. Western the winds are, And western the waters, Where the light lies: O what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes. Cold, cold grow the winds, And dark grow the waters, Where the sun dies: O what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes. And down the night winds, And down the night waters The music flies: O what are the winds? And what are the waters? Cold be the winds, And wild be the waters, So mine be your eyes.

Youth’s bright palace Is overthrown, With its diamond sceptre And golden throne; As a time-worn stone Its turrets are humbled,— All hath crumbled But grief alone! Whither, oh! whither Have fled away The dreams and hopes Of my early day? Ruined and grey Are the towers I builded; And the beams that gilded— Ah! where are they? Once this world Was fresh and bright, With its golden noon And its starry night; Glad and light, By mountain and river, Have I blessed the Giver With hushed delight. Youth’s illusions, One by one, Have passed like clouds That the sun looked on. While morning shone, How purple their fringes! How ashy their tinges When that was gone! As fire-flies fade When the nights are damp— As meteors are quenched In a stagnant swamp— Thus Charlemagne’s camp, Where the Paladins rally, And the Diamond Valley, And the Wonderful Lamp, And all the wonders Of Ganges and Nile, And Haroun’s rambles, And Crusoe’s isle, And Princes who smile On the Genii’s daughters ’Neath the Orient waters Full many a mile, And all that the pen Of Fancy can write, Must vanish In manhood’s misty light— Squire and Knight, And damosels’ glances, Sunny romances So pure and bright! These have vanished, And what remains? Life’s budding garlands Have turned to chains— Its beams and rains Feed but docks and thistles, And sorrow whistles O’er desert plains!

Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth, And the fair Hills of Eiré, O! And to all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth, On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! In that land so delightful the wild thrush’s lay— Seems to pour a lament forth for Eiré’s delay— Alas! alas! why pine I a thousand miles away From the fair Hills of Eiré, O! The soil is rich and soft—the air is mild and bland, Of the fair Hills of Eiré, O! Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land— O! the fair Hills of Eiré, O! Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove; Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above; O, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever love The fair Hills of Eiré, O! A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael, On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! A tribe in Battle’s hour unused to shrink or fail On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured, To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword. Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler horde On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! Broad and tall rise the cruachs in the golden morning’s glow On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! O, I long, I am pining, again to behold The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old; Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold Are the fair Hills of Eiré, O! The dewdrops lie bright ’mid the grass and yellow corn On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! And the sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below; The streamlets are hushed, till the evening breezes blow; While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow Near the fair Hills of Eiré, O! A fruitful clime is Eiré’s, through valley, meadow, plain, And the fair land of Eiré, O! The very “Bread of Life” is in the yellow grain On the fair Hills of Eiré, O! Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields, Is the lowing of her kine and the calves in her fields, And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields Of the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

O my dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the Deep. There’s wine ... from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My dark Rosaleen. Over hills, and through dales, Have I roamed for your sake; All yesterday I sailed with sails On river and on lake. The Erne ... at its highest flood, I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Oh! there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lightened through my blood, My dark Rosaleen! All day long in unrest, To and fro do I move, The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart ... in my bosom faints To think of you my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen! Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon. But yet ... will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen; ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! ’Tis you shall have the golden throne, ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My dark Rosaleen! Over dews, over sands, Will I fly, for your weal: Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home ... in your emerald bowers, From morning’s dawn till e’en, You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! You’ll think of me through Daylight’s hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My dark Rosaleen! I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills! And one ... beamy smile from you Would float the light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My dark Rosaleen! O! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal, and slogan cry, Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you can die, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! The Judgment Hour must first be nigh Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My dark Rosaleen!

’Tis idle! we exhaust and squander The glittering mine of thought in vain All-baffled reason cannot wander, Beyond her chain. The flood of life runs dark—dark clouds Make lampless night around its shore: The dead, where are they? In their shrouds— Man knows no more. Evoke the ancient and the past, Will one illumining star arise? Or must the film, from first to last, O’erspread thine eyes? When life, love, glory, beauty, wither, Will wisdom’s page, or science chart, Map out for thee the region whither Their shades depart? Supposest thou the wondrous powers, To high imagination given, Pale types of what shall yet be ours, When earth is heaven? When this decaying shell is cold, Oh! sayest thou the soul shall climb What magic mount she trod of old, Ere childhood’s time? And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled, Thrill once again to glory’s name? And shall the conquering love that filled All earth with flame, Re-born, revived, renewed, immortal, Resume his reign in prouder might, A sun beyond the ebon portal, Of death and night? No more, no more—with aching brow, And restless heart, and burning brain, We ask the When, the Where, the How, And ask in vain. And all philosophy, all faith, All earthly—all celestial lore, Have but one voice, which only saith Endure—adore!

