A Book of Irish Verse Part 8

Sweet babe! a golden cradle holds thee, And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee; In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.

Shuheen sho, lulo lo

When mothers languish broken-hearted, When young wives are from husbands parted, Ah! little think the keeners lonely, They weep some time-worn fairy only.

Shuheen sho, lulo lo!

Within our magic halls of brightness, Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness; Stolen maidens, queens of fairy-- And kings and chiefs a sluagh shee airy.

Shuheen sho, lulo lo!

Rest thee, babe! I love thee dearly, And as thy mortal mother nearly; Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest, That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest.

Shuheen sho, lulo lo!

Rest thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers Shall flee at the magic koels.h.i.+e's numbers; In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.

Shuheen sho, lulo lo!

_Edward Walsh_

A CUISLE GEAL MO CHROIDHE

The long, long wished-for hour has come, Yet come, astor, in vain; And left thee but the wailing hum Of sorrow and of pain: My light of life, my lonely love!

Thy portion sure must be Man's scorn below, G.o.d's wrath above-- A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

I've given thee manhood's early prime, And manhood's teeming years; I've blessed thee in my merriest time, And shed with thee my tears; And, mother, though thou cast away The child who'd die for thee, My fondest wishes still should pray For cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

For thee I've tracked the mountain's sides, And slept within the brake, More lonely than the swan that glides O'er Lua's fairy lake.

The rich have spurned me from their door, Because I'd make thee free; Yet still I love thee more and more, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

I've run the Outlaw's brief career, And borne his load of ill; His rocky couch--his dreamy fear-- With fixed, sustaining will; And should his last dark chance befall, Even that shall welcome be; In Death I'd love thee best of all, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

'Twas prayed for thee the world around, 'Twas hoped for thee by all, That with one gallant sunward bound Thou'dst burst long ages' thrall; Thy faith was tried, alas! and those Who'd peril all for thee Were curs'd and branded as thy foes, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

What fate is thine, unhappy Isle, When even the trusted few Would pay thee back with hate and guile, When most they should be true!

'Twas not my strength or spirit failed Or those who'd die for thee; Who loved thee truly have not failed, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

_Michael Doheny_

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May mornin', long ago, When first you were my bride: The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high-- And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye.

The _place_ is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek; And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near-- The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest-- For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, O! they love the better still, The few our Father sends!

And you were all _I_ had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride!

There's nothin' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in G.o.d had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort even on _your_ lip, And the kind look on your brow-- I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for _my_ sake; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore-- O! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary--kind and true!

But I'll not forget _you_, darling, In the land I'm goin' to: They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun s.h.i.+nes always there-- But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods I'll sit and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

_Lady Dufferin_

THE WELSHMEN OF TIRAWLEY

Scorney Bwee, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame, To lift the Lynott's taxes when he came, Rudely drew a young maid to him!

Then the Lynotts rose and slew him, And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him-- Small your blame, Sons of Lynott!

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Then the Barretts to the Lynotts gave a choice, Saying, 'Hear, ye murderous brood, men and boys, Choose ye now, without delay, Will ye lose your eyesight, say, Or your manhoods, here to-day?

Sad your choice, Sons of Lynott!

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, said, 'Only leave us our eyesight in our head.'

But the bearded Lynotts then Quickly answered back again, 'Take our eyes, but leave us men, Alive or dead, Sons of Wattin!'

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

So the Barretts with sewing-needles sharp and smooth, Let the light out of the eyes of every youth, And of every bearded man, Of the broken Lynott clan; Then their darkened faces wan Turning south To the river-- Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Clochan-na-n'all They drove them, laughing loud at every fall, As their wandering footsteps dark Failed to reach the slippery mark, And the swift stream swallowed stark, One and all As they stumbled-- From the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Of all the blinded Lynotts one alone Walk'd erect from stepping-stone to stone: So back again they brought you, And a second time they wrought you With their needles; but never got you Once to groan, Emon Lynott, For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever, Emon Lynott again cross'd the river.

Though Duvowen was rising fast, And the shaking stones o'ercast By cold floods boiling past; Yet you never, Emon Lynott, Faltered once before your foemen of Tirawley.

But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood, And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood-- 'O, ye foolish sons of Wattin, Small amends are these you've gotten, For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten, I am good For vengeance!'

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

'For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a man Bears the fortunes of himself and his clan, But in the manly mind, These darken'd orbs behind, That your needles could never find Though they ran Through my heart-strings!'