Sprays of Shamrock Part 4

RAIN SONG

Oh, it 's gray rain in the valleys, White rain where the moorland lies, And in from the bleak sea-borders A gust that keens and cries.

Sheep huddle in the hollows, And the cattle seek the byre, But I must be up and faring Away from the warm peat fire;

I must be up and faring, For this is the hour of tryst, And Sheilah will be waiting At the glen amid the mist.

Oh, what 's gray rain to lovers, And what though white rains fall, When blue skies s.h.i.+ne in Sheilah's eyes For a lad of Donegal!

A ROVER

Oh, I am just a rover Among the roving men Who loves to watch the sunlight Upon the flowering fen;

Who fain would feel the heather Dew-soft beneath his tread When morning parts the cloud-wrack Above Benbulbin's head;

Who likes to lie and linger Until the rising moon Shows all her midnight glories High o'er the Lough of Cloon;

Whose feet were shaped to follow The road's eternal lure From stormy Stockarudden To sunny Knockanure!

But since there 's Sheilah calling, ('T is love that 's in her call!) Faith, I am just a rover Who 'll rove no more at all!

QUEENS

Fair Maeve, that was queen of Beauty, Whither, whither has she gone?

Ask the cairn that over Sligo Lifts its stones to greet the dawn!

Deirdre, that was queen of Sorrow, Whither, whither has she fled?

Ask the woods of Finglas Water That once knew her lissome tread!

Queens!--they are no more than mortal; Even they must pale and pa.s.s Like the prismy dews of dawning On the heather and the gra.s.s!

THE WONDERS

I dream of the ancient wonders, of the isle of Hy Brasail That rides through the mists of Mayo, then fades like a fading sail; I dream of the ancient wonders, but there 's one that haunts me more, 'T is the faun-like grace of Moira upon Lough Corib's sh.o.r.e.

I dream of the ancient wonders, of the wells of Death and Life, Of the voices of the Forest that quell both hate and strife; I dream of the ancient wonders, but greater than them all Is the luring laugh of Moira when day 's at evenfall.

I dream of the ancient wonders, of the Cross caught up in air, Of the swan of sweet Feale Water that was a maiden fair; I dream of the ancient wonders, but each fades in eclipse At the lifted arms of Moira, and Moira's lifted lips!

AT MONAREE

When springtime comes to Monaree I know How the blue hyacinths blow, And how the daffodil lights its golden glow.

These blossoms are remembrancers of those Who lie in long repose, Lost to our earthly scenes of joys and woes,--

The saints of other days. How fair to see These living emblems be Of their good deeds--with spring at Monaree!

HEATHER SONG

Blue weather, blue weather abroad on the moors, And the cry of the wind that elates and allures; Sing "hey" and sing "ho" for the heather!

The brook in the bracken, it prattles and purls, And the lips of the rose are as red as a girl's; Sing "hey" and sing "ho" for the heather!

And the path that leads up from the stile at the start Is the path of my longing, the path of my heart; Sing "hey" and sing "ho" for the heather!

For I know I shall find her, my fair heather-bell, In the warm little dip at the crest of the fell, And her smile, ah, the burden of love it will tell!

Sing "hey" and sing "ho" for the heather!

OFF CONNEMARA

Off the coast of Connemara, Sailor, sailor, what 's the hail?

"Dip the sail to Saint Macdara-- Dip the sail!"

So we dipped it as we tripped it Southward with the fluting gale.

Long ago did Saint Macdara Pa.s.s beyond this mortal pale; Yet to-day off Connemara Deeds of G.o.dliness avail; Where the good old saint said ma.s.ses Every sailor, as he pa.s.ses, Dips the sail.

POPPIES AT MONASTERAVEN

As clear on my mind are graven As the carving upon a s.h.i.+eld The poppies at Monasteraven, And the cottage in the field;