I had no sail to cross the sea, A brave white bird went forth from me, My heart was hid beneath his wing: O strong white bird, come back in spring! I watched the Wild Geese rise and cry Across the flaring western sky; Their winnowing pinions clove the light, Then vanished, and came down the night. I laid me low, my day was done, I longed not for the morrow’s sun, But closely swathed in swoon of sleep, Forgot to hope, forgot to weep. The moon, through veils of gloomy red, A warm yet dusky radiance shed All down our valley’s golden stream And flushed my slumber with a dream. Her mystic torch lit up my brain; My spirit rose and lived amain, And follow through the windy spray That bird upon its watery way. “O wild white bird, O wail for me! My soul hath wings to fly with thee: On foam waves, lengthening out afar, We’ll ride toward the western star. “O’er glimmering plains, through forest gloom, To track a wanderer’s feet I come; ’Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake, I’ll pass unfrighted for his sake. “Alone, afar, his footsteps roam, The stars his roof, the tent his home. Saw’st thou what way the Wild Geese flew To sunward through the thick night dew? “Carry my soul where he abides, And pierce the mystery that hides His presence, and through time and space Look with mine eyes upon his face.” “Beside his prairie fire he rests, All feathered things are in their nests: ‘What strange wild bird is this,’ he saith, ‘Still fragrant with the ocean’s breath? “‘Perch on my hand, thou briny thing, And let me stroke thy shy wet wing; What message in thy soft eye thrills? I see again my native hills “‘And vale, the river’s silver streak, The mist upon the blue, blue peak, The shadows grey, the golden sheaves, The mossy walls, the russet eaves. “‘I greet the friends I’ve loved and lost, Do all forget? No, tempest-tost, That braved for me the ocean’s foam, Some heart remembers me at home. “‘Ere spring’s return I will be there, Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger! I wake and weep; the moon shines sweet, O dream too short! O bird too fleet!’”

I am lying in the tomb, love, Lying in the tomb, Tho’ I move within the gloom, love, Breathe within the gloom! Men deem life not fled, dear, Deem my life not fled, Tho’ I with thee am dead, dear, I with thee am dead, O my little child! What is the grey world, darling, What is the grey world, Where the worm lies curled, darling, The death-worm lies curled? They tell me of the spring, dear! Do I want the spring? Will she waft upon her wing, dear, The joy-pulse of her wing, Thy songs, thy blossoming, O my little child! For the hallowing of thy smile, love, The rainbow of thy smile, Gleaming for a while, love, Gleaming to beguile, Re-plunged me in the cold, dear, Leaves me in the cold, And I feel so very old, dear, Very, very old! Would they put me out of pain, dear, Out of all my pain, Since I may not live again, dear, Never live again! I am lying in the grave, love, In thy little grave, Yet I hear the wind rave, love, And the wild wave! I would lie asleep, darling, With thee lie asleep, Unhearing the world weep, darling, Little children weep! O my little child!

Yonder, lo! the tide is flowing; Clamber, while the breeze is blowing, Down to where a soft foam flusters Dulse and fairy feathery clusters! While it fills the shelly hollows, A swift sister-billow follows, Leaps in hurrying with the tide, Seems the lingering wave to chide; Both push on with eager life, And a gurgling show of strife. O the salt, refreshing air Shrilly blowing in the hair! A keen, healthful savour haunts Sea-shell, sea-flower, and sea-plants. Innocent billows on the strand Leave a crystal over sand, Whose thin ebbing soon is crossed By a crystal foam-enmossed, Variegating silver-grey Shell-empetalled sand in play: When from sand dries off the brine, Vanishes swift shadow fine; But a wet sand is a glass Where the plumy cloudlets pass, Floating islands of the blue, Tender, shining, fair, and true. Who would linger idle, Dallying would lie, When wind and wave, a bridal Celebrating, fly? Let him plunge among them, Who hath wooed enough, Flirted with them, sung them, In the salt sea-trough He may win them, onward On a buoyant crest, Far to seaward, sunward, Ocean-borne to rest! Wild wind will sing over him, And the free foam cover him, Swimming seaward, sunward, On a blithe sea-breast! On a blithe sea-bosom Swims another too, Swims a live sea-blossom, A grey-winged sea-mew! Grape-green all the waves are, By whose hurrying line Half of ships and caves are Buried under brine; Supple, shifting ranges Lucent at the crest, With pearly surface-changes Never laid to rest: Now a dipping gunwale Momently he sees, Now a fuming funnel, Or red flag in the breeze; Arms flung open wide, Lip the laughing sea; For playfellow, for bride, Claim her impetuously! Triumphantly exult with all the free, Buoyant, bounding splendour of the sea! And if while on the billow Wearily he lay, His awful wild playfellow Filled his mouth with spray, Reft him of his breath, To some far realms away He would float with Death; Wild wind would sing over him, And the free foam cover him, Waft him sleeping onward, Floating seaward, sunward, All alone with Death; In a realm of wondrous dreams, And shadow-haunted ocean gleams!

