— r Gift of Mr. Callanan Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/balladsofireland02haye_0 Sir Turlogh’s Bride. — P. 94. THE j3ALLADS OF JrELAND, COLLECTED AND EDITED, WITH Ifltts Historical an& gwgranjfical. BY EDWARD FAYES, ESQ., SEVENTH EDITION. VOL. II. isawwsnsffffauK «« JAMES DUFFY AND CO, Limited, 15 Wellington Quay. m 8%o .HHH v- a. $rini*b bg Edmund Burke & Co., 6l & 62 GREAT STRAND STREET, DUBLIN. <203108 "JMt 2 1 A** CONTENTS OF VOL. li $sllairs 0 f tij* gkfftttifltts. The Irish Wife, . • T. D. M'Gee , 0 The Coulin, • Cai'roll Malone , • The Old Story, • Anon., Maire Bhan Astor, Thomas Davis, Pastheen Fion, Samuel Ferguson , Giile Machree, Gerald Griffin, Dark Rosaleen, J. C. Mangan , The Loyal Subject, Anon. {Mary), The Peak of Darra, B. Simmons, Soggarth Aroon, John Banim, The Land of the West, Samuel Lover , file Death of Mary, Rev. C. Wolfe , O’Donovan’s Daughter, Edward Walsh, The Boatman of Kinsale, Thomas Davis , The Parting xrom Slemisb, Samuel Ferguson, Brighidin Ban Mo Stor, Edward Walsh, Carolan and Bridget Cruise, Samuel Lover , The Blind Man’s Bride, Hon. Mrs. Norton, Eman-ac-Knuck to Eva, J. B. Clarice, Love’s Longings, Thomas Davis, The Patriot’s Bride, C. G. Duffu Connor, the Fisherman, • Anon. {Mary), Love Dreams, . • Anon. Ailleen, • • • John Banim, A Wooing, • 0 M. McDermott, Oh 1 The Marriage • Thomas Davis, Sweet Sybil, • C. G. Duffy, My Own, Miss Mary Eva Kelly, Pagv- 1 '2 4 6 8 9 11 13 14 18 20 21 22 23 24 26 27 28 29 31 32 34 35 38 37 38 39 4.C CONTENTS. IY The Man of the North Countrie, T. D. M‘Gee , . My Owen, Anon. (Mary), Nanny, . Francis Davie, My Nial Bawn, Miss Mary Eva Kelly , Sebastian Cabot to his Lady, Lament of the Irish Maiden, T. D. M'Gee, Denny Lane , D. F. McCarthy, - Kate of Ken mare, e Talk by the Blackwater, Anon. (Mary), The Bride of Mallow, Thomas Davis , The Lonely Poet, . . William Kennedy, Cushla-mo-chree, Dr. Waller , I would that I were dead, Anon. ( Eire ), Mary, . . . M. McDermott, Ellen Bawn, J. C. Mangan , Welcome Home to you, Anon. (Mary), Kathleen, R. D. William , My Connor, J. Frazer , Past Pleasure, W. Kennedy, The Girl of Dunbwy, Thomas Davis , Love’s Greeting, Miss Mary Eva Kelly , Kate of Arraglen, Denny Lane , The Last Adieu, B. Simmons , A Dream of other Years, Anon. (Mary), The Poet’s Passion, R. D. Williams, My Own Love, Anon. The Lost Madonna, B. Simmons , Murmurs of Love, Miss Mary Eva Kelly, The Poet’s Heart, W. Kennedy , Conal and Eva, Anon. (Mary), The Dearest, John Sterling , Una, ...» Anon. (D. F. B.), Steep on, Florence Beamish , Fast and Present, • Mrs. W. R. Wilde, My Kallagh dhu Asthore, • • Francis Davis, Mo Craoibhin Cno, . • • E. Walsh, Love Ballad, . • J. C. Mangan , A Dream of a Dream, • • Miss Marry Eva Kelly, The Peasant’s Bride, • • Anon., Kathleen Ban Adair, » • • Francis Davis, Dark Margaret, • John F. Murray, Florence, • Anon. (Mary), The Last Reproacn, . « J. C. Mangan, The Claddagh Boatman, Anon., • The Welcome. Thomas Davis, I 1 *#* 41 42 42 43 44 46 47 48 49 51 52 53 54 56 66 57 59 60 60 61 62 64 66 67 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 83 84 85 87 88 89 9 ] 92 CONTENTS. ir Constantine, T. D. AT Gee, The Troubadour’s Pilgrimage, ♦ T. Irwin , The Poet and his Son, 4 J. Frazer, fhe Bridal in Paradise, % D. P. StarJcey , Che Soldier Boy, Dr. Maginn , . fhe Heart’s Resting Place, T. D. AT Gee, ^eonidas, Rev. G. Croly, The Sister j{ Charity, • Gerald Griffin, fhe Pretty Girl of Loch Dan, • Samuel Ferguson , The Banner of the Covenanters, Hon . Airs. Norton , The Grave of Mac Caura, Airs. Downing , The Bridal of the Year, D. F. McCarthy, Love’s Warning, E. Kenealy , Willy Gilliland, 3. Ferguson, Molly Muldoon, Anon., May, W. D. Gallagher The Battle of Busaco, Sir A. De Vere, l'agc 181 183 186 188 190 192 194 200 210 212 214 217 219 222 224 226 227 230 230 231 234 236 237 238 240 242 244 245 246 247 249 251 253 254 260 261 264 209 27t CONTENTS. The War Note, T. D. M‘Gee, Oh ! the Sight Entrancing, Thomas Moore , The Hermit, Oliver Goldsmith , The Siege of Hensburgh, Dr. Ryan , St. Kevin to his Sister, . R. D. Williams , The Forsaken Goblet, . B. Simmons , Kitty Neil, Dr. Waller , The Sack of Magdeburgli, Dr. Maginn , Summer Longings, . • D. F. McCarthy, Lament for Daedalus, John Sterling , Columbus, G. E. Supple , The Homeward Bound, T. D. M‘Gee, Man’s Mission, Mrs. W. R. Wilde , Sir Banneret of the Tricolor, J. C. Hoey , Shadows from Life, Mrs. W. R. Wilde, Araby’s Daughter, Thomas Moore , The Dreamer on the Clift’, J. Sterling , The Four Travellers, Frances Brown , The Woman of Three Cows, J. C. Mangan , The Lover’s Complaint, Anon., The Poet’s Prophecy, Gerald Griffin , The Sister of Mercy, Rev. Dr. Murray , The Returning Janissary, Frances Brovm , The Fisherman’s Wife, J. S. Knowles , The Suit of the Minstrel, B. Simmons , The Burial of Sir John Moore, Rev. C. Wolfe , The Forging of the Anchor, S. Ferguson , Boyhood’s Years, Rev. Charles Meehan , The Labourer, W. D. Ga^agher, The Life of the Sea, B. Simmons , The Sister of Charity, . R. D. Williams , Henrich Hudson, T. D. M‘Gee, The Husbandman, J. Sterling , King James the Second, Hon. G. S. Smythe, The Mother’s Heart, • Hon. Mrs. Norton , Louis Fifteenth, . • J. Sterling , Spirit Company, T. Irwin , The Mother of the Kings, B. Simmons , . The Anglo-Saxon Race, M. Hatpin, My Yiolon, . 6 T. Irwin , The Catholic Cavalier, Hon. G. S. Smythe , The Poet’s Grief, . • J. Frazer , Artist’s Song, T. Irwin , The Disinterment of Napoleon, B. Simmons , \T1 Page 274 2i4 2/6 280 282 284 285 286 287 28$ 298 292 293 295 297 301 302 304 306 307 308 310 312 314 316 318 319 321 322 324 326 328 332 333 334 336 337 338 34C 343 344 346 348 av. CONTENTS, till Irish Castles, The Sally from Salerno • • Anon., G. H. Suppli, The Mountain Forge, • T. Irwin , The Spinning Wheel Song, • Dr. J. F. Water, Molly Carew, . • • Samuel Lo.+r, Napoleon’s Last Look, • • B. Simmons , War, .... • T. Irwin , The Irish Mother’s Dream, • Anon., The Hermit, . . • Dr. Parnell, The Sister of Charity, • • J . F. Murray, Sir Cahir O’Doherty’s Message, • T. D. M'Gee, Father Mathew, . • • Anon., Mary Stuart’s Last Prayer, . Hon. G. S . Srnythe, Soul and Country, J. C. Mangan, (Erartslaffir gallabs. Mary, Queen of Mercy J. C. Mangan, Address to the Vanguard of the French, Iiev.F. Mahony , The Time of the Barmecides, J. C. Mangan, Undine, . . . Mrs. W. R. Wilde, The Ivaramanian Exile, J. C. Mangan, The Beaten Beggarman, Dr. Maginn , The White Lady, J. C. Mangan, The Song of the Cossack, Rev. F. Mahony, Wail and Warning of the Three Khaiendeers, J. C. Mangan, Fhe Waiwode, • . Mrs. W. R. Wilde, The Mariner’s Bride, • . • J. C. Mangan. Tub Poet’s Preaching, J . 6 * Mcmyan, 855 356 358 361 362 364 367 369 371 373 379 380 382 383 385 387 38 8 390 390 392 398 400 402 404 406 407 of % JfMonn THE IRISH WIFE, BY T. D. M ( GEE. |_In 1376 the statute of Kilkenny forbade the English settlers in Ireland to intermarry with the old Irish, under penalty of outlawry. James, Earl of Des- mond, and Almaric, Baron Grace, were the first to violate this law. One mar- ried an O’Meagher; the other a M‘Cormack. Earl Desmond, who was an accomplished poet, may have made a defence like the following for his marriage. I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land — I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France’s hand. For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life — An outlaw — so I’m near her To love till death my Irish wife. Oh, what would be this home of mine — A ruined, hermit-haunted place, But for the light that nightly shines, Upon its walls from Kathleen’s face ? What comfort in a mine of gold — What pleasure in a royal life, If the heart within lay dead and cold, If I could not wed my Irish wife ? I knew the law forbade the banns — I knew my King abhorred her race— Who never bent before their clans, Must bow before their ladies’ grace. II* A 2 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Take all my forfeited domain, I cannot wage with kinsmen strife— Take knightly gear and noble name, And I will keep my Irish wife. My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, My heaven by day, my stars by night — And twinlike truth and fondness lie Within her swelling bosom white. My Irish wife has golden hair — Apollo’s harp had once such strings — Apollo’s self might pause to hear Her bird-like carol when she sings. I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land — I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France’s hand. For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life, — In death I would be near her, And rise beside my Irish wife ! THE COULIN. BY CARROLL MALONE. [In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an act was made re- specting the habits and dress in general of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing glibbes, -r Coulins (long locks) on their heads, or hair on then* upper lip, called Crom- fieal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin, or the youth with the flowing locks, to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired. — Wal/cer, as quoted in Moore's Melodies. It so happens, however, on turning to the above statute, that no mention is to be found therein of the Coulin. But in the year 1295, a Parliament was held in Dublin; and then an act was passed which more than expressly names the Coulin, and mi- nutely describes it for its more effectual prohibition. This, the only statute made in Ireland that names the Coulin, was passed two hundred and forty-two years before the act cited by Mr. Moore; and in consequence of it, some of the Irish Chieftains who lived near the seat of English government, or wished to keep up intercourse with the English districts, did, in or soon after that year, 1295, cut off their Coulins, and a distinct memorial of the event was made ia BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 3 writing by the Officers of the Crown. It was on this occasion that the bard, oyer adhesive to national habits, endeavoured to fire the patriotism of a con- forming chieftain ; and, in the character of some favourite virgin, declai os hei preference for her lover with the Coulin, before him who complaisantly assumed the adornments of foreign fashion . — Dublin Penny Journal. J The last time she looked in the face of her dear, She breathed not a sigh, and she shed not a tear ; But she took up his harp, and she kissed his cold cheek — “ ’Tis the first, and the last, for thy Norah to seek.” For beauty and bravery Cathan was known, And the long flowing coulin he wore in Tyrone ; The sweetest of singers and harpers was he, All over the North, from the Bann to the sea. O’er the marshes of Dublin he often would rove, To the glens of O’Toole, where he met with his love; And at parting they pledged that, next midsummer’s day, He would come for the last time, and bear her away. The king had forbidden the men of O’Neal, With the coulin adorned, to come o’er the pale; But Norah was Irish, and said, in her pride, t{ If he wear not his coulin, I’ll ne’er be his bride.” The bride has grown pale as the robe that she wears, For the Lammas is come, and no bridegroom appears ; And she hearkens and gazes, when all are at rest, For the sound of his harp and the sheen of his vest. Her palfrey is pillioned, and she has gone forth On the long rugged road that leads down to the North ;— Where Eblana’s strong castle frowns darkly and drear, Is the head of her Cathan upraised on a spear. The Lords of the Castle had murdered him there, And all for the wearing that poor lock of hair : For the word she had spoken in mirth or in pride, Her lover, too fond and too faithful, had died. Twas then that she looked in the face of her dear, She breathed not a sigh, and she dropped not a tear ; She took up his harp, and she kissed his cold cheek : “ Farewell ! ’tis the first for thy Norah to seek.” 4 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. And afterward, oft would the wilderness ring, As, at night, in sad strains, to that harp she would sing Her heartbreaking tones, — we remember them well— But the words of her wailing, no mortal can tell. THE OLD STORY. He came across the meadow-pass, That summer-eve of eves — The sun-liglit streamed along the grass And glanced amid the leaves ; And from the shrubbery below, And from the garden-trees, He heard the thrushes’ music flow And humming of the bees ; The garden-gate was swung apart — The space was brief between ; But there, for throbbing of his heart, He paused perforce to lean. He leaned upon the garden-gate ; He looked, and scarce he breathed ; Within the little porch she sate, With woodbine overwreathed ; Her eyes upon her work were bent, Unconscious who was nigh ; But oft the needle slowly went, And oft did idle lie ; And ever to her lips arose Sweet fragments sweetly sung, But ever, ere the notes could close, She hushed them on her tongue. Her fancies as they come and go, Her pure face speaks the while, For now it is a flitting glow, And now a breaking smile ; And now it is a graver shade When holier thoughts are there— An Angel’s pinion might be stayed To see a sight so fair ; BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 6 But still they hid her looks of light, Those downcast eyelids pale — Two lovely clouds, so silken white, Two lovelier stars that veil. The sun at length his burning edge Had rested on the hill, And save one thrush from out the hedge, Both bower and grove were still. The sun had almost bade farewell ; But one reluctant ray Still loved within that porch to dwell, As charmed there to stay — It stole aslant the pear-tree bough, And through the woodbine fringe, And kissed the maiden’s neck and brow, And bathed her in its tinge. Oh ! beauty of my heart, he said, Oh ! darling, darling mine, Was ever light of evening shed On loveliness like thine ? Why should I ever leave this spot, But gaze until I die ? A moment from that bursting thought She felt his footstep nigh. One sudden, lifted glance — but one, A tremor and a start, So gently was their greeting done That who would guess their heart ? Long, long the sun had sunken down, And all his golden hail Had died away to lines of brown, In duskier hues that fail. The grasshopper was chirping shrill — No other living sound Accompanied the tiny rill That gurgled under ground — No other living sound, unless Some spirit bent to hear Low words of human tenderness And mingling whispers near. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. The stars, like pallid gems at first, Deep in the liquid sky, Now forth upon the darkness burst, Sole kings and lights on high ; For splendour, myriadfold, supreme, No rival moonlight strove ; Nor lovelier e’er was Hesper’s beam, Nor more majestic Jove. But what if hearts there beat that night That recked not of the skies, Or only felt their imaged light In one another’s eyes. And if two worlds of hidden thought And longing passion met, Which, passing human language, sought And found in utterance yet ; And if they trembled as the flowers That droop across the stream, And muse the while the starry hours Wait o’er them like a dream ; And if, when came the parting time, They faltered still and clung ; What is it all ? — an ancient rhyme Ten thousand times besung — That part of Paradise which man Without the portal knows — Which hath been since the world began, And shall be till its close. MAIRE BHAN ASTOR.* - BY THOMAS DAVIS, M.R.T.A. In a valley far away, With my Maire bhan astdr, Short would be the summer-day, Ever loving more and more ; • SVliish means, Fair Mary my treasure, and is pronounced aa if written Maur-ya v am asthore. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 7 Winter-days would all grow long, With the light her heart would pour. With her kisses and her song, And her loving mait go leor * Fond is Make bhan astdr, Fair is Maire bhan astdr, Sweet as ripple on the shore, Sings my Maire bhan astdr. Oh ! her sire is very proud, And her mother cold as stone ; But her brother bravely vow’d She should be my bride alone ; For he knew I lov’d her well, And he knew she lov’d me too, So he sought their pride to quell, But ’twas all in vain to sue. True is Maire bhan astdr, Tried is Maire bhan astdr, Had I wings I’d never soar From my Maire bhan astdr. There are lands where manly toil Surely reaps the crop it sows, Glorious woods and teeming soil, Where the broad Missouri flows ; Through the trees the smoke shall rise f From our hearth with mait go ldor, There shall shine the happy eyes Of my Maire bhan astdr. Mild is Marne bhan astdr, Mine is Maire bhan astdr, Saints will watch about the door Of my Maire bhan astor. Much, plenty, in abundance 8 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. PASTHEEN FION. (FROM THE IRISH.) BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A, [In Hardiman’s “Irish Minstrelsy,” there is a note upon the original of Paistheen Fion. The name may be translated either fair youth or fair maiden, and the writer supposes it to have a political meaning, and to refer to the son Df James II. Whatever may have been the intention of the author, it is, on the surface, an exquisite love song, and as such we have retained it in this class of ballads.] Oh, my fair Pastheen is my heart’s delight ; Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright ; Like the apple blossom her bosom white, And her neck like the swan’s on a March morn bright ! Then, Oro, come with me! come with mel come with me I Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet ! Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen ! Her cheeks are as red as the rose’s sheen, But my lips have tasted no more, I ween, Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen 1 Then, Oro, come with me 1 come with me 1 come with me I Orq, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet ! Were I in the town, where’s mirth and glee, Or ’twixt two barrels of barley bree, With my fair Fastneen upon my knee, *Tis I would drink to her pleasantly 1 Then, Oro, come with me! come with mel come with mel Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet l Nine nights I lay in longing and pain, Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain, Thinking to see you, love, once again ; But whistle and call were all in vain ! BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 9 Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me! come with me! Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet ! I’ll leave my people, both friend and foe ; From all the girls in the world I’ll go ; But from you, sweetheart, oh, never ! oh, no ! Till I lie in the coffin stretched, cold and low ! Then, Oro, come with me 1 come with me ! come with mo l Oro, come with me l brown girl, sweet ! And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet \ GILLE MACHREE. FY GERALD GRIFFIN. Gille Machree* sit down by me, We now are joined and ne’er shall sever; This hearth’s our own, our hearts are one, And peace is ours for ever ! When I was poor, your father’s door Was closed against your constant lover; With care and pain, I tried in vain My fortunes to recover. I said, ‘ To other lands I’ll roam, Where Fate may smile on me, love ; I said, ‘ Farewell, my own old home 1’ And I said, ‘ Farewell to thee, love ! Sing Grille machree , &c. I might have said, my mountain maid, Come live with me, your own true lover ; I know a spot, a silent cot, Your friends can ne’er discover; * Gille machree , — brightner of my heart. 10 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Where gently flows the waveless tide By one small garden only ; Where the heron waves his wings so widh And the linnet sings so lonely ! Sing Grille machree , &c. I might have said, my mountain maid, A father’s right was never given True hearts to curse with tyrant force, That have been blest in heaven. But then, I said, * In after years, When thoughts of home shall find her I My love may mourn with secret tears Her friends thus left behind her. Sing Grille machree , &c. Oh, no, I said, my own dear maid For me, though all forlorn, for ever, That heart of thine shall ne’er repine O’er slighted duty — never. From home and thee though wandering far A dreary fate be mine, love ; I’d rather live in endless war, Than buy my peace with thine, love. Sing Grille machree , &c. Far, far away, by night and day, I toiled to win a golden treasure ; And golden gains repaid my pains In fair and shining measure. I sought again my native land, Thy father welcomed me, love ; I poured my gold into his hand, And my guerdon found in thee love. Sing Grille machree sit down by me, We now are joined, and ne’er shall sever This hearth’s our own, our hearts are one. And peace is ours for ever. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 11 DARK ROSALEEN. (FROM THE IRISH.) BY J. C. MANGAN. [This impassioned ballad, entitled in the original Roisin Duh (or The Blacw Little Rose), was written in the reign of Elizabeth by one of the poets of the celebrated Tirconnellian chieftain, Hugh the Red O’Donnell. It purports to be an allegorical address from Hugh to Ireland, on the subject of his love ana struggles for her, and his resolve to raise her again to the glorious position she held as a nation before the irruption of the Saxon and Norman spoilers. The true character and meaning of the figurative allusions with which it abounds, and to two only of which we need refer here — viz., the “ Roman wine ” and Spanish ale” mentioned in the first stanza — the intelligent reader will, of ooum, find no difficulty in understanding.] 0, my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep ! The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep. There’s wine from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green ; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen ! My own Rosaleen ! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My Dark Rosaleen ! Over hills, and through dales, Have I roamed for your sake ; All yesterday I sailed with sails On river and on lake. The Erne, at its highest flood lashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood. My Dark Rosaleen ! My own Rosaleen ! Oh ! there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lightened through my blood. My dark Rosaleen I 12 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. All day long, in unrest, To and fro, do I move. The very soul within my brea& Is wasted for you, love ! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My Dark Kosaleen I My own Kosaleen ! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My Dark Kosaleen ! Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon. But yet will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen ; ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My Dark Kosaleen ! My own Kosaleen ! ’Tis you shall have the golden throne, ’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My Dark Kosaleen ! Over dews, over sands, Will I fly, for your weal ; Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home, in your emerald bowers, From morning’s dawn till e’en, You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My Dark Kosaleen ! My fond Kosaleen 1 You’ll think of me through daylight’s hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My Dark Kosaleen ! I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills I BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 1J And one beamy smile from you Would float like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My Dark Rosaleen I My fond Rosaleen 1 Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My Dark Rosaleen l 0 ! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood ; And gun-peal, and slogan cry, Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My Dark Rosaleen 1 My own Rosaleen ! The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My Dark Rosaleen 1 THE LOYAL SUBJECT. (A JACOBITE RELIC.) I AM a loyal subject, sadly grieving by the shore, Because my King is gone away, I ne’er shall see him more ; I had his last look from the sea, as the tall ship pass’d on ; ’Tis cruel comfort now for me, my gallant King is gone. His words were soft as pity, and his smile was kind as love — His eye was calm and royal, like the summer sky above ; I rested in his looks at night, and sunned myself by day ; I’ll never rest or smile again — my King is gone away ! Swift is his noble ship, and strong, to bear him o’er the main ; But I shall die of weariness ere he comes back again. Keen is his sword in battle — it will never quit his hold ; But my heart will have broken e^e his triumph can be told. 14 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Too mournful sounds my heart now — he is not by to hear ; I want his voice to praise me — for no other praise is dear. I played to him one evening, in the light so soft and dim — Oh ! he was fond of music, but I was fond of him. No more I seek the cool shades he used to seek with me ; No more I love the green woods — too lonely they would be ; But I watch the waves roll onward, and wail along the shore, Because my King is gone away, I ne’er shall see him more. Mar* THE PEAK OF DARK A. BY B. SIMMONS. jtAUNT Peak of Darra ! lifting to the sky Thy height scorch’d barren by the howling North— Still toss the tempest, as it hurtles by From that jagg’d rampart scornfully forth ! Still let the growing Thunder o'er thee brood, Gathering from each stray cloud its sulphurous food, Till in some midnight of oppressive J une, When under Clare affrighted drops the Moon, Out bursts the horror — brattling wide, and rending Each lesser mountain with a single blow ; Whilst thou unscarr’d, unstagger’d, hear’st descending The loosen’d ruin on the Yale below. Oh, soaring Peak ! as now I watch at eve The rising stars rest on thee one by one, In their bright journey upwards, Thought would cleave (Boldly as thou) the mist reposing on The track- ways of a past and pleasant time, When up thy rifted height were seen to climb Two white-robed children, gladsome sparkling things — As stars that bless thee with their visit ings, A gentle pair — the little Maiden’s eyes Borrowing the blue of their unclouded gleam : The Boy, his laugh of beautiful surprise, From that deep Valley’s ever-iocund stream. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 15 Kindred in love, though not in race, were they — From separate homes amid those humble walls That stud the glen, they came each holiday To weave together wild-flower coronals, And, hand in hand, (the bolder-hearted boy Cheering his partner’s steps of timid joy, Oft pausing to recruit her efforts weak,) To clamber up and up the desolate Peak, And hang their chaplets on its topmost stone, The nearest to the moon ; then crouching, weary, Laugh down the day, upon that granite-throne, Till evening’s breeze blew chillingly and dreary. Within the shelter of that sterile hill Nor shadowy bower nor arching grove was seen, Their only song the warbling of the rill, The bank that border’d it their only green ; And so then* childhood, ripening into youth, Made play-ground, bower, and trysting-place, in sooth, Of that precipitous crag, where o’er them bent, As if in love, the lonely firmament ; Until the stars from ocean’s azure field Familiar friends to Paul and Bertha grew — Till the cloud -scattering Eagle, as he wheel’d Against the sun, their very voices knew. Gentle but wealthless was their parents’ lot, And youth’s gay idlesse may not always last ; The Boy has vanish’d from his native cot, The Maiden’s shadow from the stream has past. Like one pure rill that sudden shocks divide In separate channels, they have parted wide, To seek and fret their way into the main, But till they reach it never meet again. Yet long as Memory’s trembling hand unrolls To them the records of Life’s early day, Gray cliff of Darra ! thou upon their souls Hast left a shade that shall not pass away. * * * * * The day is burning over India’s land ! Lo, tall white fane and colonnaded hall, And glorious dome, like snowy frostwork, stand Amid the noontide of superb Bengal ! 16 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. No breezy balm as yet is floating there, To cool the fervid suffocating air, The palms that lift their light green tufts so high Seem solid emerald carved upon the sky, No sound is heard that Land’s luxuriance through ; The mighty Eiver, glowing in the trance Fringed with bright palaces sleeps broadly blue, Untouched by oar throughout its vast expanse ! At such an hour, within a stately room, Through whose silk screens and open lattices Struggled the freshness of the mat’s perfume, Lay Beauty sinking under slow disease. Dusk-featured slaves like spectres watch’d the doors, And mournful women o’er the marble floors Gliding, with folded arms, in silence gazed Where, on a couch of downiest pillows raised, The Lady of that proud pavilion lay ; While on her broad and yet unwrinkled brow, And purest cheek consuming fast away, Keen Fever redden’d and Delirium now. ’Twas then, when fail’d all wealth and life afford, A Hindoo Girl stood forth that hopeless hour, (Like her who, to the Syrian Leper-lord, Proclaim’d the Prophet’s sanatory power ;) And told how, in the neighbouring city dwelt — In the same home where she a child had knelt — A man from Land, ’twas thought, beyond the seas, In magic versed and healing mysteries, A traveller he, now waiting to depart With the first sail that swell’d for Europe’s shore, Would he were summon’d that his wondrous art Her Lady’s dread disorder might explore ! No voice responsive a reproval show’d — E’en as she spoke a messenger had flown (The sorrowing slaves of that serene abode Their early widow’d mistress served, alone ;) The summon’d stranger came, a grave-eyed man, Travel or Time had touch’d his temples wan, Deepening his gracious features ; but the stamp Of thought shone through them like a lighted lamp. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 17 Not much enquiry of th’ attendant throng, To the sick chamber guiding him, he made, But entering there, with deep emotion, long That Lady’s aspect silently survey’d. On the hot azure of her aching eyes His shadow fell ; but she regarded not, — He touch’d the pillows where her fair head lies, Nor stirr’d its drooping from that downy spot, — He pressed her passive hand, but from his own Released, it dropp’d down heavily as stone The breathing only of her parted lips Showed life not wholly in its last eclipse. Bending at length unto her vacant ear, As if some potent spell-word he would speak, " Dear one ! ” he said, in tend’rest accents clear — “ Rememberest thou cold Barra's distant Peak t ” Some change like that which shakes an exile’s sleeping When mournful music his lost home recalls — Or thrills the famish’d Arab when the leaping He hears afar of rocky waterfalls — Was seen to lighten through that Lady’s frame, And slowly, sob by sob, volition came, Along her brow twice pass’d her lifted hand, As if to free some overtighten’d band ; Then all at once, as from a sultry heaven Sweeps in an instant the collected rain, The loosen’d waters of the fountain riven, Rush’d in wild tears from her long- clouded brain. Mysterious Memory ! — by what silver Key, Through years of silence tuneless and unshaken. Can thy sweet touch, forgotten melody In the dim Spirit once again awaken ? Long fell the freshness of those tears, and fast, Melting to slumber on her lids at last. So waned the night, and with the morning came Healing and hope to her recruited frame, Day after day health’s roses round her head More brightly bloom’d beneath the Stranger’s care, Who, though for Europe many a sail was spread, Was still a dweller in that palace fair. # * * * « ii. B 18 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. In the stern shade of Darra’s northern peak A summer-bower has risen like a dream, From whose white porch, when Evening’s rosy cheek Rests on yon crag above the dancing stream, Two pensive friends, at times, are seen to glide Winding together up the mountain side, With looks less radiant and with steps more slow Than when they trode it long, long years ago : But steadfast light of calmer joy is round them, And Paul and Bertha therefore come to bless, In the old haunts where first Affection bound them, Then* lot of later holier happiness. SOGGARTH AROON. BY JOHN BANIM. (author of “tales of the o’hara family,” &c.) [I read a very interesting little volume of “ Irish Ballad Poetry,” published by that poor Duffy of the Nation , who died so prematurely the other day. There are some most pathetic, and many most spirited, pieces, and all, with scarcely an exception, so entirely national. Do get the book and read it. I am most struck with Soggarth Aroon , after the two first stanzas ; and a long, racy, authentic, sounding dirge for the Tyrconnel Princes. But you had better begin with The Irish Emigrant, and The Girl of Loch Dan, which immediately follows, which will break you in more gently to the wilder and more impassioned parts. It is published in 1845, and as a part of “ Duffy’s Library of Ireland.” You see what a helpless victim I still am to these en- chanters of the lyre. I did not mean to say but a word of this book, and here I am furnishing you with extracts. But God bless all poets ! and you will not grudge them a snare even of your Sunday benedictions. — Lord Jeffrey's Letter to Mrs. Empson , in Lord Cockburn's Life of Jeffrey. ] Am I a slave they say, Soggarth Aroon ? * Since you did show the way, Soggarth Aroon, Their slave no more to be, While they would work with me Ould Ireland’s slavery, Soggarth Aroon ? Soggarth Aroon, means Priest dear. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 19 Why not her poorest man. Soggarth Aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth Aroon, Her commands to fulfil Of his own heart and will, Side by side with you still, Soggarth Aroon ? Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth Aroon, Yet be no slave to you, Soggarth Aroon, — Nor, out of fear to you — Stand up so near to you — Och ! out of fear to you I Soggarth Aroon ! Who, in the winter’s night, Soggarth Aroon, When the could blast did bite, Soggarth Aroon, Came to my cabin-door, And, on my earthen-flure, Knelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth Aroon ? Who, on the marriage- day, Soggarth Aroon, Made the poor cabin gay, Soggarth Aroon — And did both laugh and sing Making our hearts to ring, At the poor christening, Soggarth Aroon ? Wlio, as friend only met, Soggarth Aroon, Never did flout me yet, Soggarth Aroon ? And when my hearth was dim, Gave, while his eye did brim, WTiat I should give to him, Soggarth Aroon ? 20 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Och ! you, and only you, Soggarth Aroon ! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth Aroon ; In love they’ll never shake, When for ould Ireland’s sake, We a true part did take, Soggarth Aroon! THE LAND OF THE WEST. BY SAMUEL LOVER. Oh ! come to the West, love — oh ! come there with me, ’Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea ; Where fair plenty smiles from her emerald throne, Oh, come to the West, and I’ll make thee my own ! I’ll guard thee, I’ll tend thee, I’ll love thee the best, And you’ll say there’s no land like the land of the West l The south has its roses, and bright skies of blue, But ours are more sweet with love’s own changeful hue — Half sunshine, half tears, like the girl I love best — Oh ! what is the south to the beautiful West? Then come there with me, and the rose on thy mouth Will be sweeter to me than the flow’rs of the south. The north has its snow-tow’rs of dazzling array, All sparkling with gems in the ne’er-setting day, There the storm-king may dwell in the halls he loves best, But the soft -breathing zephyr he plays in the West — Then come to the West, where no cold wind doth blow, And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow ! The sun in the gorgeous east chaseth the night, When he riseth refreshed in his glory and might, But where doth he go when he seeks his sweet rest ? Oh ! doth he not haste to the beautiful West ? Then come there with me, ’tis the land I love best, ’Tis the land of my sires ! ’tis my own darling West. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS, 21 THE DEATH OF MARY. BY THE KEY. CHARLES WOLFE. [Charles Wolfe was born in Dublin 14th December 1791, and died 21st February 1823. On the death of his father, his mother removed to England, and placed her son at Hyde Abbey school in Winchester, where he remained till 1808, when the family returned to Ireland. He then en ered Trinity College where he acquired distinction, — and having taken orders, he was ordained to the curacy of Castle Caulfield, in the diocese of Armagh. His poem, on The Burial of Sir John Moore y which Lord Byron pronounced “the most perfect ode in the language,” has given him considerable posthumous celebrity ; al- though several futile attempts have been made to deprive him of the honour of its paternity. It first appeared anonymously ; but his minor poems display hin nowers as a poet of feeling and of fancy.] If I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee ; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be ; It never through my mind had past The time would e’er be o’er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more. And still upon that face I look, And think ’twill smile again, And still the thought I will not brook That I must look in vain. But, when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne’er left’st unsaid, And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Maryl thou art dead. If thou would’st stay e’en as thou art, All cold, and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been ! While e’en thy chill bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own, But there I lay thee in thy grave— And I am now alone ! 22 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. I do not think, where’er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me ; And I, perhaps, may sooth this heart In thinking too of* thee ; Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne’er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore. O’DONOYAN’S DAUGHTER. BY EDWARD WALSH. One midsummer’s eve, when the Bel-fires were lighted, And the bag-piper’s tone call’d the maidens delighted, I join’d a gay group by the Araglin’s water, And danced till the dawn with O’Donovan’s Daughter. Have you seen the ripe monadan glisten in Kerry ? Have you mark’d on the Galteys the black whortle-berry, Or ceanaban wave by the wells of Blackwater ? — They’re the cheek, eye, and neck of O’Donovan’s Daughter 1 Have you seen a gay kidling on Claragh’s round mountain ? The swan’s arching glory on Sheeting’s blue fountain ? Heard a weird woman chant what the fairy choir taught her? They’ve the step, grace, and tone of O’Donovan’s Daughter ! Have you mark’d in its flight the black wing of the raven ? The rose-buds that breathe in the summer breeze waven ? The pearls that lie hid under Lene’s magic water ? They’re the teeth, lip, and hair of O’Donovan’s Daughter ! Ere the Bel-fire was dimm’d, or the dancers departed, I taught her a song of some maid broken-hearted : And that group, and that dance, and that love-song I taught her Haunt my slumbers at night with O’Donovan’s Daughter. God grant ’tis no fay from Cnoc-Firinn that wooes me, God grant ’tis not Cliodhna the queen that pursues me, That my soul lost and lone has no witchery wrought her, 'While I dream of dark groves and O’Donovan’s Daughter ! BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 23 If, spell-bound, I pine with an airy disorder, Saint Gobnate has sway over Musgry’s wide border ; She’ll scare from my couch, when with prayer I’ve besought her, That bright airy sprite like O’Donovan’s Daughter. THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE. BY THOMAS DAVIS, M.R.I.A. His kiss is sweet, his word is kind, His love is rich to me ; I could not in a palace find A truer heart than he. The eagle shelters not his nest From hurricane and hail, More bravely than he guards my breast- The Boatman of Kinsale. The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps Is not a whit more pure — The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps Has not a foot more sure. No firmer hand nor freer eye E’er faced an Autumn gale — De Courcy’s heart is not so high — The Boatman of Kinsale. The brawling squires may heed him not, The dainty stranger sneer — But who will dare to hurt our cot, When Myles O’Hea is here. The scarlet soldiers pass along — They’d like, but fear to rail — His blood is hot, his blow is strong — The Boatman of Kinsale. His hooker’s in the Scilly van, When seines are in the foam ; But money never made the man, Nor wealth a happy home. 24 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. So, blest with love and liberty, While he can trim a sail, He’ll trust in God, and cling to me — The Boatman of Kinsale. THE PARTING FROM SLEMISH; OR, THE CON’S FLIGHT TO TYRONE. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A, [In Blackwood’s Magazine, vol. 34, there is a long and interesting story by Mr. Ferguson, entitled The Return of Claneboy. The ovents in the narrative are placed in the summer of 1333 ; and the hero of the tale is O’Neill, “ the youngest of the Princes of Claneboy.” The scene is laid, principally, in the county Antrim ; and this bahad is supposed to have been sung in the tent of O’Neill, on Slemish, near Ballymena, on the first night after he had crossed the Bairn, the boundary of the British Pale. The person supposed to sing is “Turlough,’’ the Prince’s harper.] My Owen Bawn’s hair is of thread of gold spun ; Of gold in the shadow, of light in the sun ; All curled in a coolun the bright tresses are — They make his head radiant with beams like a star ! My Owen Bawn’s mantle is long and is wide, To wrap me up safe from the storm by his side ; And I’d rather face snow-drift and winter-wind there, Than lie among daisies and sunshine elsewhere. My Owen Bawn Con is a hunter of deer, He tracks the dun quarry with arrow and spear — Where wild woods are waving, and deep waters flow, Ah, there goes my love, with the dun-dappled roe. My Owen Bawn Con is a bold fisherman, He spears the strong salmon in midst of the Bann ; And rock’d in the tempest on stormy Lough Neagh, Draws up the red trout through the bursting of spray. My Owen Bawn Con is a bard of the best, He wakes me with singing, he sings me to rest ; And the cruit ’neath his fingers rings up with a sound, A f though angels harped o’er us, and fays underground BALLADS 02 THE AFFECTIONS. 25 They tell me the stranger has given command, That crommeal and coolun shall cease in the land, That all our youth’s tresses of yellow be shorn, And bonnets, instead, of a new fashion, worn : That mantles like Owen Bawn’s shield us no more, That hunting and fishing henceforth we give o’er, That the net and the arrow aside must be laid, For hammer and trowel, and mattock and spade ; That the echoes of music must sleep in their caves, That the slave must forget his own tongue for a slave’s, That the sounds of our lips must be strange in our ears. And our bleeding hands toil in the dew of our tears. Oh, sweetheart and comfort ! with thee by my side, I could love and live happy, whatever betide ; But thou , in such bondage, wouldst die ere a day — Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen, away ! There are wild woods and mountains, and streams deep and clear, There are lochs in Tir-oen as lovely as here ; There are silver harps ringing in Yellow Hugh’s hall, And a bower by the forest side, sweetest of all ! We will dwell by the sunshiny skirts of the brake, Where the sycamore shadows glow deep in the lake ; And the snowy swan s firring the green shadows there, Afloat on the water, seems floating in air. Farewell, then, black Slemish, green Collon adieu, My heart is abreaking at thinking of you ; But tarry we dare not, when freedom hath gone — Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen Bawn Con ! Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen away ! We will leave them the dust from our feet as a prey, And our dwelling in ashes and flames for a spoil — Twill be long ere they quench them with streams of the Foyle ! 26 HALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. BRIGHIDIN BAN MO STORE. BY EDWARD WALSH. [Brighidin ban mo stor is in English fair young bride, or Bridget my trea - $W'e. The proper sound of this phrase is not easily found by the mere English- speaking Irish. It is as if written — “ Bree-dheen-baum-mu-stkore.” The pro- per name Brighit, or Bride, signifies a fiery dart , and was the name of the goddess of poetry in the Pagan days of Ireland.] I AM a wand’ring minstrel man, And Love my only theme, I’ve stray’d beside the pleasant Bann, And eke the Shannon’s stream ; I’ve pip’d and play’d to wife and maid By Barrow, Suir, and Nore, But never met a maiden yet Like Brighidin Ban Mo Store. My girl hath ringlets rich and rare, By Nature’s fingers wove — Loch-Carra’s swan is not so fair As is her breast of Love ; And when she moves, in Sunday sheen, Beyond our cottage door, I’d scorn the high-bom Saxon queen For Brighidin Ban Mo Store. It is not that thy smile is sweet, And soft thy voice of song — It is not that thou fleest to meet My comings lone and long ; But that doth rest beneath thy breast, A heart of purest core, Whose pulse is known to me alone, My Brighidin Ban Mo Store! BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 27 CAROLAN AND BRIDGET CRUISE. BY SAMUEL LOVER. [It is related of Cardan, the Irish bard, that when deprived of sight,, and after the lapse of twenty years, he recognized his first love by the touch of her hand. The lady’s name was Bridget Cruise; and though not a pretty name, it deserves to be recorded, as belonging to the woman who could inspire such a passion. On his return from a pilgrimage which he made to St. Patrick’s rurgatoir, in Lough Dearg, he found several persons on shore waiting the arrival of the boat which had conveyed him to the scene of his devotion. In assisting one of these devout travellers to get on board he chanced to take a .ady’s hand, and his sense of touch and feeling was so acute, that upon taking it he exclaimed, “ Dar Lamh mo car dais Criost (By the hand of my Gossip,) this is the hand of my first love, Bridget Cruise.”] “ True love can ne’er forget ; Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one !” Thus sung a minstrel gay His sweet impassion’d lay, Down by the ocean’s spray At set of sun. But wither’d was the minstrel’s sight, Morn to him was dark as night, Yet his heart was full of light, As he thus his lay begun. “ True love can ne’er forget ; Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one ! Long years are past and o’er, Since from this fatal shore, Cold hearts and cold winds bore . My love from me.” Scarcely the minstrel spoke, When quick, with flashing stroke, A boat’s light oar the silence broke O’er the sea ; Soon upon her native strand Doth a lovely lady land, While the minstrel’s love-taught hand Did o’er his wild harp run : 28 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. “ True love can ne’er forget, Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one ! ” Where the minstrel sat alone, There, that lady fair hath gone, Within his hand she placed her own, The bard dropp’d on his knee ; From his lips soft blessings came, He kiss’d her hand with truest flame, In trembling tones he named — her name, Though her he could not see ; But, oh ! — the touch the bard could tell Of that dear hand, remember’d well, Ah ! — by many a secret spell Can true love find her own 1 For true love can ne’er forget ; Fondly as when they met ; He loved his lady yet, His darling one. THE BLIND MAN’S BRIDE. BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. When first, beloved, in vanished hours The blind man sought th} 7 hand to gain, They said thy cheek was bright as flowers New freshened by the summer’s rain. The beauty which made them rejoice My darkened eyes might never see ; But well I knew thy gentle voice, And that, was all in all, to me. At length, as years rolled swiftly on, They talked to me of Time’s decay, Of roses from thy soft cheek gone, Of ebon tresses turned to grey. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 29 I heard them, but I heeded not ; The withering change I could not see ; Thy voice still cheered my darkened lot, And that, was all in all, to me. And still, beloved, till life grows cold, We’ll wander ’neath the genial sky, And only know that we are old By counting happy hours gone by ; Thy cheek may lose its blushing hue, Thy brow less beautiful may be, But oh, the voice which first I knew, Still keeps the same sweet tone to me. EMAN-AC-KNUCK TO EVA.* BY J. B. CLARKE. On the white hawthorn’s bloom, in purpling streak, I see the fairy-ring of morning break, On the green valley’s brow she golden glows, Kissing the crimson of the opening rose, — Knits with her thousand smiles its damask dyes, And laughs the season on our hearts and eyes. Rise, Eva, rise ! fair spirit of my breast, In whom I live, forsake the down of rest. Lovelier than morn, carnationed in soft hues, Sweeter than rifled roses in the dews Of dawn divinely weeping — and more fair Than the coy flowers fann’d by mountain air ; More modest than the morning’s blushing smile. Rise, Eva, rise ! pride of our Western Isle — The sky’s blue beauties lose their sunny grace Before the calm, soft splendours of thy face. Thy breath is sweeter than the apple bloom, When spring’s musk’d spirit bathes it in perfume ; The rock’s wild honey steeps thy rubied lip — Rise, Eva, rise ! — I long these sweets to sip. * Eroan-ac-Knuck. or Ned of the Hill, a celebrated minstrel freeb 30 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. The polish’d ringlets of thy jetty locks Shame the black raven’s on their sun -gilt rocks ; Thy neck can boast a whiter, lovelier glow, Than the wild cygnet’s silvery plume of snow. And from thy bosom, the soft throne of bliss, The witch of love, in all her blessedness, Heaves all her spells, wings all her feathered darts, And dips her arrows in adoring hearts. Rise, Eva, rise ! the sun sheds his sweet ray, Am’rous to kiss thee— rise, my love ! we’ll stray Across the mountain, — on the blossomy heath, The heatli-bloom holds for thee its odorous breath. From the tall crag, aspiring to the skies, I’ll pick for thee the strings of strawberries ; The yellow nuts, too, from the hazel tree — Soul of my heart ! — I’ll strip to give to thee : As thy red lips the berries shall be bright, And the sweet nuts shall be as ripe and white And milky, as the love-begotten tide That fills thy spotless bosom, my sweet bride 1 Queen of the smile of joy ! shall I not kiss Thee in the moss-grown cot, bless’d bower of bliss- Shall not thy rapturous lover clasp thy charms, And fold his Eva in his longing arms — Shall Inniscather’s wood again attest Thy beauties strain’d unto this burning breast ? Absent how long ! Ah ! when wilt thou return ? When shall this wither’d bosom cease to mourn ? Eva ! why stay so long ? why leave me lone, In the deep valley, to the cold gray stone Pouring my plaints? O come, divinest fair! Chase from my breast the demon of despair. The winds are witness to my deep distress, Like the lone wanderer of the wilderness, Fc r thee I languish and for thee I sigh — My Eva, come, or thy poor swain shall die ! And didst thou hear my melancholy lay ? And art thou coming, love ? My Eva ! say ? BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 81 Thou daughter of a meek-eyed dame, thy face Is lovelier than thy mother’s, in soft grace. O yes ! thou comest, Eva ! to my sight An angel minister of heavenly light : — The sons of frozen climes can never see Summer’s bright smile so glad as I see thee : Thy steps to me are lovelier than the ray That roses night’s cheek with the blush of day. LOVE’S LONGINGS. BY THOMAS DAVIS, M.R.I.A. To the conqueror his crowning, First freedom to the slave, And air unto the drowning, Sunk in the ocean’s wave — And succour to the faithful, Who fight their flag above, Are sweet, but far less grateful Than were my lady’s love. I know I am not worthy Of one so young and bright ; And yet I would do for thee Far more than others might ; I cannot give you pomp or gold, If you should be my wife, But I can give you love untold, And true in death or life. Methinks that there are passions Within that heaving breast To scorn their heartless fashions, And wed whom you love best. Methinks you would be prouder As the struggling patriot’s bride, Than if rank your home should crowd, or Cold riches round you glide. Oh ! the watcher longs for morning, And the infant cries for light, 82 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. And the saint for heaven’s warning, And the vanquished pray for might ; But their prayer, when lowest kneeling, * And their suppliance most true, Are cold to the appealing Of this longing heart to you. THE PATRIOT’S BRIDE. BY CHARLES GAYAN DUFFY, M.P. Oh ! give me back that royal dream My fancy wrought, When I have seen your sunny eyes G-row moist with thought ; And fondly hop’d, dear Love, your heart from mine Its spell had caught ; And laid me down to dream that dream divine, But true, methought, Of how my life’s long task would be, to make yours blessed as it ought. To learn to love sweet Nature more For your sweet sake, To watch with you — dear friend, with you ! — Its wonders break ; The sparkling Spring in that bright face to see Its mirror make — On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing By linn and lake ; And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a grander music wake ! On some old shell-strewn rock to sit In Autumn eves, Where gray Killiney cools the torrid air Hot autumn weaves ; Or by that Holy Well in mountain lone, Where Faith believes (Fain would I b’lieve) its secret, darling, wish True love achieves. Yet, oh! its Saint was not more pure than she to whom my fond heart cleaves. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 33 To see the dank mid-winter night Pass like a noon, Sultry with thought from minds that teemed. And glowed like June : Whereto would pass in sculp’d and pictured train Art’s magic boon ; And Music thrill with many a haughty strain, And dear old tune, Till hearts grew sad to hear the destined hour to part had come so soon. To wake the old weird world that sleeps In Irish lore ; The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung By Mulla’s shore ; Dear Curran’s airy thoughts, like purple birds That shine and soar ; Tone’s fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows That Grattan swore ; The songs that once our own dear Davis sung — ah, me ! to sing no more. To search with mother-love the gifts Our land can boast — Soft Erna’s isles, Neagh’s wooded slopes, Clare’s iron coast ; Kildare, whose legends gray our bosoms stir With fay and ghost ; Gray Mourne, green Antrim, purple Glenmalur — Lene’s fairy host ; With raids to many a foreign land to learn to love dear Ireland most. And all those proud old victor-fields We thrill to name ; Whose mem’ries are the stars that light Long nights of shame ; The Caim, the Dun, the Rath, the Tower, the Keep, That still proclaim In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep Was Eire’s fame. Oh l we shall see them all, with her, that dear, dear friend we two have lov’d the same n. c 34 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Yet ah ! how truer, tend’rer still Methought did seem That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home, By Dodder’s stream ; The morning smile, that grew a fixed star With love-lit beam, The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far And shining stream Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a dream. For still to me, dear Friend, dear Love, Or both — dear Wife, Your image comes with serious thoughts, But tender, rife ; No idle plaything to caress or chide In sport or strife ; But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, To walk through life, Link’d hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true husband and true wife. CONNOR, THE FISHERMAN. My Connor is a fisher bold — he likes the life so free — The roaring of the wintry winds — the lashing of the sea ; His home is on the noisy waves, and once I am his bride, Oh ! trust me, I’ll be bold enough to tempt them by his side. My Connor hath a fairy bark on summer seas to skim ; He tells me in the summer time that I shall sail with him. He thinks I have a coward heart, as if one need be brave To dare the tempest any night, and Connor there to save. My Connor hath a warrior’s soul, but, in this age of slaves, Perhaps he finds his fittest life in warring with the waves ; And never blew the tempest yet that Connor’s spirit bowed ; His eye would meet the lightning’s flash, as kingly and as proud. My Connor hath a tender heart, for all his stormy life ; There never breaks a word from him of sullenness or strife ; His war is with the braggart waves, and once I am his bride, Oh ! trust me, I’ll be bold enough to tempt them by his side ! Ma&y. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 35 LOVE-DREAMS. I dreamed that my love was a milk-white doe, That ranged the forest wide ; And I was a dappled mountain roe, That bounded by her side ; Our home was the wild wood’s lonely glade, Where hunters there were none ; We danced on the harebell, and couched in the shade, And we loved and lived alone. I dreamed that my love was a beautiful bird, And I her tuneful mate ; And the live-long day my song was heard, So wild, so passionate. And still when winter deformed the time, We bent our course o’er the sea ; And we built our nest in a lovelier clime, ’Mid the blooms of the orange tree. I dreamed that my love was the fairy Queen, And I an Elfin knight, That mixed with her train, when she danced on the green Beneath the mild moonlight.. And, oh ! it was merry in Fairy-land, — There’s nothing on earth so sweet, As the music, and mirth, of the spirit band, And the twinkling of fairy feet. AILLEEN. BY JOHN BANIM. [John Banira, author of “Tales of the O’Hara Family,” was bom in the city of Kilkenny, and received his education in its college. About 1813 he came to Dublin to study painting under an able master, but manifesting no strong desire for the profession of an artist, he returned to his native city, where he became a Drawing-Master. He did not long bear the fatigue and drudgery of this calling, for he soon had recourse to literature as his chosen profession. As a Novelist, his character stands deservedly very high; second indeed to no one. The records of departed genius truly show, that the track sf gifted individuals is like that of a meteor. — brilliant to excess, but equally 36 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. transient. His burning love of religion and country was traced by him in let- ters of fire, and his indignant sincerity gave him a power, which few possessed before him. his temperament was sensitive and gloomy; hence he depicted the darker passions and more sullen traits of the character of his countrymen. His novels are strong, and full of fire; replete with powerful and striking imagery, both mora. and physical, — equally indicative of tenderness and strength. His ba~aas are very national, — full of natural feeling, and of true fidelity to Irish cnaracter. He returned to Dublin, after the burial of his only son in Paris, quite orojren-hearted. Death soon placed him beyond the reach of this world’s svmnathy, after having attained the high honour of being Ireland’s greatest novelist ] ’Tis not for love of gold I go, ’Tis not for love of fame ; Tho’ fortune should her smile bestow, And I may win a name, Ailleen, And I may win a name. And yet it is for gold I go, And yet it is for fame, That they may deck another brow, And bless another name, Ailleen, And bless another name. For this, but this, I go — for this I lose thy love awhile; • And all the soft and quiet bliss Of thy young, faithful smile, Ailleen, Of thy young, faithful smile. And I go to brave a world I hatq And woo it o’er and o’er, And tempt a wave, and try a fate Upon a stranger shore, Ailleen, Upon a stranger shore. Oh ! when the bays are all my own, I know a heart will care ! Oh ! when the gold is wooed and won, I know a brow shall wear, Ailleen. I know a brow shall wear I BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS* 37 And when with both returned again, My native land to see, I know a smile will meet me there, And a hand will welcome me, Ailleen, And a hand will welcome me 1 A WOOING. BY M. MAC DERMOTT. Oh ! when I think of you , dear, At once my voice becomes a song ! Your eyes, so deeply blue, dear, The clustering curls that richly throng, Revealing — concealing — The sweetest charms of hue and form, Your face’s soft graces — The eyes that awe and lips that warm My thoughts to love’s heat new, dear, Expand, gush o’er, and sweep along= — And, as I think of you, dear, At once my voice becomes a song ! I’ve listened with devotion To many a sweet old Irish air — But deeper my emotion While gazing on your face so fair — Like moonlight, at lone night, That music falls — each timid ray, Gloom fringed and tinged — But you are like the light of day Through Heaven’s sunny blue, dear, That falls so wide, endures so long — Lark-like ! — awaked by you, dear, At once my voice becomes a song Ambition’s fire may heat us— But, ah ! the flame, while heating, soars $ And patriot-love, though sweet, is. Like flowers, nourished half on tears l 38 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. The Brave dies, and Death buys The freedom won in thundering fight ; And faint woe and graves strow The long, long way from Wrong to Right, I ask of heaven but you, dear — Pure joys to love, alone, belong — And heaven is kind to woo, dear, At once my voice becomes a song ! Oh, have me ! and I’ll give you A heart, with all its errors, true : PH love you and believe you, And you will smile on all I do 1 Yes ! you’ll cheer my home here, And I’ll strive for you abroad ; By day, toils — by night, smiles, And mutual tears and prayer to God f So fadeless flowers will strew, dear, The humble path we pass along ; And life to me and you, dear, Will be one high, harmonious song. OH! THE MARRIAGE. BY THOMAS DAVIS, M.K.I.A. Oh ! the marriage, the marriage, With love and mo buachail for me, The ladies that ride in a carriage Might envy my marriage to me ; For Owen is straight as a tower, And tender and loving and true, He told me more love in an hour Than the Squires of the county could do. Then, Oh ! the marriage, ckc. His hair is a shower of soft gold, His eye is as clear as the day, His conscience and vote were unsold When others were carried away • BaLLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 39 His word is as good as an oath, And freely ’twas given to me ; Oh ! sure ’twill be happy for both The day of our marriage to see. Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. His kinsmen are honest and kind, The neighbours think much of his skill, And Owen’s the lad to my mind, Though he owns neither castle nor mill. But he has a tilloch of land, A horse, and a stocking of coin, A foot for the dance, and a hand In the cause of his country to join. Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. We meet in the market and fair — We meet in the morning and night — He sits on the half of my chair, And my people are wild wjth delight. Yet I long through the winter to skim, Though Owen longs more I can see, When I will be married to him, And he will be married to me. Then, Oh ! the marriage, the marriage, With love and mo buachail for me, The ladies that ride in a carriage Might envy my marriage to me. SWEET SYBIL. BY CHARLES GAYIN DUFFY, M.P. My Love is as fresh as the morning sky, My Love is as soft as the summer air, My Love is as true as the Saints on high, And never was saint so fair ! Oh, glad is my heart when I name her name, For it sounds like a song to me — I’ll love you, it sings, nor heed their blame, For you love me Astor Machree I 40 13ALLAUS OB 1 THE AFFECTIONS. Sweet Sybil ! sweet Sybil ! my heart is wild With the fairy spell that her eyes have lit ; I sit in a dream where my Love has smil’d — I kiss where her name is writ ! Oh, darling, I fly like a dreamy boy ; The toil that is joy to the strong and true, The life that the brave for their land employ I squander in dreams of you. The face of my Love has the changeful light That gladdens the sparkling sky of spring ; The voice of my Love is a strange delight, As when birds in the May-time sing. Oh, hope of my heart ! oh, light of my life ! Oh, come to me, darling, with peace and rest ! Oh, come like the Summer, my own sweet wife, To your home in my longing breast ! Be blessed with the home sweet Sybil will sway With the glance of her soft and queenly eyes ; Oh ! happy the love young Sybil will pay With the breath of her tender sighs. That home is the hope of my waking dreams— That love fills my eyes with pride — There’s light in them glance, there’s joy in their beam When I think of my own young bride. MY OWN. (FROM THE IRISH.) BY EVA. (MISS MARY EVA KELLY.) By the strange beating of my heart, Finding no place for all its joy — By those soft tears that wet my cheek, Like dews from Summer sky — By this wild rush through every vein — This chok’d and trembling tone, Surcharg’d with bliss it cannot tell — T feel thou art my own. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. And yet it cannot all be true, I’ve dream’d a thousand wilder dreams ; But this is brighter, wilder far, Than even the wildest seems. I’ve dream’d of wonders, spirit-climes, Of glories and of blisses won ; But ne’er before did vision come, To say thou wert my own! My own ! my own ! thus gazing on, My life-breath seems to ebb away ; And o’er and o’er, and still again, The same dear words I say ! I know — I know it must be true, And here, with Heaven and Love alone, I hold thee next my heart of hearts, For thou art all my own ! THE MAN OF THE NORTH COUNTRIE BY T. D. M*GEE. He came from the North, and his words were few, But his voice was kind and his heart was true And I knew by his eyes no guile had he, So I married the man of the North Countrie. Oh ! Garryowen may be more gay, Than this quiet street of Ballibay ; And I know the sun shines softly down On the river that passes my native town. Bat there’s not — I say it with joy and pride — Better man than mine in Munster wide ; And Limerick Town has no happier hearth Than mine has been with my Man of the North. I wish that in Munster they only knew The kind, kind neighbours I came unto : Small hate or scorn would ever be Between the South and the North Countrie. 42 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. MY OWEN. ANON. (MARY.) Proud of you, fond of you, clinging so near to you, Light is my heart now I know I am dear to you ! Glad is my voice now, so free it may sing for you All the wild love which is burning within for you 1 fell me once more, tell it over and over, The tale of that eve which first saw you my lover. Now I need never blush At my heart’s hottest gush — The wife of my Owen her heart may discover ! Proud of you, fond of you, having all right in you, Quitting all else through my love and delight in you ! Glad is my heart since ’tis beating so nigh to you ! Light is my step for it always may fly to you ! Clasped in your arms where no sorrow can reach to me, Reading your eyes till new love they shall teach to me. ' Though wild and weak till now, By that blest marriage vow, More than the wisest know your heart shall preach to me NANNY. BY FRANCIS DAVIS On ! for an hour when the day is breaking Down by the shore, when the tide is making ! Fair as a white cloud, thou, love, near me, None but the waves and thyself to hear me : Oh, to my breast how these arms would press thee ; Wildly my heart in its joy would bless thee ; Oh, how the soul thou hast won would woo thee, Girl of the snow-neck ! closer to me. Oh for an hour as the day advances, (Out where the breeze on the broom-bush dances,) Watching the lark, with the sun-ray o’er us, Winging the notes of his heaven-taught chorus ! BALLADS OF 1HK AFFECTIONS. 43 Oh, to be there, and my love before me, Soft as a moonbeam smiling o’er me ; Thou wouldst but love, and I would woo thee : Girl of the dark eye ! closer to me. Oh for an hour wheie the sun first found us, (Out in the eve with its red sheets round us,) -Brushing the dew from the gale’s soft winglets, Pearly and sweet with thy long dark ringlets ; Oh, to be there on the sward beside thee, Telling my tale though I know you’d chide me ; Sweet were thy voice though it should undo me— Girl of the dark locks I closer to me. Oh for an hour by night or by day, love, Just as the heavens and thou might say, love ; Far from the stare of the cold-eyed many, Bound in the breath of my dove-souled Nanny ! Oh for the pure chains that have bound me, Warm from thy red lips circling round me I Oh, in my soul, as the light above me, Queen of the pure hearts, do I love thee ! MY NIAL BAWN. BY EVA. (MISS MAKY EVA KELLY.) He has no gold but the gold that shines In those bright clustering tresses ; There’s neither rank nor power for him Whom this fond heart wildly blesses ; But, oh I there’s truth, and power, and love For my Nial’s kingly dower ; And never was king so idolized In the day of his highest power. To have no hope in the wide, wide world But all that’s round him clinging — There is neither life nor joy for me, Unless from his fondness springing. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS* 44 : I never think of pain or woe, For life can bring no trial, Which angels e’en could guard me thro’ More tenderly than Nial. His soul is soft as a morn of May* But strong as the deep, dark ocean— With passions wild as the storm and flame, For deeds of a high devotion. Oh, fierce and brave is my own dear love, The wrong and the foe defying ; But his voice is low and sweet to me As winds in the spring-time sighing. Bright blessings fall on my Nial Bawn ! I know his love outpouring ; And there’s no joy on earth for me Like the joy of thus adoring. Ob ! iry heart has love — such deep, deep love ! To fall in soft, refreshing showers, That all around will look bright and green Thro’ our life’s long golden hours ! SEBASTIAN CABOT TO HIS LADY. BY T. D. M‘GEE. Dear, my Lady, you will understand By these presents coming to your hand, Written in the Hyperborean seas, (Where my love for you doth never freeze,) Underneath a sky obscured with light, Albeit called of mariners the night, That my thoughts are not of lands unknown, Or buried gold beneath the southern zone, But of a treasure dearer far to me, In a far isle of the sail-shadowed sea. I asked the Sun but lately as he set, If my dear 1 ut little he heeded, for Florence well knew That never a heart beat more loving and true. And once, when my sister just bid me good night, And spoke of his beauty so gladdening and bright, 1 thought — there’s a dearer than all yon have said — ’Xis the love in his heart for his poor Irish maid. For, though Florence is courtly to win and to please, And gay as the skylark, and kind as the breeze, Alas ! for my weak thoughts, most fondly they twine Round the frank, loving heart that is plighted to mine. Mary. THE LAST REPROACH. BY J. C. MANGAN. The charm, the gilded life is over, I live to feel I live in vain, And worlds were worthless to recover That dazzling dream of mine again. The idol I adored is broken, And I may weep its overthrow ; Thy lips at length my doom have spoken, And all that now remains is woe. And is it thus indeed w T e sever, And hast thou then forgotten all ; And canst thou cast me off for ever, To mourn a dark and hopeless thrall ? Oh ! perfidy, in friend or foe, In stranger, lover husband, wife ; Thou art the blackest drop of woe That bubbles in the cup of life. But most of all in woman’s breast, Triumphant in thy blasting power, 90 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Thou reignest, like a Demon-guest, Enthroned in some celestial bower, Oh ! cold and cruel she who, while She lavishes all wiles to win Her lover o’er, can smile and smile, Yet be all dark and false within ! Who, when his glances on another Too idly and too long have dwelt, Will sigh, as if she sought to smother The grief her bosom never felt. Who, versed in every witching art That e’er the warmest love would dare, First having gained her victim’s heart, Then turns him over to despair. Alas ! and can such treachery be ? The worm that winds in slime along, Is nobler, better far than she Who revels in such heartless wrong! Go now, and triumph in thy guilt, And weave thy wanton spells anew; Go, false as fair, and if thou wilt, Again betray the fond and true. Yet this, my last and long farewell, Is less in anger than in sorrow ; Mine is the tale which myriads tell, Who loathe to-day and dread to-morrow. Me, Frances ! me thou never knewest Nor sawest that, if my speech was cold, The love is deepest oft and truest, That burns within the soul untold. Farewell ! in life’s gay giddy whirl Soon wilt thou have forgotten me ; But where, oh ! most dissembling girl, Where shall I from thine image flee ? Farewell ! for thee the Heavens are bright, And flowers along thy pathway lie ; The bolts that strike, the winds that blight, Will pass thy bower of beauty by. BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 91 But where shall I find rest ? Alas ! Soon as the winter winds shall rave At midnight, through the long, dark grass, Above mine unremembered grave l THE CLADDAGH BOATMAN. I am a Claddagh boatman bold, And humble is my calling, From morn to night, from dark to light, In Galway bay I’m trawling ; I care not for the great man’s frown, I ask not for his pity, My wants are few, my heart is true, I sing a boatman’s ditty. I have a fair and gentle wife, Her name is Eily Holway ; With many a wile, and joke, and smile, I won the pride of Galway ; For twenty years, ’mid hopes and fears, With her I’ve faithful tarried ; Her heart to-night is young and light, As when we first were married. I have a son, a gallant boy, Unstained by spot or speckle ; He pulls and hawls, and mends the trawls, And minds the other tackle ; His mother says the boy, like me, Loves truth, and hates all blarney — The neighbours swear in Galway bay There’s not the like of Barney. Thank God, I have another child, Like Eily, lithe and slender ; She clasps my knee and kisses me With love so true and tender ; Though oft will rage the howling blast Upon the angry water, I ne’er complain of wind or rain, For I think of my little daughter 92 BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. When Sunday brings the hour of rest. That sweet reward of labours, We cross the fields to early Mass And walk home with the neighbours. Oh ! would the rest of Erin’s sons Were but like us united; I’m loathe to swear, but by my oath, Her name should not be slighted. THE WELCOME. BY THOMAS DAYIS, M.R.I.A. Come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you’re looked for, or come without warning ; Kisses and welcome you’ll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I’U adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plightea, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, “ true lovers ! don’t sever.” I’ll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them ; Or, after you’ve kissed them, they’ll lie on my bosom. I’ll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you ; I’ll fetch from my fancy a tale that won’t tire you. Oh 1 your step’s like the rain to the summer-vex’d farmer, Or saore and shield to a knight without armour ; I’ll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I’ll wish you, in silence, to love me. We’ll look through the trees at the cliff, and the eyrie. W e’ll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy f We’ll look on the stars, and we’ll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. Oh ! she’ll whisper you, “ Love as unchangeably beaming, And trust, when in secret most tunefully streaming, Till the starlight of 1 leaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity’s river.” BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 93 So come in the evening or come in the morning, Come when you’re look’d for, or come without warning, Kisses and welcome you’ll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I’ll adore you ! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, “ true lovers, don’t sever ! ” SIR TURLOUGH, OR THE CHURCHYARD BRIDE. BY WILLIAM CARLETON, Author of “ Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry,” &c. [In the churchyard of Erigle Truagh, in the barony of Truagh, county Monaghan, there is said to he a Spirit which appears to persons whose families are there interred. Its appearance, which is generally made in the following manner, is uniformly fatal, being an omen of death to those who are so un- happy as to meet with it. When a funeral takes place, it watches the person who remains last in the graveyard, over whom it possesses a fascinating influ- ence. If the loiterer be a young man, it takes the shape of a beautiful female, inspires him with a charmed passion, and exacts a promise to meet in the churchyard on a month from that day ; this promise is sealed by a kiss, which communicates a deadly taint to the individual who receives it. It then disap- pears, and no sooner does the young man quit the churchyard, than he remem- bers the history of the spectre — which is well known in the parish — sinks into despair, dies, and is buried in the place of appointment on the day when the promise was to have been fulfilled. If, on the contrary, it appears to a female, it assumes the form of a young man of exceeding elegance and beauty. Some years ago I was shown the grave of a young person about eighteen years of age, who was said to have fallen a victim to it : and it is not more than ten months since a man in the same parish declared that he gave the promise and the fatal kiss, and consequently looked upon himself as lost. He took a fever, died, and was buried on the day appointed for the meeting, which was exactly a month from that of the interview. There are several cases of the same kind men- tioned, but the two now alluded to are the only ones that came within my per- sonal knowledge. It appears, however, that the spectre does not confine its operations to tne churchyard, as there have been instances mentioned of its appearance at weddings and dances, where it never failed to secure its victims by dancing them into jpleuretic fevers. I am unable to say whether this is a strictly local superstition, or whether it is considered peculiar to other church- yards in Ireland, or elsewhere. In its female shape it somewhat resembles the FAIRY BALLADS. 95 Elle maids of Scandinavia ; but I am acquainted with no account of fairies or apparitions in which the sex is said to be changed, except in that of the devH himself. The country people say it is Death.] The bride she bound her golden hair — Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! And her step was light as the breezy air When it bends the morning flowers so fair, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And oh, but her eyes they danc’d so bright, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! As she longed for the dawn of to-morrow’s light, Her bridal vows of love to plight, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The bridegroom is come with youthful brow, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! To receive from his Eva her virgin vow; “ Why tarries the bride of my bosom now?” By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. A cry ! a cry ! — ’twas her maidens spoke, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! “ Your bride is asleep— she has not awoke ; And the sleep she sleeps will be never broke,” By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And his cheek became like the marble stone — “ Oh, the pulse of my heart is for ever gone 1” By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The keen* is loud, it comes again, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy! And rises sad from the funeral train, As in sorrow it winds along the plain, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. * The Irish cry, or wailing for the dead ; properly written Caoine , and pro- nounced as if written keen. Speaking of this practice, which still prevails in many parts of Ireland, the Rev. A. Ross, rector of Dungiven, in his statistical survey of that parish, observes that “ however it may offend the judgment or 3hock our present refinement, its affecting cadences will continue to find admir- ers wherever what is truly sad and plaintive can be relished or understood.” 96 FAIRY BALLADS. And oh, but the piumes of white were fair, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! When they flutter’d all mournful in the air, As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer,* By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. There is a voice that but one can hear, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And it softly pours, from behind the bier, Its note of death on Sir Turlough’s ear, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The keen is loud, but that voice is low, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! And it sings its song of sorrow slow, And names young Turlough’s name with woe, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! It is also thus noticed in the “ Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry:” — M 1 have often, indeed always, felt that there is something exceedingly touching in the Irish cry ; in fact, that it breathes the very spirit of wild and natural sor- row. The Irish peasantry, whenever a death takes place, are exceedingly happy in seizing upon any contingent circumstances that may occur, and mak- ing them subservient to the excitement of grief for the departed, or the exalta- tion and praise of his character and virtues. My entrance was a proof of this ; for I had scarcely advanced to the middle of the floor, when my intimacy with the deceased, our boyish sports, and even our quarrels, were adverted to with a natural eloquence and pathos, that, in spite of my firmness, occasioned me to feel the prevailing sorrow. They spoke, or chaunted mournfully, in Irish : but the substance of what they said was as follows : — ‘ Oh, mavourneen ! you’re lying low this mornin’ of sorrow ! lying low are you, and does not know who it is (alluding to me) that is standin’ over you, weepin* for the days you spent to- gether in your youth ! It’s yourself, acushla agus asthore machree , (tne pulse and beloved of my heart) that would stretch out the right hand warmly to welcome him to the place of his birth, where you had both been so often happy about the green hills and valleys with each other ! ’ They then passed on ta an enumeration of his virtues as a father, a husband, son, and brother — speci- fied his worth as he stood related to society in general, and his kindness as neighbour and a friend.” * It is usual in the North of Ireland to celebrate mass for the dead in some f "een field between the house in which the deceased lived and the grave-yard. or this the shelter of a grove is usually selected, and the appearance of th« ceremony is highly picturesque and solemn- FAIRY BALLADS. 97 And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed, The fairest corpse among the dead * By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The wreaths of virgin- white are laid, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! By virgin hands, o’er the spotless maid ; And the flowers are strewn, but they soon will fade By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. “ Oh ! go not yet — not yet away, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! Let us feel that life is near our clay,” The long-departed seem to say, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. But the tramp and the voices of life are gone, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And beneath each cold forgotten stone, The mouldering dead sleep all alone, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. But who is he who lingereth yet ? Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! The fresh green sod with his tears is wet, And his heart in the bridal grave is set, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Oh, who but Sir Turlough, the young and brave, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Should bend him o’er that bridal grave, And to his death-bound Eva rave, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. “ Weep not — weep not,” said a lady fair, Killeevy, O Killeevy 1 “ Should youth and valour thus despair, And pour their vows to the empty air?” By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. • Another expression peculiarly Irish, “ What a purty corpse ! ” — “ How well she becomes death ! ” “You wouldn’t meet a purtier corpse of a summer’s day!” “ She bears the change well ! ” are all phrases quite common in cases of death among the peasantry. II. G 98 PAIRY BALLADS. There’s charmed music upon her tongue, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! Such beauty — bright, and warm, and young- Was never seen the maids among, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. A laughing light, a tender grace, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! Sparkled in beauty around her face, That grief from mortal heart might chase, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The maid for whom thy salt tears fall, Killeevy, O Killeevy 1 Thy grief or love can ne’er recall ; She rests beneath that grassy pall, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy My heart it strangely cleaves to thee, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And now that thy plighted love is free, Give its unbroken pledge to me, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.” The charm is strong upon Turlough’s eye, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! His faithless tears are already dry, And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy “ To thee,” the charmed chief replied, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! “ I pledge that love o’er my buried bride ; Oh ! come, and in Turlough’s hall abide,” By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Again the funeral voice came o’er Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! The passing breeze, as it wailed before, And streams of mournful music bore, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. FAIRY BALLADS. 99 “ If I to thy youthful heart am dear, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! One month from hence thou wilt meet me here* Where lay thy bridal, Eva’s bier,” By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. He pressed her lips as the words were spoken, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! And his banshee's * wail — now far and broken — Murmured “ Death,” as he gave the token, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy ; u Adieu ! adieu ! ” said this lady bright, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! And she slowly passed like a thing of light, Or a morning cloud, from Sir Turlough’s sight, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Now Sir Turlough has death in every vein, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And there’s fear and grief o’er his wide domain. And gold for those who will calm his brain, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. “ Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagha’s pride, Has pledged his love to the churchyard bride,” By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The leech groaned loud, “ Come tell me this Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! By all thy hopes of weal and bliss, Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss ? ” By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy • 44 Woman of the hill.” — Treating of the superstitions of the Irisn, Mm Balfour says, 44 What rank the banshee holds in the scale of spiritual beings, it is not easy to determine ; but her favourite occupation seems to be that of foretelling the death of the different branches of the families over which she presided, by the most plaintive cries. Every family had formerly its banshee, but the belief in her existence is now fast fading away, and in a few more years she will only be remembered in the storied records of her marvellous doings in dAvs long since gone by.” 100 FAIRY BALLADS. “ The banshee’s cry is loud and long, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! At eve she weeps her funeral song, And it floats on the twilight breeze along,” By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 11 Then the fatal kiss is given ; — the last Killeevy, O Killeevy I Of Turlough’s race and name is past, His doom As seal’d, his die is cast,” By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " Leech, say not that thy skill is vain ; Killeevy, O Killeevy 1 Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain, And half his lands thou shalt retain,” By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The leech has failed, and the hoary priest Killeevy, O Killeevy ! With pious shrift his soul released, And the smoke is high of his funeral feast, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The shanachies now are assembled all, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! And the songs of praise, in Sir Turlough’s hall, To the sorrowing harp’s dark music fall, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And there is trophy, banner, and plume, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy ! And the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom, O’ershadows the Irish chieftain’s tomb, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The month is clos’d, and Green Truagha’s pride, Killeevy, 0 Killeevy 1 Is married to death — and, side by side, He slumbers now with his churchyard bride, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. FAIRY BALLADS. 101 THE FAIRY WELL. Forth from a sparkling well A little stream went bubbling, But there was some sad spell, Its bosom ever troubling ; When through the balmy air No faint breeze had been sighing, A low moan was heard there, As of an infant dying. The ripples on its breast Were ever in commotion, And found as rarely rest As billows on the ocean. But when the first star shone From the blue sky at even, That gently plaintive moan Ascended thence to Heaven. Music so soft and sweet, So mournfully thrilling, As was this calm retreat With notes of sorrow filling — How could it be of earth, Or share in earthly gladness, When even its seeming mirth Partook so much of sadness ? Each evening near that well A female form was sitting, Whose beauty did excel The fairies round her flitting. She came to breathe her tale Of love and bitter sorrow, And from the stars so pale Some rays of hope to borrow. The lov’d one of her heart, Inspired by noble duty, From her was forced to part In her glad hour of beauty * 102 FAIRY BALLADS* And fell he in the field, Victorious although gory, His life his country’s shield, His death his country’s glory. The Spirit of that well Oft viewed the grief-struck maiden, Whose breast with care did swell, Whose heart with grief was laden ; And while a tear would stray From her soft eyes in pity, To her at close of day She sang this plaintive ditty. " Why, fair one of the earth, Why mournest thou so wildly, When in their happy mirth, The bright stars shine so mildly ; And even the silken flowers Are slumbering and sleeping Around thy garden bowers, Whilst thou, alas ! art weeping ? Cease, cease, those bitter sighs, Be not so heavy-hearted, Thy love to yon clear skies Before thee has departed ; And should he now look down, And see his lov’d one fading, What tears his cheek would drown, What grief his brow be shading ! Lo ! as yon silvery star May soon in storms be shrouded, And its soft rays afar To us be overclouded. Even so, thy heart’s despair Would dim his dazzling brightness. And shade with clouds of care His robe of snowy whiteness.” Died on the maiden’s ear The song of the kind fairy? FAIRY BALLADS. 