A Book of Irish Verse - LightNovelsOnl.com
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HY-BRASAIL
On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell; Men thought it a region of suns.h.i.+ne and rest, And they called it _Hy-Brasail_ the isle of the blest.
From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim, The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim; The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!
A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail; From Ara, the holy, he turned to the West, For though Ara was holy, _Hy-Brasail_ was blest.
He heard not the voices that called from the sh.o.r.e-- He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar; Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day, And he sped to _Hy-Brasail_, away, far away!
Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle, O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile; Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy sh.o.r.e Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before; Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, And to Ara again he looked timidly back; O! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!
Rash dreamer, return! O ye winds of the main, Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again.
Bash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.
The warning of reason was spoken in vain, He never re-visited Ara again!
Night falls on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, And he died on the waters, away, far away!
_Gerald Griffin_
MO CRAOIBHIN CNO
_From the Irish_
My heart is far from Liffey's tide And Dublin town; It strays beyond the Southern side Of Cnoc-Maol-Donn, Where Capa-chuinn hath woodlands green, Where Amhan-Mhor's waters flow, Where dwell unsung, unsought, unseen _Mo craoibhin cno_, Low cl.u.s.tering in her leafy screen, _Mo craoibhin cno_!
The high-bred dames of Dublin town Are rich and fair, With wavy plume and silken gown, And stately air; Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair?
Can silks thy neck of snow?
Or measur'd pace thine artless grace?
_Mo craoibhin cno_, When harebells scarcely show thy trace, _Mo craoibhin cno_!
I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave That maidens sung-- They sung their land the Saxon's slave, In Saxon tongue-- O! bring me here that Gaelic dear Which cursed the Saxon foe, When thou didst charm my raptured ear, _Mo craoibhin cno_!
And none but G.o.d's good angels near, _Mo craoibhin cno_!
I've wandered by the rolling Lee!
And Lene's green bowers-- I've seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea And Limerick's towers-- And Liffey's tide, where halls of pride Frown o'er the flood below; My wild heart strays to Amhan-mhor's side, _Mo craoibhin cno_!
With love and thee for aye to bide, _Mo craoibhin cno_!
_Edward Walsh_
MAIRGReAD NI CHEALLEADH
At the dance in the village thy white foot was fleetest; Thy voice in the concert of maidens was sweetest; The swell of thy white breast made rich lovers follow; And thy raven hair bound them, young Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
Thy neck was, lost maid, than the _ceanabhan_ whiter, And the glow of thy cheek than the _monadan_ brighter; But death's chain hath bound thee, thine eye's glazed and hollow, That shone like a sunburst, young Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
No more shall mine ear drink thy melody swelling; Nor thy beamy eye brighten the outlaw's dark dwelling; Or thy soft heaving bosom my destiny hallow, When thine arms twine around me, young Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
The moss couch I brought thee to-day from the mountain, Has drank the last drop of thy young heart's red fountain-- For this good scian beside me stuck deep and run hollow In thy bosom of treason, young Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
With strings of rich pearls thy white neck was laden, And thy fingers with spoils of the Sa.s.sanach maiden: Such rich silks enrob'd not the proud dames of Mallow-- Such pure gold they wore not as Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
Alas! that my loved one her outlaw would injure-- Alas! that he e'er proved her treason's avenger!
That this right hand should make thee a bed cold and hollow, When in Death's sleep it laid thee, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh!
And while to this lone cave my deep grief I'm venting, The Saxon's keen bandog my footstep is scenting, But true men await me afar in Duhallow, Farewell, cave of slaughter, and Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
_Edward Walsh_
FROM THE COLD SOD THAT'S O'ER YOU
_From the Irish_
From the cold sod that's o'er you I never shall sever; Were my hands twined in yours, Love, I'd hold them for ever.
My fondest, my fairest, We may now sleep together!
I've the cold earth's damp odour, And I'm worn from the weather.
This heart filled with fondness Is wounded and weary; A dark gulf beneath it Yawns jet-black and dreary.
When death comes, a victor, In mercy to greet me, On the wings of the whirlwind In the wild wastes you'll meet me.
When the folk of my household Suppose I am sleeping, On your cold grave till morning The lone watch I'm keeping.
My grief to the night wind For the mild maid to render, Who was my betrothed Since infancy tender.
Remember the lone night I last spent with you, Love, Beneath the dark sloe-tree When the icy wind blew, Love.
High praise to thy Saviour No sin-stain had found you, That your virginal glory s.h.i.+nes brightly around you.
The priests and the friars Are ceaselessly chiding, That I love a young maiden In life not abiding.
O! I'd shelter and s.h.i.+eld you If wild storms were swelling!
And O, my wrecked hope, That the cold earth's your dwelling.
_Edward Walsh_
THE FAIRY NURSE