The dance! the dance! Maidens advance Your undulating charm! A line deploys Of gentle boys, Waving the light arm, Bronze, alive and warm; Reed flute and drum Sound as they come, Under your eyelight warm! Many a boy, A dancing joy, Many a mellow maid, With fireflies in the shade, Mingle and glide, Appear and hide, Here in a fairy glade: Ebb and flow To a music low, Viol, and flute and lyre, As melody mounts higher: With a merry will, They touch and thrill, Beautiful limbs of fire! Red berries, shells, Over bosom-dells, And girdles of light grass, May never hide The youthful pride Of beauty, ere it pass: Yet, ah! sweet boy and lass, Refrain, retire! Love is a fire! Night will pass!

I flung me round him, I drew him under; I clung, I drowned him, My own white wonder.... Father and mother, Weeping and wild, Came to the forest, Calling the child, Came from the palace, Down to the pool, Calling my darling, My beautiful! Under the water, Cold and so pale! Could it be love made Beauty to fail? Ah me! for mortals: In a few moons, If I had left him, After some Junes He would have faded, Faded away, He, the young monarch, whom All would obey, Fairer than day; Alien to springtime, Joyless and grey, He would have faded, Faded away, Moving a mockery, Scorned of the day!

Now I have taken him All in his prime, Saved from slow poisoning Pitiless Time, Filled with his happiness, One with the prime, Saved from the cruel Dishonour of Time, Laid him, my beautiful, Laid him to rest, Loving, adorable, Softly to rest, Here in my crystalline, Here in my breast!

She sang of lovers met to play “Under the may bloom, under the may,” But when I sought her face so fair, I found the set face of Despair. She sang of woodland leaves in spring, And joy of young love dallying; But her young eyes were all one moan, And Death weighed on her heart like stone. I could not ask, I know not now, The story of that mournful brow; It haunts me as it haunted then, A flash from fire of hell-bound men.

If our love may fail, Lily, If our love may fail, What will mere life avail, Lily, Mere life avail? Seed that promised blossom, Withered in the mould, Pale petals overblowing, Failing from the gold! When the fervent fingers Listlessly unclose, May the life that lingers Find repose, Lily, Find repose! Who may dream of all the music Only a lover hears, Hearkening to hearts triumphant Bearing down the years? Ah! may eternal anthems dwindle To a low sound of tears? Room in all the ages For our love to grow, Prayers of both demanded A little while ago: And now a few poor moments, Between life and death, May be proven all too ample For love’s breath! Seed that promised blossom, Withered in the mould! Pale petals overblowing, Failing from the gold! I well believe the fault lay More with me than you, But I feel the shadow closing Cold about us two. An hour may yet be yielded us, Or a very little more— Then a few tears, and silence For evermore, Lily, For evermore!

They are waiting on the shore For the bark to take them home; They will toil and grieve no more; The hour for release hath come. All their long life lies behind, Like a dimly blending dream; There is nothing left to bind To the realms that only seem. They are waiting for the boat, There is nothing left to do; What was near them grows remote, Happy silence falls like dew; Now the shadowy bark is come, And the weary may go home. By still water they would rest, In the shadow of the tree; After battle sleep is best, After noise tranquillity.

Maura du[21] of Ballyshannon! Maura du, my flower of flowers! Can you hear me there out seaward, Calling back the bygone hours? Maura du, my own, my honey! With wild passion still aglow, I am singing you the old songs That I sung you long ago. And you mind, love, how it ran on— “In your eyes asthore machree![22] All my Heaven there I see, And that’s true! Maura du! Maura du of Ballyshannon!”

Maura du of Ballyshannon! Maura du, my soul’s one queen! Big with love my heart is flying, Where the grass is growing green. Maura du, my own, my honey! That I love you, well you know, And still sing for you the old song, That I sung you long ago. And you mind, love, how it ran on— “In your eyes asthore machree! All my Heaven there I see, And that’s true! Maura du! Maura du of Ballyshannon!”

Maura du of Ballyshannon, Maura du, the day is drear! Ah, the night is long and weary, Far away from you, my dear! Maura du, my own, my honey! Still let winds blow high or low, I must sing to you the old song, That I sung you long ago, And you mind, love, how it ran on— “In your eyes asthore machree! All my Heaven there I see, And that’s true! Maura du! Maura du of Ballyshannon!”

Maura du of Ballyshannon! Maura du, when winds blow south, I will with the birds fly homeward, There to kiss your Irish mouth. Maura du, my own, my honey! When time is no longer foe, By your side I’ll sing the old song, That I sung you long ago, And you mind, love, how it ran on— “In your eyes asthore machree! All my Heaven there I see, And that’s true! Maura du! Maura du of Ballyshannon!”

My love to fight the Saxon goes, And bravely shines his sword of steel, A heron’s feather decks his brows, And a spur on either heel; His steed is blacker than a sloe, And fleeter than the falling star; Amid the surging ranks he’ll go And shout for joy of war. Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle, Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel. Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel. My love is pledged to Ireland’s fight; My love would die for Ireland’s weal, To win her back her ancient right, And make her foemen reel. Oh, close I’ll clasp him to my breast When homeward from the war he comes; The fires shall light the mountain’s crest, The valley peal with drums. Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle, Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel. Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.