103 Then ceased the gushing tear, Then grew her heart less weary For parting here, she knew, Leads to a future meeting, Where all the good and true Enjoy an endless greeting. And oft she came again To thank the Well’s fair daughter, For that consoling strain In which such truths she taught her , But on the streamlet flow’d In mild and peaceful gladness — Her beautiful abode Who changed to joy such sadness. And thus, when all is pain Above, beneath, around us, And sorrow’s crushing chain With iron link hath bound us ; Let us, no longer bowed To earth with hopeless sorrow, See, through the darkest cloud, Rays of a joyous morrow. HY-BRASAIL — THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. BY GERALD GRIFFIN. S -from the Isles of Aran and the west continent, often appears visible that anted island called O’Brasil, and in Irish Beg-ara, or the Lesser Aran, set aown in cards of navigation. Whether it be reall and firm land, kept hidden ay speciall ordinance of God, as the terrestriall paradise, or else some illusion of airy cloud 3 appearing on the surface of the sea, or the craft of evill spirits, is more than our judgments can sound out. There is, westward of Aran, a wild usland of huge rocks, (Skira Rocks) the receptacle of a deale of seales thereon yearly slaughtered. These rocks sometimes appear to be a great city far off, full of houses, castles, towers, and chimneys ; sometimes full of blazing flames, smoak, and people running to and fro. Another day you would see nothing but a number of ships, with their sailes and riggings ; then so many great stakes or reekes of corn and turf ; and this not only on fair sun-shining dayes, whereby it might ha thought the reflection of the sun-beamse, on the vapours 104 FAIRY BALLADS. arising about it, had been the cause, but alsoe on dark and cloudy days,— O' Flaherty's West Connaught, hnsh Archaeological Society's Publications , page 68.] On tlie ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell ; Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, And they called it Hy-Brasail , the isle of the blest ; From year unto year, on the ocean’s blue run, 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 wholieard 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 shore — 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 shore Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before ; Lone evening came down on the wanderer’s track, And to Ara again he looked timidly back ; Oh ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, Yet the i*le 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. Rash 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 revisited Ara again ! Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, And be died on the waters, away, far away ! FAIRY BALLADS. 105 THE CLURICAUNE. BY J. L. FORREST. [The superstition respecting the Cluricaune is rather a sbu;ular one. In ppearance he is said to resemble a very diminutive and antiquated Frenchman. His occupation is evidently that of “the gentle craft,” as, when met with, he is invariably employed in making or repairing shoes. The idea current amongst the peasantry is that these fairies are well acquainted with the hiding-places of the vast treasures which are said to have been long since buried by our ances- tors, and that if one can come stealthily upon and grasp one of the creatures, keeping the eye steadily fixed upon him, he will, to obtain his freedom, point out the hidden gold. Care, however, must be taken not to withdraw the eye from Mu, not even for a moment, or the result will be that the creature will vanish. To effect his escape he will use every means to distract the attention of his captors, and will be profuse of promises, blandishments, and compli- ments, and employ every stratagem that wit and cunning can devise. Tht capture of one of the species, and its results, the following legend details :] INTRODUCTION. Oh ! I could linger out a summer day Beneath thy groves, sweet Blarney ; — by thy lake, * Thy meads, thy streams, and every flowery brake, For hours delighted, I could gladly stray, And breathe the fragrance ofwthe perfumed air. Wild flowers begem each wooded, shaded way, And modestly their trembling petals rear ; To me than rich exotics far more fan*, And graceful-like. Ye seek the sunlight’s ray In bashfulness, from tangled briars peeping, Or timidly amidst the long grass creeping, But always winning in the garb ye wear. Children of Nature, fitly do ye play Beneath the ivied walls of yon old ruin gray 1 Relic of time ! his heavy hand hath leant Too hardly on thee ; yet withal thou hast Around thee still fine traces of the Past, The glorious Past in every lineament. Type of my country ! — strength and ruin blent — Thou standest forth, amid the thunder shower, A Thing of grandeur. Storm on storm hath spent Its rage upon thee, yet round yon old tower The ivy twines its tendrils through each rent. Thus, Erin, thou, ’mid Desolation’s blast, 106 FAIRY BALLADS* ’Mid crushing storms, and blighted hopes dost wear Perennial green ! Unlike yon mouldering pile Thy day of glory dawns, when thou shalt bear A form of life, and bask in Freedom’s blessed smile O’er the mountain heights declining, the sun is softly shining, His golden rays entwining with the heather and the trees ; And tower and cot are glowing in the smile of his bestowing, And, where the water’s flowing in mimic rippling seas. Grace and Beauty seem as wafted on the breeze, As it sighs, softly sighs while it flees. The beauteous star of Even is smiling in its heaven, Alone and silent weaving the anthem of its praise, As though to man the story ’twould tell of all the glory, Which shall be when no more he basks on earth beneath its rays, And would guide him, gently guide him, by its blaze. To a glorious home beyond his gaze. There’s a magic and a power in that quiet, placid hour, When the shades of evening lower over hill and verdant lea, And the rich and russet meadow grows browner in its shadow, While the heart becomes more sad — Oh ! that happy time for mef Mine Ida, by thy side at that silent hour I’d be, Breathing love in whispers unto thee 1 Then in thought, it is most pleasant to wander from the present, To where beauties evanescent light the pages of the past, And as in thought we wander, to pause upon and ponder, In a sort of dreamy wonder, overjoys too bright to last — Over fields of Promise scathed by Adversity’s fierce blast — Thought 1 what a world in thy womb thou hast’ Oh ! there, to gloomy mortal, thou openest wide thy portal, And persuasive dost exhort all to kneel before thy shrine. Great and glorious are the treasures, very placid are the pleasures, Which thy mighty spirit measures from its deep and diamond mine— Vast and varied are the jewels which there m splendour shine— O my Spirit, mav those gems be thine FAIRY BALLADS L 07 And when the streams are welling from that fount, 0 thought, thy dwelling, With Joy and thee revelling, my spirit lives in light, And on wings of pleasure soaring, o’er Nature’s volume poring, My heart is found adoring the Beautiful and Bright ; And my soul is filled with rapture at the sight Of the glories of the day and the night. The sun in all his brightness, the clouds in fleecy whiteness That float in airy lightness in the azure of the sky — The purple hills eternal, the trees and meadows vernal, The bright-winged stars that burn all in yonder dome on high, The flowers that give their fragrance to the south wind’s gentle sigh, Have a grace and a charm for the eye. And the heart, that owns their power, hath a princedom for its dower ; For it, fresh beauties flower in sweet perennial pride : Through its throbbing pulses flowing pours the flood of Love’s bestowing, And that heart is ever glowing with its bright, translucent tide — In that region Love and Friendship wander sweetly side by side, Like a bridegroom with his bride. When the stars are sweetly lighting their brilliant lamps, and bright in Yon cloudless arch they’re writing, a language clear and plain ; When the cascade’s rushing water calls to Echo’s lonely daughter, And the notes which Nature taught her are wafted back again, Oh the thoughtful heart is filled with a holy music then, And in melody gives back the strain ! On Mary’s heart descending fell such varied music blending. While her joyous footsteps wending, she wandered by the lake, Whose placid waters sleeping, through that guiding grove were creeping, WLose branches seemed as weeping their thirsting leaves to slake And the thorny twisted briars of that brake Seem’d to open for her sake. As walks the moon in brightness so walks Mary in her lightness As a snow-cloud in its whiteness is her bosom round and white. As a swan in beauty sliding, the placid lake dividing, 108 FAIRY BALLADS. Or in pride and grandeur riding, when the waves rise in tlieir might ; So Mary, in her stateliness, moves like a thing of light — A moon amid the stars so bright. Like a fawn, in grace astounding, when the hunter’s horn is sounding, Startled, sends her lightly bounding over upland, over lea — Like a wavelet of the ocean, when in softness of devotion, The south wind puts in motion the waters of the sea — Such was Mary in her beauty, and her gracefulness, and glee — Such — so beautiful was she ! Soft as Infancy when dreaming, now her eyes with love are beaming, Anon, in brightness gleaming, they dazzle with their light ; Now, in gentleness, are dancing, now, like a meteor, glancing, Vet in each phrase entrancing the spell-struck gazer’s sight — There’s a majesty and beauty in their might, Such as wear the stars of Night ! As rosebuds in their blushing, are her cheeks, when Passion flushing, Sends the rich blood swiftly gushing through each blue and swelling vein ; As the south wind softly presses back her flowing raven tresses, Love himself, with soft caresses, seems to sport with all hfa train ; And her joyous laughter falls as in summer-time doth rain, And her heart and brow are free from stain. By lake and copsewood straying, her evening walk delaying, The maiden had been staying, till the golden sunset fell : O’er each blushing wild flower stooping, she pluck’d its petals drooping, Till a fragrant nosegay grouping from each daisy spangled dell, She started as she listen’d to the solemn sounding knell Of the gentle vesper bell. What thoughts and wishes holy, breathe o’er the bosom lowly, As its mournful cadence slowly sails on the evening gale : As, o’er the full heart stealing, is shed a holy feeling, And in devotion kneeling, it breathes to Heav’n its tale, And the fragrance of the flowers, that laugh along the vale, Mingles with its prayer and the night wind’s wail. FAIRY BALLADS. 109 Her dove-like eyes are beaming, her soul with fervour teeming. Her heart of Heaven dreaming, and all things pure and fair — Adoring and believing, the gentle maid is giving, Unto the Ever-Living, the homage of her prayer, And her gratitude for all a gracious Father’s care— What sweeter sounds are wafted upon air ? Faith in that Power protecting, her heart in strength erecting. Her steps she’s now directing towards a distant wood — The dark Rock-close she enters, no light within it centres, Yet onward still she ventures upon its solitude ; And her trustful heart scarce keeps its calm and placid mood, Yet she leans on Him who watcheth o’er the good ! And now forth from its shadow she emerges on a meadow, And her pulses beat more glad — Oh ! her breath is drawn more free — Its waving grass dividing, her footsteps she is guiding — Herself a young fairy gliding — through its sweetly scented sea ; And her eye is gleaming bright in its gratitude and glee, And her footfall maketh melody. Each step elastic making amid the grass a-shaking The dew in drops is breaking from each blade and graceful stem-.- And, in the sun’s declining, with purple hues are shining The honeysuckles twining, as round a garment doth a hem ; And the daffodils and meadow-sweets are dancing too with them, The dew upon all sparkling like a gem ! By the Castle’s ruined tower, where the shadows deeper lower, By its walls of massive power now she speedeth like a deer — Through a little rustic wicket to a green-leaved shady thicket, On she passes — Hark ! a click — it striketh strangely on her ear— And a moment she is check’d by a passing shade of fear — Then with silent step she draweth near. Stranger sight than I can 1 3 ll — Oh ! a little merry fellow, With nose and cheek most mellow, is seated all alone, O’er a broken shoe low bending, mirth with business deftly blending, tts heel he’s neatly mending — his stool a mossy stone — And his voice has mirth and music in its tone, Music such as fairy voices own. 110 FAIRY BALLADS. As he’s stooping thus and stitching, in strains the most bewitching His little pipe he’s pitching unto a merry tune, The while but little dreaming that, with all their gentle seeming, Less kind orbs are on him beaming than the bright stars and the moon — Little dreaming that an earthly hand will tightly grasp him soon. And welcome too the prize as a boon. With stealthy step and wary bendeth o’er him bonny Mary, And she grasps the little fairy with a grasp both firm and tight. — “Ha! I have you now, and never from my power shall you sever — I will hold you closely ever, nor permit you from my sight, Till you lead me to the tower where your treasures glitter bright, And with jewels as the day shines the night 1” With fluttering heart and beating, in wailing tones entreating Escape, the fairy repeating all the reasons he can bring, In pledges without measure, doth promise her each treasure, To which Womanhood and Pleasure might wish to closely cling— He promiseth the maiden each fair and beauteous thing, And tells her he will make her the matn of a king I Bur his promises, so lavish, have no power her heart to ravish, And his prospects are but slavish, and his soul is in despair. Though he tells her she is fairer, than of gems the noblest wearer, That her beauty is far rarer than the fairest of the fair, That with her earth’s noblest, highest, could not venture to com- pare — Yet his softest words are wasted upon air! Now another mode he trieth. In her ear he shrilly crieth, And he tells the maid where lieth a heap of glittering gold — Gold and treasures most amazing, rich jewels bright and blazing, Rare gems to win the gazing of the youthful and the old — Gems of worth to soften a heart of sternest mould — All these, he saith, her eyes shall behold. Ah ! her heart the maiden bendeth, a willing ear she lendeth, And her steps she swiftly wendeth to the ruined castle’s door, Where, through the fissure creeping, the ivy green is peeping, And the moonbeams soft are sleeping on the hard and rugged floor, And their silver light is shedding its rich and beauteous store — Thus it is, and thus it will be, evermore ! FAIRY BALLADS. Ill A word of magic spoken, and the binding spell is broken, And the portal, at the token, flies open full and wide : Gold, from floor to lofty ceiling — treasures worth a monarchy stealing, Is that gentle moon revealing, when it pours its radiant tide — Gems, far richer than e’er graced the brow of any mortal bride, These cluster in lustre at her side. Too much for Mary’s vision is the prospect so Elysian — A scream of fierce derision echoes wildly round and round ; And a mocking peal of laughter shakes each startled wall and rafter, And a rapid moment after claps the door with fearful sound, As with a cry of joy, and a swift and nimble bound, From her arms springs the fairy to the ground. There’s a crushing and a crashing — there’s a flaring and a flashing— There’s a rushing and a dashing, as if crowds were hurrying by— There’s a screaming and a shouting, as a multitude was routing, And phantom forms are flouting the blackness of the sky, And in mockery their voices are lifted wild and high, As they lilt a merry measure while they fly. Lol a scene of dread and wonder! — Hark! a rattling peal of thunder ! And the walls seem rent asunder with a sharp and startling shock. Hark ! a rumbling and a tearing ! See ! the lambent lightning flaring, While the owls and bats are scaring from the castle in a flock — And the gleaming flame is baring the ivy and the rock — And the roaring of the thunder a thousand voices mock Mid the elemental battle — mid the roaring thunder’s rattle — Mid the lowings of the cattle, that in terror scorn the green— Repentant of her error, in anguish, grief, and terror, Poor Mary scarce can stir, or believe in what hath been — Still she looks around her there with a strange and troubled miep As she gazes, wildly gazes on the scene ! But see, yon cloud dividing, the moon again is gliding, And smiling like a bride in the heaven’s blue expanse ; And the stars, her maids of honour, attendant wait upon her, Though amongst them surely none are that can with their queen advance — Thus again they sparkle brightly, thus again they smile and dance, And Mary awaketh from her trance. 112 FAIRY BALLADS. Like that calm and happy feeling, o’er the storm-toss’d sailor stealing, When the ruddy dawn revealing shows the welcome port in view — Like that peace, whose gentle traces are writ on angel faces, Shedding beauty, shedding graces, ever radiant, ever new, Is the joy which brightly races in Mary’s bosom too — Her heart and throbbing pulses, races through. Thunder, lightning, no more frighten — hope and joy her eyes non brighten As the moon’s soft beams enlighten once more her homeward path. Now sits throned smiling gladness, where of late was nought but sadness, Where of late well-nigh was madness, with the fear of fairy wrath — And a happy heart and joyous brow the merry maiden hath, As she, scatheless, treads again the meadow path J THE FAIRIES’ CHILD. BY T. IRWIN. Amid the nut-grove, still and brown, The Fairies’ Child is walking, List, list, as the leaves come down, To the sprites around her talking. Along the windy, waving grass Their evening whispers breathe and pass : From yon aged bending bough Their leafy language floats below ; And now o’erhead in the air ’tis streaming. Oh, who can tell what things she hears — What secrets of the fairy spheres, That fill her eyes with silent tears ! Sweet wandering fancy charmed the child, With cheek so pale, and eyes so wild. Oh, what shall come of this dreaming ! Down by the sun-dry harvest-road, Through quiet evening’s hours, She paces with her scented load Of late vear moss and flowers. FAIRY BALLADS. 113 Blooms from the wood of every hue, Moon pale, purple, jet and blue. Woven in bunches and lightly pressed Upon her simple, snowy breast, And through the brown locks lightly tressed Nodding in crownlets o’er her. And lo ! as the cloud on ocean’s brim, With moonlight has enriched its rim ; A quaint wild shape with kindly eyes, And a smile like a star of the distant skies, Goes tripping the path before her. Now by her pillow, small and white, Mid faded leaflets lying. An eager star, like a taper light, O’er the curtain’s edge is spying. The scent of the broom-buds fills the room ; The window is full of the bare blue gloom, And by the low hearth ashily sinking, Half asleep, is a fairy winking. Out in the air there comes a sound Of music eddying round and round The ivied chimneys — swooning near The glassy pave, and streaming clear As moonlight into the little ear, Like a shell in brown weed gleaming ; And just as the first bird mounted high, On the sycamore’s tinkling canopy, Sings to the first red streak of day, Her soul with the Fairies speeds away, O’er field, and stream, and hamlet gray* Where the weary folk are dreaming. THE BANSHEE’S SUMMONS. I am come, I am come from the land unknown, For the earth I have quitted my airy throne, I have left the heights of yon starry sphere, To sing his dirge in a mortal’s ear. Ullilu , Ullilu! morn comes fast, A soul will have sped ere the moonlight’s past IL H 114 FAIRY BALLADE I am come, I am come, as I came before To the sires of tliy house in the days of yore Many a chieftain has heard my cry — Many a dame of thy ancestry. UUilu , Ullilu ! thou must go To join them either in joy or woe. Hast thou call’d up tears to the widow’s eye ? Hast thou listen’d in vain to the orphan’s cry ? Hast thou driven the hungry from thy door? Or taken the roof from the starving poor ? Ullilu , Ullilu! take the cost! Ye mourners weep, for a soul is lost ! Hast thou seen thy country sunk in woe, And taken the side of the tyrant foe ? Or a traitorous part has thy bosom played, Hast thou risen on the wreck of friends betrayed ? Ullilu , Ullilu! then weep on, Ye mourners weep, for a soul is gone ! Or hast thou striven for the good of all ? — Did danger daunt not — or death appal ? Didst thou urge thy way in virtue’s path, Fearing no vials of human wrath ? Ullilu , Ullilu! earth must wail, But heaven’s bright angels record the tale. Tremble not then, as thou hear’st my cry ; Why should a good man fear to die? Mourners, let your mourning cease, Such a death is the soul’s release. Away on the morn’s first beam I soar, A sleeper will waken on earth no more. ARRANMORE. BY THOMAS MOORE. [ 41 The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that in a clear day tney can 6ee from this coast Hy-Brasail, or the Enchanted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories.” — Beaufort's Ancient Topography of Ireland .] FAIRY BALLADS. 115 Oh ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, How oft I dream of thee ; And of those days when, by thy shore, I wandered young and free. Full many a path I’ve tried, since then, Through pleasure’s flowery maze, But ne’er could find the bliss again I felt in those sweet days. How blithe upon the breezy cliffs At sunny morn I’ve stood, With heart as bounding as the skiffs That danced along the flood ; Or when the western wave grew bright With daylight’s parting wing, Have sought that Eden in its light, Which dreaming poets sing — That Eden, where th’ immortal brave Dwell in a land serene, — Whose bow’rs beyond the shining wave, At sunset, oft are seen ; Ah, dream, too full of sadd’ning truth ! Those mansions o’er the main Are like the hopes I built in youth, As sunny ahd as vain ! THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS. BY THE REV. G. CROLY. [The Rev. George Croly was born in Ireland about the end of the *ast century. He studied in the Dublin University, and was in due time ordained by the friend of Burke, O’Beirne, Bishop of Meath, who gave him charge of a parish in his diocese. His residence was on the border of an immense lake imbedded in mountains, where his poetic genius had ample nourishment in the beautiful scenes around him. After spending some years in this poetic solitude, he visited London, just at the time when England first embarked in the Spanish war. He sympathised warmly with the freedom of that land of old romance, and travelled through Germany and France in the midst of their excitement. Several works were the result of this journey. Lord Brougham gave him one of the livings in his gift as Chancellor in 1831, and in 1835, Lord Lyndhurst, then Chancellor, gave him his present living as rector of St. Stephen’s, YVal- 116 FAIRY BALLADS. brook. There is but little feeling in his poetry, and the heart looks in vain for either affection or tenderness in his gorgeous and vigorous poems. “ For at that time the Atlantic sea was navigable, and had an island before that mouth which is called by you the pillars of Hercules. But this island was greater than both Libya and all Asia together, and afforded an easy passage to other neighbouring islands, as it was easy to pass from those islands to all the Continent which borders on this Atlantic sea. * * * But, j n succeed- ing times, prodigious earthquakes and deluges taking place, and bringing with them desolation in the space of one day and night, all that warlike race of Athenians was at once merged under the earth ; and the Atlantic island itself being absorbed in the sea, entirely disappeared.” — Plato's Timceus. ] Oh ! thou Atlantic, dark and deep, Thou wilderness of waves, Where all the tribes of earth might sleep In their uncrowded graves ! The sunbeams on thy bosom wake, Yet never light thy gloom ; The tempests burst, yet never shake Thy depths, thou mighty tomb ! Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear, Thy secrets who hath told ? — The warrior and his sword are there, The merchant and his gold. There lie their myriads in thy pall, Secure from steel and storm ; And he, the feaster on them all, The canker-worm. Yet on this wave the mountain’s brow Once glow’d in morning’s beam ; And, like an arrow from the bow, Out sprang the stream : And on its bank the olive grove, And the peach’s luxury, And the damask rose — the nightbird’s love — Perfumed the sky. Where art thou, proud Atlantis, now ? Where are thy bright and brave ? Priest, people, warriors’ living flow ? Look on that wave I FAIRY BALLADS. 117 Crime deepen’d on the recreant land, Long guilty, long forgiven ; There power uprear’d the bloody hand, There scoff’d at Heaven. The word went forth — the word of woe — The judgment-thunders pealed; The fiery earthquake blazed below ; Its doom was seal’d. Now on its hills of ivory Lie giant weed and ocean slime, Burying from man and angel’s eye The land of crime. THE LORD OF DUNKERRON.* BY T. CROFTON CROKER, Author of “ Fairy Legends of Ireland.” The Lord of Dunkerron — O’Sullivan More, Why seeks he at midnight the sea-beaten shore ? His bark lies in haven, his hounds are asleep ; No foes are abroad on the land or the deep. Yet nightly the Lord of Dunkerron is known On the wild shore to watch and to wander alone ; For a beautiful spirit of ocean, ’tis said, The Lord of Dunkerron would win to his bed. When, by moonlight, the waters were hush’d to repose, That beautiful spirit of ocean arose ; Her hair full of lustre just floated and fell O’er her bosom, that heav’d with a billowy swell. Long, long had he lov’d her — long vainly essay’d To lure from her dwelling the coy ocean maid ; * The remains of Dunkerron Castle are distant about a mile from the village of Kenmare, in the county of Keny. It is recorded to have been built m 1596, by Owen O’Sullivan More. More is merely an epithet signifying the Great. 118 FAIRY BALLADS. And long had he wander a and watch’d by the tide, To claim the fair spirit O’Sullivan’s bride ! The maiden she gazed on the creature of earth, Whose voice in her breast to a feeling gave birth ; Then smiled ; and, abashed as a maiden might be, Looking down, gently sank to her home in the sea. Though gentle that smile, as the moonlight above, O’Sullivan felt ’twas the dawning of love ; And hope came on hope, spreading over his mind, Like the eddy of circles her wake left behind. The Lord of Dunkerron he plunged in the waves, And sought through the fierce rush of waters, their caves ; The gloom of whose depth studded over with spars, Had the glitter of midnight when lit up by stars. Who can tell, or can fancy, the treasures that sleep Entombed in the wonderful womb of the deep ? The pearls and the gems, as if valueless, thrown To lie ’mid the sea-wrack concealed and unknown. Down, down went the maid — still the chieftain pursued ; Who flies must be followed ere she can be wooed. Untempted by treasures, unawed by alarms, The maiden at length he has clasped in his arms ! They rose from the deep by a smooth-spreading strand, Whence beauty and verdure stretch’d over the land. ’Twas an isle of enchantment ! and lightly the breeze, With a musical murmur just crept through the trees. The haze-woven shroud of that newly born isle, Softly faded away, from a magical pile, A palace of crystal, whose bright-beaming sheen Had the tints of the rainbow — red, yellow, and green. And grottoes, fantastic in hue and in form, Were there, as flung up — the wild sport of the storm ; Yet all was so cloudless, so lovely, and calm, Tt seemed but a region of sunshine and balm. FAIRY BALLADS. 119 “ Here, here shall we dwell in a dream of delight, Where the glories of earth and of ocean unite ! Yet, loved son of earth ! I must from thee away ; There are laws which e’en spirits are bound to obey 1 Once more must I visit the chief of my race, His sanction to gain ere I meet thy embrace. In a moment I dive to the chambers beneath : One cause can detain me — one only — ’tis death ! ” They parted in sorrow, with vows true and fond ; The language of promise had nothing beyond. His soul all on fire, with anxiety burns : The moment is gone — but no maiden returns. What sounds from the deep meet his terrified ear — What accents of rage and of grief does he hear ? What sees he ? what change has come over the flood — What tinges its green with a jetty of blood? Can he doubt what the gush of warm blood would explain ? That she sought the consent of her monarch in vain ! For see all around him, in white foam and froth, The waves of the ocean boil up in their wrath ! The palace of crystal has melted in air, And the dyes of the rainbow no longer are there : The grottoes with vapour and clouds are o’ercast, The sunshine is darkness — the vision has past Loud, loud was the call of his serfs for their chief ; They sought him with accents of wailing and grief ; He heard, and he struggled — a wave to the shore, Exhausted and faint bears O’Sullivan More ! MCCARTHY MORE AND THE BANSHEE. A star from the heavens hath yesternight faded, On the prime of thy race that in glory looked down, And through many an age shone forth clear and unshaded, While the bards sung of nought but thy father’s renown ! 120 FAIRY BALLADS. Then thine oak, in its majesty throned on the mountains, Might laugh at the wild winds that lashed it in vain, All spotless thy flag as Killarney’s pure fountains, Deep, clear and eternal, that spring without stain. Long that proud star of honour is dwindling and waning The land of thy fathers has ceased to be free, And the air thrills at night with their spirits complaining . Thy hours are now numbered ! I tarry for thee ! The days of thy sires are all vanished and over, The fierce tide of fight never more shall they stem, O’er the fields where they fell their sad spirits still hover ’Tis time the last chieftain were gathered to them ! For in their grey palace the long grass is waving, Their clan to the stranger has bended the knee, And a wild wail is heard when the night winds are raving, M‘ Car thy, McCarthy, I tarry for thee ! We have caves broad and glorious beneath the deep billow, Where the long-bleeding heart from all sorrow may fly. Where the emerald grows we will smooth thee a pillow, And thou shalt taste pleasure that never may die ! Weep, weep not for earth! with a smile thou shouldst rather Haste on to the clime of the valiant and free ! Last heir of thy race, the lone tomb of thy father For ever is closed, when it closes o’er thee ! The shadows of evening fall deeper and deeper, The mist from the lake rises over the lea, But that mist, ere it fade from the eyes of the sleeper, M'Carthy, M‘Carthy, thou shalt be with me I Farewell to the mountains ! farewell to the river ! Farewell to the sun you shall never more see ! O’er the far western ocean a star sets for ever ! M'Carthy, M‘Carthy, I tarry for thee I The Angel’s Whisper.— Vol. ii., p. 121 FAIRY BALLADS. 121 , THE ANGEL’S WHISPER. BY SAMUEL LOVER. [A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that, when a child armies in its sleep, it is “ talking with Angels.”] A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea, And the tempest was swelling, round the fisherman’s dwelling- And she cried, “ Dermot, darling, oh ! come back to me.” Her beads while she number’d, the baby still slumber’d, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee ; “ Oh 1 blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.” “ And while they are keeping bright watch o’er thy sleeping, Oh 1 pray to them softly, my baby, with me — And say thou wouldst rather, they’d watch o’er thy father, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.” The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see, And closely caressing her child, with a blessing Said, “ I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.” THE FAIRY THORN. AN ULSTER BALLAD. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A. 11 Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning wheel ; For your father’s on the hill, and your mother is asleep r Come up above the crags, and we’ll dance a highland reel Around the fairy thorn on the steep.” At Anna Grace’s door ’twas thus the maidens cried, Three merry maidens fail’ in kirtles of the green ; And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside, The fairest of the four* I ween. 122 FAIRY BALLADS. They’re glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve, Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare ; The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave, And the crags in the ghostly air : And linking hand and hand, and singing as they go, The maids along the hill-side have ta’en their fearless way, Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey. The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, Like matron with her twin grand- daughters at her knee The rowan berries cluster o’er her low head grey and dinr In ruddy kisses sweet to see. The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row, Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem, And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go Oh, never carolled birci like them ! But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze That drinks away their voices in echoless repose, And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braes, And dreamier the gloaming grows. And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky When the falcon’s shadow saileth across the open shaw, Are hushed the maiden’s voices, as cowering down they lie In the flutter of their sudden awe. For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath, - And from the mountain-ashes and the old Whitethorn between, A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe, And they sink down together on the green. They sink together silent, and stealing side to side, They fling their lovely arms o’er their drooping necks so fair, Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, For their shrinking necks again are bare. Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed, Soft o’er their bosoms beating — the only human sound— They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd, Like a river in the air, gliding round. FAIRY BALLADS. 123 Nor scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say, But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three — For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, By whom they dare not look to see. They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold, And the curls elastic falling, as her head withdraws ; They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold, But they dare not look to see the cause : For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze ; And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes Or their limbs from the cold ground raise. Till out of Night the Earth has rolled her dewy side, With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below ; When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide. The maidens’ trance dissolveth so. Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain— They pined away and died within the year and day, And ne’er was Anna Grace seen again. THE BANSHEE. ANON- (MARY.) She sat beside the haunted stream While ’twas crimsoned yet with the sunset beam, And her long black hair with the wild winds flew, And her robe was a robe of snowy hue, And she gazed with sad dark-glancing eye Where Mac Caura’s towers rose proud and high. But sudden that gaze was past, and the one That sat by the lonely stream was gone ; And aloft, on the misty mountain’s height Was seen the dark form in snowy white — And wild and high, over hill and dale Was heard the loud cry of the Banshee’s wail 124 FAIRY BALLADS. “ ’Tis past ; and the bright setting beam of the west Has sunk o’er yon towers, in safety and rest ; But, alas ! the first red dawning cloud of the morrow, Will bring mourning and blood to the house of Mac Caura ! The glad voice of mirth is now heard in the hall, And the notes of the minstrel low murmuring fall Wild and sweet ; but before the first dawn of the morrow, His harp-strings shall weep o’er the blood of Mac Caura. Go rouse the bold stripling in slumber that’s wreathed, While his sire issues forth with steel bright and unsheathed, Go, rouse him 1 for ere the bright beam of the morrow He’ll start, when he hears the death-shriek of Mac Caura. Now firm is the heart, that in battle was nurst, And strong is the hand, in the red foray first ; But nerveless and cold, ere the fast coming morrow, And lowly and bloody will slumber Mac Caura. The keen hollow blast that wafts musingly by — The meteor that flames in yon star-gleaming sky — The raven that croaks for the deep-bloodied morrow, Speak mourning and death to the house of Mac Caura.” The fen fog fell, and the robe of white Was dimmer seen on the mountain’s height — Aaid the long black locks still floated away, Till the night glooms came as black as they. And the form at length was in darkness shaded — And the song at length was in distance faded. But still the sounds in the listening ear, With the cool calm gale, were wafted near, And still the murmuring echoes fell O’er heath-clad hill and o’er moss green dell, And still they sung of woe and grief, And blood, and death, to Mac Caura’s chief. “ But what care I,” said that chieftain bold, As gently he shrunk from his lady’s hold, — “ What care I for that foul night-hag, Whose wild yells echo o’er cliff and crag ? FAIRY BALLADS. 125 The gleaming mail which my father wore, Shall ne’er be stained with his kindred gore. The steel which oft in his red-hand quivered, Shall ne’er from the side of his son be shivered. Yet, should I fall — should the Saxon brand Still flame unquenched through our sainted land” — And close he clasped his lady’s hand, — “ Then, be it thine, with tenfold care, To guard Mac Caura’s stripling heir, And when his nerves are braced and strong, To tell the race from which he sprang— How nobly lived and bravely died, His sires for Erin’s fallen pride; Until his breast with kindling zeal, Shall burn to make the tyrant feel How deeply can wound a freeman’s steel. But, clansmen, away ! by yon rocky steep We must wind, — while the reckless Saxons sleep, And break their love-dreams ere break of day, With the gun-flash and war-cry — away ! away ! ” Vain was the hope, no slumber light Lay on the foeman’s lid that night ; For ere the morn the Saxon bold Agreed to storm Mac Caura’s hold — To rush upon his new raised powers, And give to flame his castled towers. But soon within the glen ere yet The rocky steep was passed — they met, And soon begun the signal clash, And the groan, and the shout, and the gleaming flash, Till, where the foremost rank he stood, Mac Caura fell in wounds and blood ; And the gleaming mail which his father wore, Was deeply stained with his kindred gore ; And the blade which oft in his red hand quivered, From the grasp of his son was in fragments shivered ; And the eye was fixed, and the heart which never Knew fear, was throbless and cold for ever. 126 FAIRY BALLADS But low and sad upon the gale Was heard again the voice of wail, And again, in the morning’s dim gray light Was seen the form in shadowy white ; And the moaning plaint of deep-felt sorrow Was slowly murmured o’er Mac Caura. * * * * § * * * The day-beam breaks on the green-hill side, And gleams over hill and river ; And the Saxon’s banner is floating wide — With the blood of the hapless heroes dyed ; But Mac Caura’s boast and Mac Caura’s pride Is faded and lost for ever. BOUCHELLEEN BAWN. BY J. KEEGAN. Oh, pray have you heard of my Bouchelleen Bawn f * Can you tell me at all of my Bouchelleen Bawn f Have you come by the “ rath,” on the hill of Knock -awn :f Or what can you fell of my Bouchelleen Bawn f The pulse of my heart was my Bouchelleen Bawn ; The light of my eyes was my Bouchelleen Bawn. From Dinan’s red wave to the tower of Kilvawn, You’d not meet the like of my Bouchelleen Bawn! The first time I saw my own Bouchelleen Bawn , ’Twas a Midsummer eve on the fair-green of Bawn.f He danced at the “ Baal- fire, ”§ as light as a fawn, And away went my heart with my Bouchelleen Bawn. * Bouchelleen Bawn, — The fair-haired boy, or the white-skinned boy. f Knockawn , Kilvawn, — are localities in the county Kilkenny : the former a celebrated 44 rath,” a haunt of the fairies ; the latter a well-known churchyard, t Bawn , — a celebrated fair place in the northern part of the county Kilkenny. § Baal-fire , — The bonfire, lighted on Midsummer-eve in the rural districts of Ireland, a custom originating in pagan times, and transferred in Italy to St. John’s e\e. FAIRY BALLADS. 127 I loved him as dear as I loved my own life ; And he vowed on his knees he would make me his wife, I looked in his eyes, flashing bright as the dawn, And drank love from the lips of my Bouchelleen Bawn. But, Christ save the hearers ! his angel foisook him — My curse on the Queen of the fairies — she took him ! Last All-hallow’s eve as he came by Knock-awn, She saw — loved, and “ struck ” my poor Bouchelleen Bawn. Like the primrose when April her last sigh has breathed, My Bouchelleen drooped and his young beauty faded ; He died — and his white limbs were stretched in Kilvawn, And I wept by the grave of my Bouchelleen Bawn. I said to myself, sure it cannot be harm, To go to the wise man, and ask for a charm ; 'Twill cost but a crown, and my heart’s blood I’d pawn, To purchase from bondage my Bouchelleen Bawn . I went to the priest, and he spoke about heaven : And said that my failings would not be forgiven, If ever I’d cross the gray fairy-man’s bawn ; Or try his weird spells for my Bouchelleen Bawn. I’ll take his advice, though God knows my heart’s breaking , I start in my sleep, and I weep when I’m waking. Oh, I long for the blush of eternity’s dawn, When again I shall meet my own Bouchelleen Bawn / THE DOOM OF THE MIRROR. BY B. SIMMONS. [The superstition that whoever breaks a looking-glass is destined to misfor- tune, is widely entertained in Ireland. The little story related in these verses is not altogether imaginative.] Fair Judith Lee — a woful pair, Were steed and rider weary, When, winding down from mountains bare, By crag and fastness dreary, 128 FAIRY BALLADS. I first beheld her — where the path Resigned its sterner traces In a green depth of woods, like Wrath Subdued by Love’s embraces. By the oak-shadowed well she stood, Her rounded arms uplifted, To bind the curls whose golden flood Had from its fillets drifted, — Whilst stooping o’er the fount to fill The rustic urn beside her, Her face to evening’s beauty still Imparting beauty wider. * She told me of the road I missed — Gave me to drink — and even, At parting, waved the hand she kissed, White as a star in heaven ; But never smiled — though prompt and warm I paid, in duteous phrases, The tribute that so fair a form From minstrel ever raises. The gladness murmured to her cheek, Unfolded not its roses — That bluest morn will never break That in her eye reposes. Some gentle woe, with dovelike wings, Had o’er her cast a shadow, Soft as the sky of April flings Upon a vernal meadow. In vain, with venial art, to sound The springs of that affliction, I hinted of my craft — renowned For omen and prediction : In vain assuming mystic power, Her fortune to discover, I guessed its golden items o’er, And closed them with — a lover. It failed for once— that final word — A maiden’s brow to brighten, FAIRY BALLADS. 129 The cloud within her soul unstirred, Refused to flash or lighten. She felt and thanked the artifice, Beneath whose faint disguising I would have prompted hope and peace, With accents sympathising. But no — she said (the while her face A summer-wave resembled, Outsparkling from some leafy place, Then back to darkness trembled) — For her was neither living hope Nor loving heart allotted, Joy had but drawn her horoscope For Sorrow’s hand to blot it. Her words made silvery stop — for lo Peals of sweet laughter ringing ! And through that wood’s green solitudes Glad village-damsels winging ! As though that mirth some feeling jarred, The maiden, pensive-hearted, Murmured farewell, and through the dell In lonelinesf departed. With breeze-tossed locks and gleaming feet, And store of slender pitchers, O’er the dim lawns, like rushing fawns, Come the fair Water-fetchers ; And there, while round that well’s gray oak Cluster’d the sudden glory, Fair Judith Lee, from guileless lips I heard thy simple story. Of humble lot — the legends wild Believed by that condition, Had mingled with her spirit mild Their haunting superstition, Which grew to grief, when o’er her youth The doom descended, spoken On those who see beneath their touch The fatal Mirror broken. n. t 130 FAIRY BALLADS. u Never in life to prosper more/* And so, from life sequestered, With dim forebodings brooding o’er The shafted fate that festered Deep in the white depths of her soul, The patient girl awaited Ill’s viewless train — her days to pain And duty consecrated. At times she deemed the coming woe Through others’ hearts would reach her, Till every tie that twined her low, Upon the lap of Natare Her once-loved head unwatched, unknown Should sink in meek dejection, Hushed as some Quiet carved in stone Above entombed affection. E’en her young heart’s instinctive want To be beloved and loving, Inexorably vigilant, She checked with cold reproving. For still she saw, should tempests frown, That treacherous anchor sever, And Hope’s whole priceless freight go down A shipwrecked thing for ever. So pined that gracious form away, Her bliss-fraught life untasted ; A breeze-harp whose divinest voice On lonely winds is wasted. And such the tale to me conveyed In laughing tones or lowly, As still that rosy crowd was swayed By mirth or melancholy. I’ve seen since then the churchyard nook, Where Judith Lee lies sleeping ; The wild ash loves it, and a brook Through emerald mosses creeping; For that lost maiden ever there A low sweet mass is singing, While all around, like nuns at prayer, Pale water-flowers are springing. FAIRY BALLADS. 13 Poor Girl ! — I’ve thought, as there reclined, I drank the sunset’s glory Thy tale to meditative mind Is but an allegory ; Once shatter inborn Truth divine, The soul’s transparent mirror, Where Heaven’s reflection loved to shine, And what remains but terror ? Terror and Woe ; Faith’s holy face No more our hearts relieving — Fades from the past each early grace The future brings but grieving ; However fast life’s blessings fall In lavish sunshine o’er us, That Broken Glass distorts them all Whose fragments glare before us. THE FAIRIES OF KNOCKSHEGOWNA. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. [Knockskegowna is the name of a fairy Hill in Lower Ormond, and in Eng- lish means Oonagh’s Hill, — so called from being the fabled residence o*. Una, the Fairy Queen or Spenser.] A rustling, whirling sound sweeps by, Like leaves on an Autumn breeze, Tho’, since sunset fled, there was scarce a sigh To stir the slumbering trees ; And a troop comes forth from the moonlit glen, With such mist-like motion on, That you may not find an injur’d flower Where their coursers’ hoofs have gone. They glide along o’er the dewy banks, On their viewless, filmy wings, And anon and again from their restless ranks The merry fairy laughter rings. In lonely dells, where the starbeams fall But on fern, and lake and tree, Nor eye profane the mirth may inaj; I have heard their minstrelsie. 132 FAIRY BALLADS. To the fitful song of the haunted stream The aerial numbers flow ; And their tiny spears, in the starlight gleam To the burden to and fro. Away ! quick march 1 through the ruined arch* At the sound of the nutshell gong — And here shall we halt at the Viking’s vault, And chant him a battle-song. Now, left and right, in the moon’s pale light, Low’r your flags as the monarch comes. In the Elfin ring is the Elfin king — Ding-a-ding go the Elfin drums ! With the glow-worm’s gem is his diadem, For this festal pageant, lit ; The beetle booms through the hawthorn blooms, And the bats through the branches flit. Advance ! advance ! for a farewell dance, Ere the nightly pomp is o’er : From a mushroom’s cone shall our pipers drone, The sward our elastic floor : While the Phooka-horse holds his frantic course Over wood and mountain-fall, And the Banshees croon a rhythmic rune From the crumbling, ivied wall ! — In the noon, of night, o’er the stormy hills, The fairy minstrels play, And the strain, replete with fantastic dreams, On the wild gust flits away. Then the sleeper thinks, as the dreamful song On the blast to his slumber comes, That his nose as the church’s spire is long, And, like its organ hums ! And when they spread their filmy wings In the dim Moon’s waning ray, Strange meteors dance, and the glittering rills Seem show’ring fiery spray. And deep when booms the solemn toll Of the distant cloister bells, The clang, and the clash, and the tambour roll Of their midnight music swells. FAIRY BALLADS. 133 Their beamy spears, and crests, and shields, The latea wanderer sees, And their blazon’d banners flap and fly, And rattle on the breeze. Tis thus in martial panoply, The Genii of the Wold With Elfin pomp and minstrelsy Their nightly revels hold. ALICE AND UNA. A TALE OF “CEIM-AN-EICH.” BY D. F. M‘CARTHY, Author of u Ballads, Poems, and Lyrics,” &c. [The pass of Cdim-an-eich (the path of the deer) lies to the soutn-wesfc of Inchageela, in the direction of Bantry Buy. The tourist will commit a griev- ous error if he omit tc visit it. Perhaps in no part of the kingdom is there to be found a place so utterly desolate and gloomy. A mountain has been divided by some convulsion of nature; and the narrow pass, about two miles in length, is overhung on either side by perpendicular masses clothed in wild ivy and underwood, with, occasionally, a stunted yew tree or arbutus growing among them. At every step advance seems impossible — some huge rock jutting out into the path ; and, on sweeping round it, seeming to conduct only to some barrier still more insurmountable ; while from all sides rush down the “wild fountains,” and, forming for themselves a rugged channel, make their way on ward — the first tributary offering to the gentle and fruitful Lee : “ Here, amidst heaps Of mountain wrecks, on either side thrown high The wide-spread traces of its watery might, The tortuous channel wound.” Nowhere has nature assumed a more appalling aspect, or manifested a more stern resolve to dwell in her own loneliness and grandeur undisturbed by any living thing ; for even the birds seem to shun a solitude so awful, and the hum of bee or chirp of grasshopper is never heard within its precincts.— Ball's Ire- land , vol. i. p. 117.] Ah ! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wretched doubtings banished All the graceful spirit-people, children of the earth and sea — Whom in days now dim and olden, when the world was fresh and golden, 134 FAIRY BALLADS. Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, and tree — They have vanished, they are banished — ah ! how sad the loss for thee, Lonely Ceim-an-eich ! Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that Nature granted, Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit band. Peace and beauty have their dwelling where the infant streams are welling, Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff’s coral strand, * Or where, on Killarney’s mountains, Grace and Terror smiling stand, Like sisters, hand in hand ! Still we have a new romance in fire-ships, through the tamed seas glancing, And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine steed ; Still, Astolpho-like, we wander thro’ the boundless azure yonder, Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we read— Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is freed — Wilder far, indeed ! Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance of Time is broken, And the sweet word— Hope — is spoken, soft and sure, though none know how, — Could we — could we only see all these, the glories of the Real, Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world now — Woman in its fond believing — man with iron arm and brow — Faith and Work its vow ! Yes ! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there’s glory in the Present ; And the Future, like a crescent, lights the deepening sky of Time; And that sky will yet gro w brighter, if the Worker and the Writer— If the sceptre and the Mitre join in sacred bonds sublime. With two glories shining o’er them, up the coming years they’ll climb Earth’s great evening as its prime ! • In the oay of Glengariff, and towards the N.W. parts of Bantry Bay they aredf?e up larfe Quantities of ooral — Smith's Corh. vol. i. p. 286. FAIRY BALLADS. 13o With a sigh for what is fading, but, 0 earth! with no upbraiding, — For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers for thee, — We will speak, despite our grieving, words of Loving and Believing, Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful C&m-an-eich — Where the sever’d rocks resemble fragments of a frozen sea, And the wild deer flee ! Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when the weary sun is sinking, And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling western sea; When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tiny streamlet floweth, And the struggling moonlight showeth where his path must be — Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and free Through dark Ceim-an-eich. As a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown moss sharing Little thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth lived he ; But his bounding heart was regal, and he looked as looks the eagle And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag doth see — Love, wdio spares a fellow-archer, long had let him wander free Through wild C&m-an-eich ! But at length the hour drew nigher when his heart should fee. that fire ; Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from the dawn; Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and ocean blended, And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy lawn — It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hath drawn Her almost sister fawn. Alice was a chieftain’s daughter, and, though many suitors sought her, She so loved Glengariff’s water that she let her lovers pine ; Her eye was beauty’s palace, and her cheek an ivory chalice, Through which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as rosiest wine, And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies intertwine,* And her heart a golden mine. She was gentler and shyer than the light fawn that stood by her, And her eyes emit a fire soft and tender as her soul ; * The lusmore (or faiiy cup)— literally the great herb— Digitalis Purpura* 136 FAIRY BALLADS. Love’s dewy light doth drown her, and the braided locks that crown her Than autumn’s trees are browner, when the golden shadows roll Through the forests in the evening, when cathedral turrets toll, And the purple sun advanceth to its goal. Her cottage was a dwelling all regal homes excelling, But, ah ! beyond the telling was the beauty round it spread — The wave and sunshine playing, like sisters each arraying — Far down the sea-plants swaying upon their coral bed, As languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden’s head, When the summer breeze is dead. Need we say that Maurice loved her, and that no blush reproved her W r hen her throbbing bosom moved her to give the heart she gave , That by dawn-light and by twilight, and O blessed moon! by thy light — When the twinkling stars on high light the wanderer o’er the wave — Tis steps unconscious led him where Glengariff’s waters lave Each mossy bank and cave. He thitherward is wending — o’er the vale is night descending — Quick his step, but quicker sending his herald thoughts before ; By rocks and streams before him, proud and hopeful on he bore him ; One star was shining o’er him — in his heart of hearts two more — And two other eyes, far brighter than a human head e’er wore, Unseen were shining o’er. These eyes* are not of woman — no brightness merely human Could, planet-like, illumine the place in which they shone ; But nature’s bright works vary — there are beings, light and airy, Whom mortal lips call fairy, and Una she is one — Sweet sisters of the moonbeams and daughters of the sun, Who along the curling cool waves run. As summer lightning dances amid the heavens’ expanses, Thus shone the burning glances of those flashing fairy eyes ; Three splendours there were shining — three passions intertwining— Despair and hope combining their deep contrasted dyes, With jealousy’s green lustre, as troubled ocean vies With the blue of summer skies I FAiliY iiALLADS. 137 She was a fairy creature, of heavenly form and feature — Not Venus’ seif could teach her a newer, sweeter grace — Not Venus’ self could lend her an eye so dark and tender, Half softness and half splendour, as lit her lily face ; And as the choral planets move harmonious throughout space, There was music in her pace. But when at times she started, and her blushing lips were parted, And a pearly lustre darted from her teeth so ivory white, You’d think you saw the gliding of two rosy clouds dividing, And the crescent they were hiding gleam forth upon your sight Thro’ these lips, as thro’ the portals of a heawn pure and bright, Came a breathing of delight ! She had seen young Maurice lately walk forth so proud and stately, And tenderly and greatly she loved him from that hour ; Unseen she roamed beside him, to guard him and to guide him, But now she must divide him from her human rival’s power. Ah ! Alice — gentle Alice 1 the storm begins to lower That may crush Glengariff’s flower ! The moon, that late was gleaming, as calm as childhood’s dreaming, Is hid, and, wildly screaming, the stormy winds arise ; And the clouds flee quick and faster before their sullen master, And the shadows of disaster are falling from the skies — Strange sights and sounds are rising — but, Maurice, be thou wise, Nor heed the tempting cries. If ever mortal needed that counsel, surely he did ; But the wile has now succeeded — he wanders from his path ; The cloud its lightning sendeth, and its bolt the stout oak rendetk And the firm arbutus bendeth in the whirlwind, as a lath ! Now and then the moon looks out, but, alas ! its pale face hath A dreadful look of wrath. In vain his strength he squanders — at each step he wider wanders — Now he pauses — now he ponders where his present path may lead; And, as he round is gazing, he sees — a sight amazing !— Beneath him, calmly grazing, a noble jet-black steed. “Now, Heaven be praised!” cried Maurice, “this is fortunate indeed — From this labyrinth I’m freed !” 133 FAIRY RALLADS. Upon its back he leapeth, but a shudder through him creepcth, As the mighty monster sweepeth like a torrent through the dell; His mane, so softly flowing, is now a meteor blowing, And his burning eyes are glowing with the light of an inward hell; And the red breath of his nostrils, like steam where the lightning fell And his hoofs have a thunder knell ! What words have we for painting the momentary fainting That the rider’s heart is tainting, as decay doth taint a corse ? But who will stoop to chiding, in a fancied courage priding, When we know that he is riding the fearful Phooka Horse ? * Ah ! his heart beats quick and faster than the smitings of remorse As he sweepeth through the wild grass and gorse. As the avalanche comes crashing, ’mid the scattered streamlets splashing, Thus backward wildly dashing, flew the horse through C&m-an- eich— Through that glen so wild and narrow, back he darted like an arrow — Round, round by Gougane Barra, and the fountains of the Lee , O’er the Giant’s Grave he leapeth, and he seems to own in fee The mountains, and the rivers, and the sea ! * The Phooka is described as belonging to the malignant class of fairy beings, and he is as wild and capricious in his character as he is changeable in his form. At one time an eagle or an ignis fatuus , at another a horse or a bull, while oc- casionally he figures as two single animals “rolled into one,” exhibiting a compound of the calf and goat. When he assumes the form of a horse, his great object, according to a recent writer, seems to be “ to obtain a rider, and then he is in his most malignant glory. Headlong he dashes through brier ana brake, through flood and fell, over mountain, valley, moor, or river, indiscrimi- nately; up or down precipice is alike to him, provided he gratifies the malevo- lence that seems to inspire him. He bounds and flies over and beyond them, gratified by the distress, and utterly reckless and ruthless of the cries and dan- ger and suffering of the luckless wight who bestrides him. As the ‘ tinna aeolane ’ or ‘Will-o’-the-wisp,’ he lures but to betray. Like the Hanoverian ^Tuckbold,’ he deludes the night wanderer into a bog, and leads him to his destruction in a quagmire or pit. Macplierson’s Spirit of Loda is evidently founded on the tradition of the phooka : and in the Finnian Tales he is re- peatedly mentioned as the 4 Puka ( gruagacli , or haiiy spirit) of the blue val- W-* CroJcer ’« Fairy Legend* Hall* Ireland. FAIRY BALLADS. 139 From his flashing hoofs who shall lock the eagle homes of Mallot* * * § When he bounds, as bounds the Miallochf in its wild and mur- muring tide ? But as winter leadeth Flora, or the night leads on Aurora, Or as shines green GlashengloraJ along the black hill’s side-- Thus, beside that demon monster, white and gentle as a bride, A tender fawn is seen to glide. It is the fawn that fled him, and that late to Alice led him — But now it does not dread him, as it feigned to do before, When down the mountain gliding, in that shelter’d meadow hiding* It left his heart abiding by wild GlengarifFs shore ; For it was a gentle Fairy who the fawn’s light form wore, And who watched sweet Alice o’er. But the steed is backward prancing where late it was advancing, And his flashing eyes are glancing, like the sun upon Loch Foyle ; The hardest granite crushing, through the thickest brambles brushing, Now like a shadow rushing up the sides of Slieve-na-goil ! § And the fawn beside him gliding o’er the rough and broken soil, Without fear and without toil. Through woods, the sweet birds’ leaf home, he rusheth to the sea foam — Long, long the fairies’ chief home, when the summer nights are cool, And the blue sea, like a Syren, with its waves the steed environ, Which hiss like furnace iron when plunged within a pool, Then along among the islands where the water nymphs bear ride, Through the bay to Adragool. Now he rises o’er Bearhaven, where he hangeth like a raven — Ah ! Maurice, though no craven, how terrible for thee 1 * “Wildly from Malloc the eagles are screaming.” — Callanaris Gougcme Barra. J Mialloch, “the murmuring river” at Glengariff. — Smith's Cork . Glashenglora, a mountain torrent which finds its way into the Atlantic ocean through Glengariff, in the west of the county of Cork. The name, liter- ally translated, signifies “ the noisy green water.” § The most remarkable and beautiful mountain at Glengariff is the noble conical one whose ancient name is Sliabh-na-goil (“ the mountain of the wild rjeople 140 FAIliY BALLADS. To see the misty shading of the mighty mountains fading, And thy winged fire-steed wading thro’ the clouds as thro’ a sea Now he feels the earth beneath him — he is loosen’d — he is free, And asleep in Cdim-an-eich. Away the wild steed leapeth, while his rider calmly sleepeth Beneath a rock which keepeth the entrance to the glen, Which standeth like a castle, where are dwelling lord and vassal, Where within are wine and wassail, and without are warrior men — But save the sleeping Maurice, this castle cliff had then No mortal denizen!* Now Maurice is awaking, for the solid earth is shaking, And a sunny light is breaking through the slowly opening stone — And a fair page at the portal, crieth “Welcome, welcome ! mortal Leave thy world (at best a short ill), for the pleasant world wft own — There are joys by thee untasted, there are glories yet unknown — Come, kneel at Una’s throne.” With a sullen sound of thunder, the great rock falls asunder, He looks around in wonder, and with ravishment awhile — For the air his sense is chaining, with as exquisite a paining, As when summer clouds are raining o’er a flowery Indian isle — And the faces that surround him, oh ! how exquisite their smile, So free of mortal care and guile. These forms, oh ! they are finer — these faces are diviner Than, Phidias, even thine are, with all thy magic art ; For beyond an artist’s guessing, and beyond a bard’s expressing, Is the face that truth is dressing with the feelings of the heart ; Two worlds are there together — Earth and Heaven have each a part — And such, divinest Una, thou art ! And then the dazzling lustre of the hall in which they muster— Where brightest diamonds cluster on the flashing walls around ; And the flying and advancing, and the sighing and the glancing, And the music and the dancing on the flower-inwoven ground, And the laughing and the feasting, and the quaffing and the sound, In which their voices all are drowned. * There is a great square rock, literally resembling the description m tlw text, which stands near the Glengariff entrance to the pass of C&m-an-eich. FAIRY BALLADS. 141 But the murmur now is hushing — there’s a pushing and a rushing, There’s a crowding and a crushing, through that golden, fairy place, Where a snowy veil is lifting, like the slow and silent shifting Of a shining vapour drifting across the moon’s pale face — For there sits gentle Una, fairest queen of fairy race, In her beauty, and her majesty, and grace. The moon by stars attended, on her pearly throne ascended, Is not more purely splendid than this fairy -girted queen ; And when her lips had spoken, ’mid the charmed silence broken, You’d think you had awoken in some bright Elysian scene ; For her voice than the lark’s was sweeter, that sings in joy between The heavens and the meadows green. But her cheeks — ah ! what are roses ? What are clouds where eve reposes ? What are hues that dawn discloses ? to the blushes spreading there ; And what the sparkling motion of a star within the ocean, To the crystal soft emotion that her lustrous dark eyes wear? And the tresses of a moonless and a starless night are fair To the blackness of her raven hair. “ Ah I Mortal, hearts have panted for what to thee is granted — To see the halls enchanted of the spirit world revealed ; And yet no glimpse assuages the feverish doubt that rages In the hearts of bards and sages wherewith they may be healed ; For this have pilgrims wandered — for this have votaries kneeled — For this, too, has blood bedewed the field. “ And now that thou beholdest, what the wisest and the oldest, What the bravest and the boldest, have never yet descried — Wilt thou come and share our being, be a part of what thouV seeing, And flee, as we are fleeing, through the boundless ether wide ? Or along the silver ocean, or down deep where pearls hide ? And I, who am a queen, will be thy bride. “ As an essence thou wilt enter the world’s mysterious centre ” — And then the fairy bent her, imploring, to the youth — “ Thou’lt be free of death’s cold ghastness, and, with a comet’s fastness, Thou can’st wander through the vastness to the Paradise of Truth, Each day a new joy bringing, which will never leave, in sooth, The slightest stain of weariness and ruth.’ 142 FAIItY BALLADS. As he listened to the speaker, his heart grew weak and weaker — Ah ! Memory, go seek her, that maiden by the wave, Who with terror and amazement is looking from her casement, Where the billows at the basement of her nestled cottage rave At the moon, which struggles onward through the tempest, like the brave, And which sinks within the clouds as in a grave. All maidens will abhor us — and it’s very painful for us To tell how faithless Maurice forgot his plighted vow ; He thinks not of the breaking of the heart he late was seeking— He but listens to her speaking, and but gazes on her brow— And his heart has all consented, and his lips are ready now With the awful, and irrevocable vow. While the word is there abiding, lo ! the crowd is now dividing, And, with sweet and gentle gliding, in before him came a fawn ; It was the same that fled him, and that seemed so much to dread him, When it down in triumph led him to Glengariif ’s grassy lawn, When, from rock to rock descending, to sweet Alice he was drawn, As through C&m-an-eich he hunted from the dawn. The magic chain is broken — no fairy vow is spoken — From his trance he hath awoken, and once again is free ; And gone is IJna’s palace, and vain the wild steed’s malice, And again to gentle Alice down he wends through C&m-an-eich : The moon is calmly shining over mountain, stream, and tree. And the yellow sea^plants glisten through the sea. % * * * * The sun his gold is flinging, the happy birds are singing, And bells are gaily ringing along Glengariif ’s sea ; And crowds in many a galley to the happy marriage rally Of the maiden of tbe valley and the youth of C&m-an-eich ; Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask, on bended knee, A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee f FAIRY BALLADS* 143 PUCK THE FAIRY. BY THOMAS MOORE. Would’st know what tricks, by the pale moonlight, Are played by me, the merry little Sprite, Who wing through air from the camp to the court, From king to clown, and of all make sport ; Singing, I am the Sprite Of the merry midnight, Who laugh at weak mortals, and love the moonlight. To a miser’s bed, where he snoring slept And dreamt of his cash, I slily crept ; Chink, chink o’er his pillow like money I rang, And he waked to catch — but away I sprang, Singing, I am the Sprite, &c. I saw through the leaves, in a damsel’s bower, She was waiting her love at that starlight hour “ Hist — hist !” quoth I, with an amorous sigh, And she flew to the door, but away flew I, Singing, 1 am the Sprite, &c. While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love, Like a pair of blue meteors I stared from above, And he swoon’d — for he thought ’twas the ghost poor man ! Of his lady’s eyes, while away I ran, Singing I am the Sprite Of the merry midnight, Who laugh at weak mortals, and love the moonlight I EARL DESMOND AND THE BANSHEE. Now cheer thee on, my gallant steed, There’s a weary way before us — Across the mountain swiftly speed, For the storm is gathering o’er us. 144 FAIRY BALLADS. Away, away, the horseman rides ; His bounding steed’s dark form Seem’d o’er the soft black moss to glide — A spirit of the storm ! Now, rolling in the troubled sky, The thunder’s loudly crashing ; And through the dark clouds, driving bj'. The moon’s pale light is flashing. In sheets of foam the mountain flood Comes roaring down the glen ; On the steep bank one moment stood The horse and rider then. One desperate bound the courser gave, And plunged into the stream ; And snorting, stemmed the boiling wave, By the lightning’s quivering gleam. The flood is past — the bank is gained — Away with headlong speed : A fleeter horse than Desmond rein’d Ne’er served at lover’s need. His scatter’d train, in eager haste, Far, far behind him ride ; Alone he’s crossed the mountain waste, To meet his promised bride. The clouds across the moon’s dim form Are fast and faster sailing, And sounds are heard on the sweeping storm* Of wild unearthly wailing. At first low moanings seem’d to die Away, and faintly languish ; Then swell into the piercing cry Of deep, heart-bursting anguish. Beneath an oak, Whose branches bare Were crashing in the storm, With wringing hands and streaming hair, There sat a female form. To pass that oak in vain he tried ; His ste-ed refused to stir, Earl Desmond and the Banshee— Vol. ii., p. 144. FAIRY BALLADS. 