A Book of Irish Verse - LightNovelsOnl.com
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_Rev. Charles Wolfe_
THE CONVICT OF CLONMELL
_From the Irish_
How hard is my fortune, And vain my repining!
The strong rope of fate For this young neck is twining.
My strength is departed; My cheek sunk and sallow; While I languish in chains, In the gaol of _Cluanmeala_.
No boy in the village Was ever yet milder, I'd play with a child, And my sport would be wilder.
I'd dance without tiring From morning till even, And the goal-ball I'd strike To the lightning of Heaven.
At my bed-foot decaying, My hurlbat is lying, Through the boys of the village My goal-ball is flying; My horse 'mong the neighbours Neglected may fallow,-- While I pine in my chains, In the gaol of _Cluanmeala_.
Next Sunday the patron At home will be keeping, And the young active hurlers The field will be sweeping.
With the dance of fair maidens The evening they'll hallow, While this heart, once so gay, Shall be cold in _Cluanmeala_.
_Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_
THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE
_From the Irish_
O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen, That came not of stream or malt;--like the brewing of men.
My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above, And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from my love.
Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field, That I was not near from terror my angel to s.h.i.+eld.
She stretched forth her arms,--her mantle she flung to the wind, And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find.
O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep, And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep; I'd ask not a s.h.i.+p, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,-- With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.
'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides, The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;-- I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along, The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.
_Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_
DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR
_From the Irish_
The sun on Ivera No longer s.h.i.+nes brightly, The voice of her music No longer is sprightly; No more to her maidens The light dance is dear, Since the death of our darling O'Sullivan Bear.
Scully! thou false one, You basely betrayed him, In his strong hour of need, When thy right hand should aid him; He fed thee--he clad thee-- You had all could delight thee: You left him--you sold him-- May Heaven requite thee!
Scully! may all kinds Of evil attend thee!
On thy dark road of life May no kind one befriend thee!
May fevers long burn thee, And agues long freeze thee!
May the strong hand of G.o.d In His red anger seize thee!
Had he died calmly, I would not deplore him; Or if the wild strife Of the sea-war closed o'er him: But with ropes round his white limbs Through ocean to trail him, Like a fish after slaughter-- 'Tis therefore I wail him.
Long may the curse Of his people pursue them; Scully, that sold him, And soldier that slew him!
One glimpse of heaven's light May they see never!
May the hearthstone of h.e.l.l Be their best bed for ever!
In the hole which the vile hands Of soldiers had made thee, Unhonour'd, unshrouded, And headless they laid thee; No sigh to regret thee, No eye to rain o'er thee, No dirge to lament thee, No friend to deplore thee!
Dear head of my darling, How gory and pale, These aged eyes see thee, High spiked on their gaol!
That cheek in the summer sun Ne'er shall grow warm; Nor that eye e'er catch light, But the flash of the storm.
A curse, blessed ocean, Is on thy green water, From the haven of Cork To Ivera of slaughter: Since thy billows were dyed With the red wounds of fear Of Muiertach Oge, Our O'Sullivan Bear!
_Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_
LOVE SONG
Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.
Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above; O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I too could glide to the bower of my love!
Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away.
Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me, Come, this fond bosom, O faithfulest and fairest Bleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee!
_George Darley_
THE WHISTLIN' THIEF
When Pat came over the hill, His colleen fair to see, His whistle low, but shrill, The signal was to be;