The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; Oh, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove. But I send you a cream-white rosebud With a flush on its petal tips; For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

If you go over desert and mountain, Far into the country of Sorrow, To-day and to-night and to-morrow, And maybe for months and for years; You shall come with a heart that is bursting For trouble and toiling and thirsting, You shall certainly come to the fountain At length,—to the Fountain of Tears. Very peaceful the place is, and solely For piteous lamenting and sighing, And those who come living or dying Alike from their hopes and their fears; Full of Cyprus-like shadows the place is, And statues that cover their faces: But out of the gloom springs the holy And beautiful Fountain of Tears. And it flows and it flows with a motion, So gentle and lovely and listless, And murmurs a tune so resistless To him who hath suffered and hears— You shall surely—without a word spoken, Kneel down there and know your heart broken, And yield to the long-curb’d emotion That day by the Fountain of Tears. For it grows and it grows, as though leaping Up higher the more one is thinking; And even its tunes go on sinking More poignantly into the ears: Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain, Reached after dry desert and mountain, You shall fall down at length in your weeping And bathe your sad face in the tears. Then, alas! while you lie there a season, And sob between living and dying, And give up the land you were trying To find ’mid your hopes and your fears; —O the world shall come up and pass o’er you, Strong men shall not stay to care for you, Nor wonder indeed for what reason Your way should seem harder than theirs. But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses, Nor caring to raise your wet tresses And look how the cold world appears,— O perhaps the mere silences round you All things in that place grief hath found you, Yea, e’en to the clouds o’er you drifting May soothe you somewhat through your tears. You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes Your face, as though someone had kissed you; Or think at least some one who missed you Hath sent you a thought,—if that cheers; Or a bird’s little song faint and broken, May pass for a tender word spoken: —Enough, while around you there rushes That life-drowning torrent of tears. And the tears shall flow faster and faster, Brim over, and baffle resistance, And roll down bleared roads to each distance Of past desolation and years; Till they cover the place of each sorrow, And leave you no Past and no Morrow: For what man is able to master And stem the great Fountain of Tears? But the floods of the tears meet and gather; The sound of them all grows like thunder: —O into what bosom, I wonder, Is poured the whole sorrow of years? For Eternity only seems keeping Account of the great human weeping: May God then, the Maker and Father— May he find a place for the tears!

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze break at last upon thy story? When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a sweet new sister hail thee, Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, that have known but to bewail thee? Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, when all men their tribute bring thee? Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor, when all poets’ mouths shall sing thee? Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shouting of thy exiled sons returning! I should hear, tho’ dead and mouldered, and the grave-damps should not chill my bosom’s burning. Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them ’mid the shamrocks and the mosses, And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver as a captive dreamer tosses. I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, giant sinews I should borrow— Crying, “O my brothers, I have also loved her in her loneliness and sorrow. “Let me join with you the jubilant procession: let me chant with you her story; Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, now mine eyes have seen her glory!”

In a quiet watered land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran’s City fair; And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations Slumber there. There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest of the Clan of Conn, Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon. There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbrè sleep— Battle banners of the Gael, that in Kieran’s plain of crosses Now their final posting keep. And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh; Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray. Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast.

Whose is the voice that will not let me rest? I hear it speak. Where is the shore will gratify my quest, Show what I seek? Not yours, weak Muse, to mimic that far voice, With halting tongue; No peace, sweet land, to bid my heart rejoice Your groves among. Whose is the loveliness I know is by, Yet cannot place? Is it perfection of the sea or sky, Or human face? Not yours, my pencil, to delineate The splendid smile! Blind in the sun, we struggle on with Fate That glows the while. Whose are the feet that pass me, echoing On unknown ways? Whose are the lips that only part to sing Through all my days? Not yours, fond youth, to fill mine eager eyes That still adore Beauty that tarries not, nor satisfies For evermore.

The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree, And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are carolling their glee; And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun, All to deck a path of glory for my own Cáilin Donn![23] O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me! More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree, More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, Is the coming of my true love—my own Cáilin Donn! O Sycamore! O Sycamore! wave, wave your banners green— Let all your pennons flutter, O Beech! before my queen! Ye fleet and honied breezes, to kiss her hand ye run; But my heart has passed before ye to my own Cáilin Donn! O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me! Ring out, ring out, O Linden! your merry leafy bells! Unveil your brilliant torches, O Chestnut! to the dells; Strew, strew the glade with splendour, for morn it cometh on! Oh, the morn of all delight to me—my own Cáilin Donn! O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!

She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day; There’s a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away; O, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of Freedom’s won, Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cáilin Donn! O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me! More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree, More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, Is your coming, O my true love—my own Cáilin Donn!

