A Book of Irish Verse Part 11

In the falcon's jesses throw, Hook and arrow, line and bow; Never again, by stream or plain, Shall the gentle woodsmen go.

Sweet companions, ye were ever-- Harsh to me, your sister, never; Woods and wilds, and misty valleys, Were with you as good's a palace.

O, to hear my true-love singing, Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing; Like the sway of ocean swelling Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.

O! to hear the echoes pealing Round our green and fairy sheeling, When the three, with soaring chorus, Pa.s.sed the silent skylark o'er us.

Echo now, sleep, morn and even-- Lark alone enchant the heaven!

Ardan's lips are scant of breath, Neesa's tongue is cold in death.

Stag, exult on glen and mountain-- Salmon, leap from loch to fountain-- Heron, in the free air warm ye-- Usnach's sons no more will harm ye!

Erin's stay no more you are, Rulers of the ridge of war; Never more 'twill be your fate To keep the beam of battle straight!

Woe is me! by fraud and wrong, Traitors false and tyrants strong, Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold, For Barach's feast and Conor's gold!

Woe to Eman, roof and wall!

Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!

Tenfold woe and black dishonour To the foul and false Clan Conor!

Dig the grave both wide and deep, Sick I am, and fain would sleep!

Dig the grave and make it ready, Lay me on my true-love's body.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND

_From the Irish_

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 he is 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 b.u.t.ter 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.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF TIMOLEAGUE

_From the Irish_

Lone and weary as I wander'd by the bleak sh.o.r.e of the sea, Meditating and reflecting on the world's hard destiny, Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer, in the quiet tide beneath, For on slumbering spring and blossom breathed not out of heaven a breath.

On I went in sad dejection, careless where my footsteps bore, Till a ruined church before me opened wide its ancient door,-- Till I stood before the portals, where of old were wont to be, For the blind, the halt, and leper, alms and hospitality.

Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the b.u.t.tress grey, Where the clergy used to welcome weary trav'llers on their way; There I sat me down in sadness, 'neath my cheek I placed my hand, Till the tears fell hot and briny down upon the gra.s.sy land.

There, I said in woful sorrow, weeping bitterly the while, Was a time when joy and gladness reigned within this ruined pile;-- Was a time when bells were tinkling, clergy preaching peace abroad, Psalms a-singing, music ringing praises to the mighty G.o.d.

Empty aisle, deserted chancel, tower tottering to your fall, Many a storm since then has beaten on the grey head of your wall!

Many a bitter storm and tempest has your roof-tree turned away, Since you first were formed a temple to the Lord of night and day.

Holy house of ivied gables, that were once the country's boast, Houseless now in weary wandering are you scattered, saintly host; Lone you are to-day, and dismal,--joyful psalms no more are heard, Where, within your choir, her vesper screeches the cat-headed bird.

Ivy from your eaves is growing, nettles round your green hearth-stone, Foxes howl, where, in your corners, dropping waters make their moan.

Where the lark to early matins used your clergy forth to call, There, alas! no tongue is stirring, save the daw's upon the wall.

Refectory cold and empty, dormitory bleak and bare, Where are now your pious uses, simple bed and frugal fare?

Gone your abbot, rule and order, broken down your altar stones; Nought see I beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey bones.

O! the hards.h.i.+p, O! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel war, Persecution and oppression, that have left you as you are!

I myself once also prosper'd;--mine is, too, an alter'd plight; Trouble, care, and age have left me good for nought but grief to-night.

Gone my motion and my vigour--gone the use of eye and ear, At my feet lie friends and children, powerless and corrupting here; Woe is written on my visage, in a nut my heart could lie-- Death's deliverance were welcome--Father, let the old man die.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

THE FAIRY WELL OF LAGNANAY

Mournfully, sing mournfully-- 'O listen, Ellen, sister dear: Is there no help at all for me, But only ceaseless sigh and tear?

Why did not he who left me here, With stolen hope steal memory?

O listen, Ellen, sister dear, (Mournfully, sing mournfully)-- I'll go away to Slemish hill, I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree, And let the spirits work their will; I care not if for good or ill, So they but lay the memory Which all my heart is haunting still!

(Mournfully, sing mournfully)-- The Fairies are a silent race, And pale as lily flowers to see: I care not for a blanched face, Nor wandering in a dreaming place, So I but banish memory:-- I wish I were with Anna Grace!'

Mournfully, sing mournfully!

Hearken to my tale of woe-- 'Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con, Her sister said in accents low, Her only sister, Una bawn: 'Twas in their bed before the dawn, And Ellen answered sad and slow,-- 'O Una, Una, be not drawn (Hearken to my tale of woe)-- To this unholy grief I pray, Which makes me sick at heart to know, And I will help you if I may: --The Fairy Well of Lagnanay-- Lie nearer me, I tremble so,-- Una, I've heard wise women say (Hearken to my tale of woe)-- That if before the dews arise, True maiden in its icy flow With pure hand bathe her bosom thrice, Three lady-brackens pluck likewise, And three times round the fountain go, She straight forgets her tears and sighs.'

Hearken to my tale of woe!

All, alas! and well-away!

'O, sister Ellen, sister sweet, Come with me to the hill I pray, And I will prove that blessed freet!'

They rose with soft They left their mother where she lay, Their mother and her care discreet, (All, alas! and well-away!) And soon they reached the Fairy Well, The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and grey, Wide open in the dreary fell: How long they stood 'twere vain to tell, At last upon the point of day, Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell, (All, alas! and well-away!) Thrice o'er her shrinking b.r.e.a.s.t.s she laves The gliding glance that will not stay Of subtly-streaming fairy waves:-- And now the charm three brackens craves, She plucks them in their fring'd array:-- Now round the well her fate she braves, All, alas! and well-away!

Save us all from Fairy thrall!

Ellen sees her face the rim Twice and thrice, and that is all-- Fount and hill and maiden swim All together melting dim!

'Una! Una!' thou may'st call, Sister sad! but lith or limb (Save us all from Fairy thrall!) Never again of Una bawn, Where now she walks in dreamy hall, Shall eyes of mortal look upon!

O! can it be the guard was gone, That better guard than s.h.i.+eld or wall?

Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Daune?