A Book of Irish Verse Part 5

Or was but the night-wind sweeping Down the hollow glen?

_James Clarence Mangan_

THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS

_From the Irish_

O, Woman of Three Cows, _agragh!_ don't let your tongue thus rattle!

O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle.

I have seen--and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true-- A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser; For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser; And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows, Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants, 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!

If _they_ were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, Can _you_ be proud, can _you_ be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning; _Mavrone!_ for they were banished, with no hope of their returning-- Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?

Yet _you_ can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows!

O, think of Donnel of the s.h.i.+ps, the Chief whom nothing daunted-- See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!

He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse-- Then ask yourself, should _you_ be proud, good Woman of Three Cows?

O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story-- Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory-- Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and Cyprus boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows!

Th' O'Carrols, also, famed when fame was only for the boldest, Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest; Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?

Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!

Your neighbour's poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas, Because, _inagh!_ you've got three cows, one more, I see, than _she_ has; That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows-- But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!

THE SUMMING-UP.

Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing, And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing, If I had but _four_ cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!

_James Clarence Mangan_

PRINCE ALFRID'S ITINERARY THROUGH IRELAND

_From the Irish_

I found in Innisfail the fair, In Ireland, while in exile there, Women of worth, both grave and gay men, Many clerics and many laymen.

I travelled its fruitful provinces round And in every one of the five I found, Alike in church and in palace hall, Abundant apparel, and food for all.

Gold and silver I found, and money, Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey; I found G.o.d's people rich in pity, Found many a feast and many a city.

I also found in Armagh, the splendid, Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended, Fasting, as Christ hath recommended, And n.o.ble councillors untranscended.

I found in each great church moreo'er, Whether on island or on sh.o.r.e Piety, learning, fond affection, Holy welcome and kind protection.

I found thy good lay monks and brothers Ever beseeching help for others, And in their keeping the holy word Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord.

I found in Munster unfettered of any, Kings and queens and poets a many-- Poets were skilled in music and measure, Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure.

I found in Connaught the just, redundance Of riches, milk in lavish abundance, Hospitality, vigour, fame, In Cruachan's land of heroic name.

I found in the county of Connall the glorious Bravest heroes, ever victorious; Fair-complexioned men and warlike, Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike.

I found in Ulster, from hill to glen, Hardy warriors, resolute men; Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone, And strength transmitted from sire to son.

I found in the n.o.ble district of Boyle

(_MS. here illegible._)

Brehons, erenachs, weapons bright, And hors.e.m.e.n bold and sudden in fight.

I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, From Dublin to Slewmargy's peak; Flouris.h.i.+ng pastures, valour, health, Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth.

I found, besides, from Ara to Glea, In the broad rich country of Ossorie, Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, Great chess players, men of truthful speech.

I found in Meath's fair princ.i.p.ality, Virtue, vigour, and hospitality; Candour, joyfulness, bravery, purity, Ireland's bulwark and security.

I found strict morals in age and youth, I found historians recording truth; The things I sing of in verse unsmooth, I found them all--I have written sooth.

_James Clarence Mangan_

O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE

_From the Irish_

Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak night, _mavrone_!

O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh, Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through, Pierceth one to the very bone!

Rolls real thunder? Or was that red, livid light Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes _him_ Nothing hath crueler venomy might.

An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!

The flood-gates of the river of heaven, I think, have been burst wide-- Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong ocean's tide, Descends grey rain in roaring streams.