O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, Girl of my choice, Maureen! Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy sweet mouth denies, Maureen! Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo, White rose of the West, Maureen; For it’s pale you are, and the fear that’s on you is over me too, Maureen! Sure it’s our complaint that’s on us, asthore, this day, Bride of my dreams, Maureen; The smart of the bee that stung us, his honey must cure, they say, Maureen! I’ll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face, Mavourneen, my own Maureen, When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arms’ embrace, Maureen! O where was the King o’ the World that day—only me, My one true love, Maureen, And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree, Maureen!

Through the midnight of despair, I heard one making moan For her dead, her victors fall’n to gain all battles but her own; I heard the voice of Ireland, wailing for her dead With wailing unavailing, and sobbing as she said: “In vain in many a battle have my heroes fought and bled, Like water, in vain slaughter, my sons’ best blood been shed, For my house is desolate, discrowned my head! “In vain my daughters bear their babes—babes with the mournful eyes Of children without father that hear strange lullabies, Rocked in their lonely cradles by mothers crooning low, And weeping o’er their sleeping, sad songs of long ago; Whose eyes, as they remember, while the wailing night-winds blow, Their nation’s desolation, in their singing overflow With the overflowing of an ancient woe!” O Mother, mournful Mother, turn from wailing for thy dead, Grey Sibyl, still unvanquished, lift up thy dauntless head, O thou Swan among the nations, enchanted long, so long That the story of thy glory is a half-forgotten song, Lift thy voice and bless the living, thy sons who round thee throng! In the hour of their power they shall right thine ancient wrong; In thyself is thy salvation, let thy heart be strong! The Leaf of many Sorrows, wet with thy tears for dew, Emblem of thy long patience; that hearts, as brave and true As those united hearts of green, through infamy and scorn, Through the nation’s tribulations, like Saints the cross, have worn, We’ll blazon with the Sunburst, star of thy destined morn, Set in hope’s hue, our ancient blue on royal banners borne; And green the Shamrock long shall shine, no more forlorn!

Bring from the craggy haunts of birch and pine. Thou wild wind, bring Keen forest odours from that realm of thine, Upon thy wing! O wind, O mighty, melancholy wind, Blow through me, blow! Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind, From long ago.

Roses in the sky, Roses in the sea; Bowers of scarlet sky-roses; Take my heart and me. God was good to make, This December weather, All this sky a rose-garden, Rose and fire together. To the East are burning Roses in a garden, Roses in a rosy field, Hesper for their warden. Yonder to the West Roses all afire, Mirror now some rare splendid Rose of their desire. Pulsing deeper, deeper, Waves of fire throb on, Never were such red roses At sunset or dawn. Roses on the hills, Roses in the hollow, Roses on the wet hedges, In the shining fallow. West wind, blow and blow! That has blown ajar Gates of God’s great rose-garden, Where His Angels are, Gathering up the rose-leaves For a shower of roses On the night the Lord Babe His sweet eye uncloses.

All the sky is scarlet Flaming on the azure. O, there’s fire in Heaven! My heart aches with pleasure. Leagues of rose and scarlet, Roses red as blood: All the world’s a rose-garden. God is good, is good.

O, the red rose may be fair, And the lily statelier; But my shamrock, one in three, Takes the very heart of me! Many a lover hath the rose When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows: And in many a bower is heard Her sweet praise from bee and bird. Through the gold hours dreameth she, In her warm heart passionately, Her fair face hung languid-wise: O, her breath of honey and spice! Like a fair saint virginal Stands your lily, silver and tall; Over all the flowers that be Is my shamrock dear to me. Shines the lily like the sun, Crystal-pure, a cold, sweet nun; With her austere lip she sings To her heart of heavenly things. Gazeth through a night of June To her sister-saint, the moon; With the stars communeth long Of the angels and their song. But when summer died last year Rose and lily died with her; Shamrock stayeth every day, Be the winds or gold or grey. Irish hills, as grey as the dove, Know the little plant I love; Warm and fair it mantles them Stretching down from throat to hem.

And it laughs o’er many a vale, Sheltered safe from storm and gale; Sky and sun and stars thereof Love the gentle plant I love. Soft it clothes the ruined floor Of many an abbey, grey and hoar, And the still home of the dead With its green is carpeted. Roses for an hour of love, With the joy and pain thereof: Stand my lilies white to see All for prayer and purity. These are white as the harvest moon, Roses flush like the heart of June; But my shamrock, brave and gay, Glads the tired eyes every day. O, the red rose shineth rare, And the lily saintly fair; But my shamrock, one in three, Takes the inmost heart of me!

I have heard the curlew crying On a lonely moor and mere; And the sea-gull’s shriek in the gloaming Is a lonely sound in the ear: And I’ve heard the brown thrush mourning For her children stolen away;— But it’s O for the homeless Wild Geese That sailed ere the dawn of day! For the curlew out on the moorland Hath five fine eggs in the nest; And the thrush will get her a new love And sing her song with the best. As the swallow flies to the Summer Will the gull return to the sea: But never the wings of the Wild Geese Will flash over seas to me. And ’tis ill to be roaming, roaming With homesick heart in the breast! And how long I’ve looked for your coming, And my heart is the empty nest! O sore in the land of the stranger They’ll pine for the land far away! But day of Aughrim, my sorrow, It was you was the bitter day!

I troubled in my dream. I knew The silent gates and walls. Around me out of shadow grew The steady waterfalls. Afar the raven spot-like flew Where nothing wakes or calls. I fell on deeper trance. I was Where all the dead are hid. They dreamed. They did not sleep, because They saw with lifted lid. They worked with neither word nor pause: I knew not what they did. I stood there with the dead in hell Dreaming, and heard no moan. The light died, and the darkness fell About me like a stone. I woke upon the midnight bell In God’s dream here alone.

The sudden night is here at once: The lost lamb cries and runs and stands, For all the poppy cups are hands To seize and take him when he runs. The dusky cups are blood colour; And like a cup of blood this one To drink, and be with Babylon, And love and kiss the lips of her.— Thy sins as snow!—just then it burned The dark—a flaming face and bust; And just beneath here in the dust The Scarlet Woman laughed and turned.

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World, The tall thought-woven sails that flap unfurled Above the tide of hours, rise on the air, And God’s bell buoyed to be the waters’ care, And pressing on, or lingering slow with fear, The throngs with blown wet hair are gathering near “Turn if ye may,” I call out to each one, “From the grey ships and battles never won. Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace, For him who hears Love sing and never cease Beside her clean swept hearth, her quiet shade; But gather all for whom no Love hath made A woven silence, or but came to cast A song into the air, and singing past To smile upon her stars; and gather you, Who have sought more than is in rain or dew, Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth, Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth, Or comes in laughter from the sea’s sad lips, And wage God’s battles in the long grey ships. The sad, the lonely, the insatiable, To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell, God’s bell has claimed them by the little cry Of their sad hearts that may not live nor die.” Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World, You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on—the sweet far thing. Beauty grown sad with its eternity, Made you of us and of the dim grey sea. Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait, For God has bid them share an equal fate; And when at last defeated in His wars, They have gone down under the same white stars, We shall no longer hear the little cry Of our sad hearts that may not live nor die.

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea, We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can pass by and flee; And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that never may die. A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew dabbled, the lily and rose, Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes, Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew: For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam—I and you. I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore, Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more, Soon far from the rose and the lily, and the fret of the flames would we be, Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

How mournful is the silence of Night When she pours her dark clouds over the valleys! Sleep has overcome the youth of the chase: He slumbers on the heath, and his dog at his knee. The children of the mountain he pursues In his dream, while sleep forsakes him. Slumber, ye children of fatigue; Star after star is now ascending the height. Slumber! thou swift dog and nimble,— Ossian will arouse thee not from thy repose. Lonely I keep watch,— And dear to me is the gloom of night When I travel from glen to glen, With no hope to behold a morning or brightness. Spare thy light, O Sun! Waste not thy lamps so fast. Generous is thy soul, as the King of Morven’s: But thy renown shall yet fade;— Spare thy lamps of a thousand flames In thy blue hall, when thou retirest Under thy dark-blue gates to sleep, Beneath the dark embraces of the storm. Spare them, ere thou art forsaken for ever, As I am, without one whom I may love! Spare them,—for there is not a hero now To behold the blue flame of the beautiful lamps! Ah, Cona of the precious lights, Thy lamps burn dimly now: Thou art like a blasted oak: Thy dwellings and thy people are gone East or west, on the face of thy mountain, There shall no more be found of them but the trace! In Selma, Tara, or Temora There is not a song, a shell, or a harp; They have all become green mounds; Their stones have fallen into their own meadows; The stranger from the deep or the desert Will never behold them rise above the clouds. And, O Selma! home of my delight, Is this heap my ruin, Where grows the thistle, the heather, and the wild grass?

We turned her prow into the sea, Her stern into the shore, And first we raised the tall tough masts, And then the canvas hoar; Fast filled our towering cloud-like sails, For the wind came from the land, And such a wind as we might choose Were the winds at our command: A breeze that rushing down the hill Would strip the blooming heather, Or, rustling through the green-clad grove, Would whirl its leaves together. But when it seized the aged saugh, With the light locks of grey, It tore away its ancient root, And there the old trunk lay! It raised the thatch too from the roof, And scattered it along; Then tossed and whirled it through the air, Singing a pleasant song. It heaped the ruins on the land: Though sire and son stood by They could no help afford, but gaze With wan and troubled eye! A flap, a flash, the green roll dashed, And laughed against the red; Upon our boards, now here, now there, It knocked its foamy head. The dun bowed whelk in the abyss, As on the galley bore, Gave a tap upon her gunwale And a slap upon her floor. She could have split a slender straw— So clean and well she went— As still obedient to the helm Her stately course she bent. We watched the big beast eat the small— The small beast nimbly fly, And listened to the plunging eels— The sea-gull’s clang on high. We had no other music To cheer us on our way: Till round those sheltering hills we passed And anchored in this bay.

Early on a Lammas morning, With my husband was I gay; But my heart got sorely wounded Ere the middle of the day. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri Though I cry, my child, with thee— Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, Now he hears not thee nor me! Malison on judge and kindred, They have wrought me mickle woe; With deceit they came about us,— Through deceit they laid him low. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. Had they met but twelve MacGregors, With my Gregor at their head; Now my child had not been orphaned, Nor these bitter tears been shed. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. On an oaken block they laid him, And they spilt his blood around; I’d have drunk it in a goblet Largely, ere it reached the ground. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. Would my father then had sickened— Colin, with the plague been ill; Though Rory’s daughter, in her anguish, Smote her palms, and cried her fill. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. I could Colin shut in prison, And black Duncan put in ward,— Every Campbell now in Bealach, Bind with handcuffs, close and hard. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. When I reached the plain of Bealach, I got there no rest, nor calm; But my hair I tore in pieces,— Wore the skin from off each palm! Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. Oh! could I fly up with the skylark— Had I Gregor’s strength in hand; The highest stone that’s in yon castle Should lie lowest on the land. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. Would I saw Finlarig blazing, And the smoke of Bealach smelled, So that fair, soft-handed Gregor In these arms once more I held. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. While the rest have all got lovers Now a lover have I none; My fair blossom, fresh and fragrant, Withers on the ground alone. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. While all other wives the night-time Pass in slumber’s balmy bands, I upon my bedside weary, Never cease to wring my hands. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. For, far better be with Gregor Where the heather’s in its prime, Than with mean and Lowland barons In a house of stone and lime. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. Greatly better be with Gregor In a mantle rude and torn, Than with little Lowland barons Where fine silk and lace are worn. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. Though it rained and roared together, All throughout the stormy day, Gregor, in a crag, could find me A kind shelter where to stay. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc. Bahu, bahu, little nursling— Oh! so tender now and weak; I fear the day will never brighten When revenge for him you’ll seek. Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, Though I cry, my child, with thee— Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, Yet he hears not thee nor me!

No wonder my heart it is sore, No wonder the tears that I weep; My true love I’ll see him no more, He lies fathoms down in the deep. He lies fathoms down in the deep, Where the cold clammy seaweeds abound. How cruel thy wild waves to me, O sea that my true love hast drowned! O sea that my true love hast drowned, Thou hast reft me of joy evermore; Thy waves make me shudder with fear As I listen and hear their wild roar. My true love and I, hand in hand, Often wandered the uplands among, Where the wild flowers are freshest to see, And the wild birds are freest of song; But alas for the days that are gone, Alas for my sorrow and me! Alas that my true love is drowned Fathoms down in the depths of the sea!

The sun had opened golden yellow, From his case, Though still the sky wore dark and drumly A scarr’d and frowning face: Then troubled, tawny, dense, dun-bellied, Scowling and sea-blue, Every dye that’s in the tartan O’er it grew. Far away to the wild westward Grim it lowered, Where rain-charged clouds on thick squalls wandering Loomed and towered. Up they raised the speckled sails through Cloud-like light, And stretched them on the mighty halyards, Tense and tight. High on the mast so tall and stately— Dark-red in hue— They set them firmly, set them surely, Set them true. Round the iron pegs the ropes ran, Each its right ring through; Thus having ranged the tackle rarely, Well and carefully, Every man sat waiting bravely, Where he ought to be. For now the airy windows opened, And from spots of bluish grey Let loose the keen and crabbed wild winds— A fierce band were they— ’Twas then his dark cloak the ocean Round him drew. Dusky, livid, ruffling, whirling, Round at first it flew, Till up he swell’d to mountains, or to glens, Dishevelled, rough, sank down— While the kicking, tossing waters All in hills had grown. Its blue depth opened in huge maws, Wild and devouring, Down which, clasped in deadly struggles, Fierce strong waves were pouring. It took a man to look the storm-winds Right in the face— As they lit up the sparkling spray on every surge-hill, In their fiery race. The waves before us, shrilly yelling, Raised their high heads hoar, While those behind, with moaning trumpets, Gave a bellowing roar. When we rose up aloft, majestic, On the heaving swell, Need was to pull in our canvas Smart and well: When she sank down with one huge swallow In the hollow glen, Every sail she bore aloft Was given to her then. The drizzling surges high and roaring Rush’d on us louting, Long ere they were near us come, We heard their shouting:— They roll’d sweeping up the little waves Scourging them bare, Till all became one threatening swell, Our steersman’s care. When down we fell from off the billows’ Towering shaggy edge, Our keel was well-nigh hurled against The shells and sedge; The whole sea was lashing, dashing, All through other: It kept the seals and mightiest monsters In a pother! The fury and the surging of the water, And our good ship’s swift way Spatter’d their white brains on each billow, Livid and grey. With piteous wailing and complaining All the storm-tossed horde, Shouted out “We’re now your subjects; Drag us on board.” And the small fish of the ocean Turn’d over their white breast— Dead, innumerable, with the raging Of the furious sea’s unrest. The stones and shells of the deep channel Were in motion; Swept from out their lowly bed By the tumult of the ocean; Till the sea, like a great mess of pottage, Troubled, muddy grew With the blood of many mangled creatures, Dirty red in hue— When the horn’d and clawy wild beasts, Short-footed, splay, With great wailing gumless mouths Huge and wide open lay. But the whole deep was full of spectres, Loose and sprawling With the claws and with the tails of monsters, Pawing, squalling. It was frightful even to hear them Screech so loudly; The sound might move full fifty heroes Stepping proudly. Our whole crew grew dull of hearing In the tempest’s scowl, So sharp the quavering cries of demons And the wild beasts’ howl. With the oaken planks the weltering waves were wrestling In their noisy splashing; While the sharp beak of our swift ship On the sea-pigs came dashing. The wind kept still renewing all its wildness In the far West, Till with every kind of strain and trouble We were sore distress’d. We were blinded with the water Showering o’er us ever; And the awful night like thunder, And the lightning ceasing never. The bright fireballs in our tackling Flamed and smoked; With the smell of burning brimstone We were well-nigh choked. All the elements above, below, Against us wrought; Earth and wind and fire and water, With us fought. But when the evil one defied the sea To make us yield, At last, with one bright smile of pity, Peace with us she seal’d: Yet not before our yards were injured, And our sails were rent, Our poops were strained, our oars were weaken’d, All our masts were bent. Not a stay but we had started, Our tackling all was wet and splashy, Nails and couplings, twisted, broken. Feeshie, fashie, All the thwarts and all the gunwale Everywhere confess’d, And all above and all below, How sore they had been press’d. Not a bracket, not a rib, But the storm had loosed; Fore and aft from stem to stern, All had got confused. Not a tiller but was split, And the helm was wounded; Every board its own complaint Sadly sounded. Every trennel, every fastening Had been giving way; Not a board remain’d as firm As at the break of day. Not a bolt in her but started, Not a rope the wind that bore, Not a part of the whole vessel But was weaker than before. The sea spoke to us its peace prattle At the cross of Islay’s Kyle, And the rough wind, bitter boaster! Was restrained for one good while. The tempest rose from off us into places Lofty in the upper air, And after all its noisy barking Ruffled round us fair. Then we gave thanks to the High King, Who rein’d the wind’s rude breath, And saved our good Clan Ranald From a bad and brutal death. Then we furl’d up the fine and speckled sails Of linen wide, And we took down the smooth red dainty masts, And laid them by the side— On our long and slender polish’d oars Together leaning— They were all made of the fir cut by Mac Barais In Eilean Fionain— We went with our smooth, dashing rowing, And steady shock, Till we reach’d the good port round the point Of Fergus’ Rock. There casting anchor peacefully We calmly rode; We got meat and drink in plenty, And there we abode.

O for my strength! once more to see the hills! The wilds of Strath-Farar of stags, The blue streams, and winding vales, Where the flowering tree sends forth its sweet perfume. My thoughts are sad and dark!— I lament the forest where I loved to roam, The secret corries, the haunt of hinds, Where often I watched them on the hill! Corrie-Garave! O that I was within thy bosom Scuir-na-Làpaich of steeps, with thy shelter, Where feed the herds which never seek for stalls, But whose skin gleams red in the sunshine of the hills. Great was my love in youth, and strong my desire, Towards the bounding herds; But now, broken, and weak, and hopeless, Their remembrance wounds my heart. To linger in the laich[24] I mourn, My thoughts are ever in the hills; For there my childhood and my youth was nursed— The moss and the craig in the morning breeze was my delight. Then was I happy in my life, When the voices of the hill sung sweetly; More sweet to me, than any string, It soothed my sorrow or rejoiced my heart. My thoughts wandered to no other land Beyond the hill of the forest, the shealings of the deer, Where the nimble herds ascended the hill,— As I lay in my plaid on the dewy bed. The sheltering hollows, where I crept towards the hart, On the pastures of the glen, or in the forest wilds— And if once more I may see them as of old, How will my heart bound to watch again the pass! Great was my joy to ascend the hills In the cause of the noble chief, Mac Shimé of the piercing eye—never to fail at need, With all his brave Frasers, gathered beneath his banner. When they told of his approach, with all his ready arms, My heart bounded for the chase— On the rugged steep, on the broken hill, By hollow, and ridge, many were the red stags which he laid low. He is the pride of hunters; my trust was in his gun, When the sound of its shot rung in my ear, The grey ball launched in flashing fire, And the dun stag fell in the rushing speed of his course. When evening came down on the hill, The time for return to the star of the glen, The kindly lodge where the noble gathered, The sons of the tartan and the plaid, With joy and triumph they returned To the dwelling of plenty and repose; The bright blazing hearth—the circling wine— The welcome of the noble chief!