145 Though furious ’gainst his panting side Was struck the bloody spur. The moon, by driving clouds o’ercast Withheld its fitful gleam ; And louder than the tempest blast Was heard the Banshee’s scream. And, when the moon unveiled once more. And showed her paly light, Then nought was seen save the branches hoar Of the oak-tree’s blasted might. That shrieking form had vanished From out that lonely place ; And, like a dreamy vision, fled, Nor left one single trace. Earl Desmond gazed — his bosom swell’d With grief and sad foreboding; Then on his fiery way he held, His courser madly goading. For well that wailing voice he knew, And onward hurrying fast, O’er hills and dales impetuous flew, And reached his home at last. Beneath his wearied courser’s hoof The trembling drawbridge clangs, And Desmond sees his own good roof, But darkness o’er it hangs. He pass’d beneath the gloomy gate, No guiding tapers burn ; No vassals in the court-yard wait, To welcome his return. The hearth is cold in the lonely halt, No banquet decks the board ; No page stands ready at the call, To ’tend his wearied lord. But all within is dark and drear, No sights or sounds of gladness— Nought broke the stillness on the ear, Save a sudden burst of sadness. K 146 FAIRY BALLADS. Then slowly swell’d the keeners strain With loud lament and weeping, For round a corse a mournful train The sad death-watch were keeping. Aghast he stood, bereft of power, Hope’s fairy visions fled ; His fears confirmed — his beauteous flower— His fair-hair’d bride — was dead 1 THE ENCHANTED ISLAND [The tradition in this beautiful little baliad is almost the same as that oc. which “ Hy-Brasail,” and other poems in this collection are founded, except m point of locality ; the scene of the latter ballads being placed in the Atlantic to the west of the Isles of Arran, while “ the Enchanted Island ” is supposed to be in the neighbourhood of Rathlin Island, off the north coast of the county Antrim. The name of the island, which has been spelt a different way by almost every writer on the subject, is supposed to be derived from Ragh-Erin , or “ the Fort of Erin,” as its situation, commanding the Irish coast, might make it, not unaptly, be styled “the fortress of Ireland.” — See Leonard's Topographia Hibernica.'] To Rathlin’s Isle I chanced to sail, When summer breezes softly blew, And there I heard so sweet a tale, That oft I wished it could be true. They said, at eve, when rude winds sleeu And hushed is ev’ry turbid swell, A mermaid rises from the deep, And sweetly tunes her magic shelL And while she plays, rock, dell, and cava In dying falls the sound retain, As if some choral spirits gave Their- aid to swell her witching straia Then summoned by that dulcet note, Uprising to th’ admiring view, A fairy island seems to float With tints of many a gorgeous hue. And glittering fanes, and lofty towers. All on this fairy isle are seen ; And waving trees, and shady bowers, With more than mortal verdure green. FAIRY BALLADS. 147 And as it moves, the western sky Glows with a thousand varying rays ; And the calm sea, tinged with each aye, Seems like a golden flood of blaze. They also say, if earth or stone, From verdant Erin’s hallowed land, Were on this magic island thrown, For ever fixed, it then would stand. But, when for this, some little boat In silence ventures from the shore — The mermaid sinks — hushed is the note, The fairy isle is seen no more ! A FAIRY LEGEND OF KNOCK-MA. Blithe as young hearts will ever be, when Earth is robed in summer pride, A band of peasant maidens sport along Knock-Ma’s grass-covered side ; The birds that carol gaily round are not so free from pain or care — The lambs that frisk across the lea sport not with a more joyous air; Sweet strains in which their swelling souls find voice for every raptured sense, And laughter such as only peals from youth and health and innocence, Ring down the slope, like distant chimes, or like the gushing music pour’d From pebbly-bedded rivulets for ever gliding Ocean- ward. Tall, stately forms that well might grace the proudest Orient Sultan’s throne ; Dark eyes, whose flashing glances like stars from the midnight azure shone ; Long tressed girls, with voices like the breathings of a golden string — The bloom of dawning womanhood — the lighter glow of maiden Spring — All — all are there. Some dance around with steps that leave behind no trace ; Some musingly recline, or sit in attitudes of winning grace, 14:8 FAIRY BALLADS. Entwining fragrant diadems, of every wild flower’s brightest tints; And well are Nature’s children decked in Nature’s simplest ornaments. The evening’s hues are gorgeous all, yet some the mind more grandly strike ; All song is sweet, but all can claim the spirit’s homage not alike ; So, mid these buds of loveliness, is one well meet to be their Queen; Hers is the chastened grace of form, the faultless bloom, and sunny mien, That glad the eye, and type a heart within as pure as they are fair ; Hers is the fleetest foot, and hers the lightest lay and laughter there ; Yet this spontaneous flow of mirth, the sparkling levity of youth, Was but a surface-gleam that rose from golden mines of Love and Truth. Amid their joyous merriment, a Cloud sails slowly o’er the Sun ! They start up as the shadow falls ; they look ; it loometh dreadly dun ; And though not e’en the slightest leaf is by the slumbering breezes stirred, Advancing bodefully afar a Pyramid of Gloom appeared ! Hushed is each tone so lately loud; each knee is bent; each brow is crossed ; — All know that whirlwind mass enfolds Fionn-Varra and his Fairy-host ! Its coming is awaited now in agonizing breathlessness : — Oh ! Mary, Mother ! shield them — save — in this dread moment of distress. The Doom-cloud passes o’er at length; slowly its fatal shade departs ; The sun outshines ; the maids arise, with trembling frames and beating hearts ; A thankful prayer unconsciously from every pallid lip bursts forth — Why voiceless — stirless — thus is She , so lately full of song and mirth ? Round wildly her companions throng ; they call upon her, but in vain ; They look upon the brow — it wears no trace of agony or pain ; But all is calm as if the maid had sunk in slumber’s soft embrace, And they might deem she slept, but for that awful fixedness of face ! FAIRY BALLADS. 149 Bitterly their tears now fall; for sister-like was she beloved. Alas ! that only thus can be the truth of their affection proved ! With many a pause for sorrowing thev slowly pass down to the plain — Meet bearers of the beauteous Dead — a young and lovely funeral train ! Soon to their village homes beneath are borne the sound* of their lament ; The terror-stricken hearers feel a dolorous presentiment That some disaster has occurred ; and hurrying forth with word less awe, The dark fulfilment of their saddest fear advancing home they saw. Those raven locks, that gentle face, it is not hard to recognize — Now nearer still — her well-loved name from mouth to mouth, low whispered, flies ; One fearful word the tragic tale of her untimely fate has told — A tale to blanch the manliest lips, and freeze the very heart’s blood cold ! Yet less of sorrow for the maid so early blighted is expressed, Than for the mother whose last hope and only joy in her were placed. Oh 1 who will break to her the woful tidings of her darling’s doom. And fling o’er all her light of life an everlasting cloud of gloom ? Home-borne at length, the tale is told ; those who have wept an only child May picture — but how faintly still — what pangs that mother’s bosom filled. One short, sharp cry burst from her lips, as if the seat of life wxre stung ; Unto the breathless corpse she leaped, and there in sorrow’s silence clung. Ah 1 think ye words can take the gall from anguish so unspeak- able? Preach calmness to the Winter blast, and make the torrent’s dow be still — Command the starry host to cease their mighty motions round the Pole — But seek not grief’s convulsions in a broken spirit to control ! Too long remains that death-like trance of tearless, wordless agony — Too soon, alas ! she must awake to keener sense of misery I 150 FAIRY BALLADS. But — Heavens ! — the film drawn o’er her eyes — the stillness of each lineament — The firm-set lips — the rigid limbs — the cold, damp forehead’s ashy tint — Oh, darkest woe ! her mother-heart was stricken to its inmost core — She could but die — and earthly grief shall reach her bosom never more ! And oh ! but it was sad to see the young flower blighted in its prime, Beside the fallen parent-stem, rugged with care, and thought, and time ! That night was many an effort made, by mystic rite and holy prayer — By aught possessed of power to awe the spirit-dwellers of the air, But vainly culled were mystic herbs, and vainly wrought each spell and charm — Nor fervent prayers, nor heart-wrung tears, re-animate the soul- less form ! One shroud and coffin served for both — it were unmeet to separate Those who in life had loved so well, and borne in death the same sad fate ! In Glanafosha’s ruined church they slumber calmly, side by side ; And oft this legend of Knock-Ma the peasants tell at eventide. Mac-Duach THE BANSHEE. BY J. L. FORREST. [The lament of the Banshee is heard only at night. It is a solemn and m«>- iancholy strain, generally streaming fitfully from some neighbouring cairn or hillock, or from beside a stream. The well known Irish keen very closely re- sembles it. Its utterance, too, like that of the keen, is accompanied with a dapping of hands, and all the indications of intense sorrow.] Shelter’d within a pleasant sunny nook, A cottage stood. Beside it flowed a brook That babbled as it went, and some old trees, Whose green leaves quivered in the summer breeze FAIRY BALLADS. 151 Stood round and near it : roses and jessamine Through its quaint porch luxuriantly did twine, And peeped into the open lattices. It had a quiet and a cheerful look That spoke of comfort. With a favourite book I know no place where one might wile away More pleasantly a sun-bright summer day ; For ever as within its shaded porch I bent, There breathed an atmosphere of such content As sank into the heart. Beside the stream, Rapt, I've wrought out full many a bright day-dream. As short-lived as its bubbles, while the hours, Fraught with the fragrance of the laughing flowers, Flew lightly by. That happy, happy time ! At dewy eve or morning’s lovely prime, Or ’neath the blaze of noontide’s glowing ray. Pleasant alike the minutes flew away, And all was happiness ! One summer eve I stray’d Along the streamlet’s side. Two children play’d, Two rosy children, ’mid the stately ranks Of rushy weeds that line its mossy banks, Untiringly ; and the long summer day Seemed all too short for their delightful play. Une was a being beautiful and bright, Soft as the dawn of summer’s morning light ; And delicate as soft : her raven hair Hung o’er a brow most exquisitely fair, Its tresses twining round a neck of snow, Down which they curled in rich and graceful flow. In each bright sparkle of her gentle eyes Some laughing Fairy lurked in soft disguise, And music, as she laughed, in mirthful glee, Burst forth in tones of touching melody. Of age maturer was the stalwart boy Who wandered by her side. To him ’twas joy To tend that gentle girl : for her he bent O’er the dark stream that munnured as it went 1 52 FAIRY BALLADS. To pluck the flowers that fringed its sedgy banks, His best reward her look of modest thanks I She was the star on which his gaze was bent, The pole-star of his hopes. Each lineament Of that fair face was shadow’d on his heart. She was, in truth, his better, nobler part — For they were one: and each in other found A dearer self. As twines the ivy round The sturdy oak, so round his soul she threw Her gentleness, and thus in love they lived and grew. And years roll’d by, and that fair being stood Bright in the charms of opening womanhood ; So fair withal, so modest none was seen To match sweet Ellen on the village-green , Nor in the revel, nor the village dance, A brighter form, or fairer countenance 1 Thus years roll’d by till war’s fierce tumult came, And fill’d our valley with its ruthless flame. The drum, the fife, the banners bright and gay, Led many a youth to join the dread array, laired by the pomp, young Desmond left his home In search of fame through other lands to roam : Through other lands, where distant, distant far, Fierce burn’d the torch of desolating war. Oh, what a parting then was theirs ! What grief 1 An age of sorrow in those moments brief Their young hearts tasted. Vain it were to paint Young Ellen’s anguish. Language could but faint Picture her tearless grief — no complaint Did her lips breathe. Buoy’d by bright hopes he went But she l — For her thenceforth was no content. And months waned slowly by. It was a night Pull of delicious softness. Clear and bright In the blue vault above the young moon shone, And earth was cinctured with a starry zone. The flowers, sweet smiles of earth, beneath her light, Sparkling with Nature’s tear-drops glistened bright. FAIRY BALLADS. L53 And ever as the night-breeze sighed around, Scattered their sweets upon the perfumed ground. O, ’twas a night might tempt one forth to rove, And hold communion with an absent love — A night for tender thinking. She had been Watching the beauties of that moonlight scene, Marking the twinklings of each brilliant star, And thinking that on other lands afar Those bright orbs shone. She deemed, too, that his gaze Was turned upon them. Thoughts of bygone days Came rushing o’er her, days of happiness, And then the fond girl knelt to pray and bless ; She knelt as was her wont, and kneeling wept, Till weary with her aching thoughts she slept. Not long she slumber’d. On her half-closed ear Broke words of dreadful import, sounds of fear. Hark ! hark ! on the wings of the night-wafted gale Sweeps on, in its death-tones, the Banshee’s shrill wail I Hark! hark! to the echoes which sadly prolong Those dread notes of sorrow, her gloom-bringing song ! From the depths of the grave, from the darkness of hell, The Phantom comes forth with her death-breathing spell ; For the gleam of her dark eye, the hiss of her breath, But herald the coming of sorrow and death ! See, see ! as beneath the low casement she lingers, How wildly she points with those skeleton fingers ! How harsh on the ear of the dream-lapp’d young sleeper, Grate the heart-chilling tones of the wail of the weeper ! What anguish of grief, oh, what agony burning, Breathe forth in that wild tale of sorrow and mourning ! Hark, hark ! on the night-wind, so mournfully sighing, Comes the death- shriek of one in a distant land dying I THE BANSHEE’S SONG. “ O’er the wild heath I roam, On the night-wind I come ; 1 5 ± FAIKY BALLADS. And Beauty shall pale At the voice of my wail 1 Hush 1 hark to my tidings of gloom and of sorrow ! Go, weep, tears of blood, for — Uch! cCeag an chorra! u With the stranger the brave Hath now found him a grave ; And in beauty and bloom He hath sunk to the tomb ! Oh, never for Desmond shall beam forth a morrow For in death cold he lieth — Uch! tfeag an chorra ! “ Woe, woe, wild and deep ! Wake, fair one, and weep ! Wail, wail, wail, wildly wail At the voice of my tale ! Go, go ! henceforth life is a burden and sorrow ! For thy heart’s pulse is stricken — Uch ! d'eag an chor Shrieking, the Phantom fled. I came and found The maiden lying lifeless on the ground. Long, long she lay insensible. At length Some feeble symptoms of returning strength Were manifest, and she could faintly tell What on that sad and weary night befell. ’Twas vain to reason with her. She would hear No reason from me. Still the ready tear Would follow the sad story, and her cheek Grow pallid at the thought of that unearthly shriek. A month elaps’d — and then, alas ! we knew That the dread vision was too sadly true, She smiled again no more ; but from that hour Wither’d and droop’d like to a blighted flower. Hourly she wasted : Yet her cheek grew bright With a deep crimson circle, and a light Unearthly sparkled in her beaming eyes, fondly I hoped — alas I I was unwise To dream the beauty of that crimson blush, Was aught but what it was, Consumption’s hectic flush. * Literally — Alas ! the beloved hath died ! FAIRY BALLADS. 155 She died — ana oh, my grief was deep and wild — I grieved — for dark-hair’d Ellen was my child ! In yon lone glen they buried her, and there Oft do I go alone to breathe a prayer For her departed spirit. It may be She hears and blesses me. ’Twere agony To think it otherwise. When the moon’s light, Her lowly grave doth rest upon, and bright Its rays gleam over it, then doth it seem As if her spirit hover’d in that beam, And smiled in peace upon me. Deem ye not My words unhallow’d. ’Tis a blessed thought Which fondly I have cherish’d. I have clung To this bright hope since first my heart was wrung Under my sad bereavement. Soon, oh ! soon, (And I would crave it as a blessed boon !) My bones shall rest with h§rs, my spirit soar To meet my dark-hair’d child upon a happier shore! THE FAIRY BOY.* BY SAMUEL LOVER. A mother came, when stars were paling. Wailing round a lonely spring ; Thus she cried while tears were falling, Calling on the Fairy King : " Why with spells my child caressing, Courting him with fairy joy ; Why destroy a mother’s blessing, Wherefore steal my baby boy ? “ O’er the mountain, through the wild wood, Where his childhood loved to play ; Where the flowers are freshly springing, There I wander, day by day. * When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy ant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place. 156 FAIRY BALLADS. “ There I wander, growing fonder Of the child that made my joy , On the echoes wildly calling, To restore my fairy boy. “ But in vain my plaintive calling, Tears are falling all in vain ; He now sports with fairy pleasure, He’s the treasure of their train ! “ Fare thee well, my child, for ever, In this world I’ve lost my joy, But in the next we ne’er shall sever, There I’ll find my angel boy ! ” CORMAC AND MARY. BY T. CROFTON CROKER. u She is not dead — she has no grave — She lives beneath Lough Corrib’s water;* And in the murmur of each wave Methinks I catch the songs I taught her.™ Thus many an evening on the shore Sat Cormac raving wild and lowly ; Still idly muttering o’er and o’er, “ She lives, detained by spells unholy. “ Death claims her not, too fair for earth, Her spirit lives — alien of heaven ; Nor will it know a second birth When sinful mortals are forgiven ! u Cold is this rock — the wind comes chill, And mists the gloomy waters cover ; But oh ! her soul is colder still — To lose her God — to leave her lover ! " The lake was in profound repose, Yet one white wave came gently curling, In the county of Galway FAIRY BALLADS. lt>T And as it reach’d the shore, arose Dim figures — banners gay unfurling. Onward they move, an airy crowd : Through each thin form a moonlight ray shone ; While spear and helm, in pageant proud, Appear in liquid undulation. Bright barbed steeds curvetting tread Their trackless way with antic capers ; And curtain clouds hang overhead, Festoon’d by rainbow- colour’d vapours. And when a breath of air Tvould stir That drapery of Heaven’s own wreathing, Light wings of prismy gossamer Just moved and sparkled to the breathing. Nor wanting was the choral song, Swelling in silvery chimes of sweetness ; To sound of which this subtle throng Advanced in playful grace and fleetness. With music’s strain, all came and went Upon poor Cormac’s doubting vision ; Now rising in wild merriment, Now softly fading in derision. 11 Christ, save her soul,” he boldly cried ; And when that blessed name was spoken, Fierce yells and fiendish shrieks replied, And vanished all, — the spell was broken. And now on Corrib’s lonely shore, Freed by his word from power of fairy, To life, to love, restored once more, Young Cormac welcomes back his Mary. THE VOYAGE OF EMAN OGE. BY T. D. M‘GEE. [The legend of Hy-Brasil is one of the best known of our national traditions. It is an island which used once every seventh year to emerge from the depths of the ocean, far to the west of Arran ; and like a very Eden in its beauty ; and, like Eden, too, shut against the race of man. Many voyages were under- 153 FAIRY BALLADS. taken by the adventurous and the visionary, in search of this fable-land, with what success is related in O’Flaherty’s West Connaught, and other old books, English as well as Irish.] In the Western Ocean’s waters, where the sinking sun is lost, Rises many a holy cloiteach high o’er many an island coast, Bearing bells rung by the tempest when the spray to heaven is toss’d : Bearing bells and holy crosses, that to Arran men afar Twinkle through the dawn and twilight, like a mist-environ d star Hung in heaven for their monition, as, in sooth, such symbols are. ’Tis a Rosary of Islands in the Ocean’s hollow palm — Sites of faith unchanged by storms, all unchanging in the calm There the world-betray’d may hide them, and the weary heart find balm. Wayward as a hill-stream chafing in a sad fir-forest glen, Lived the silent student Eman, among Arran’s holy men, Sighing still for far Hy-Brasil — sight of fear to human ken. Born a chieftain, and predestined by his sponsors for a sage, Eman Oge * had tracked the sages over many an ancient page, Drained their old scholastic vials, nor did these his thirst assuage. Thinking thenceforth, and deploring, sat he nightly on the 6trand, Ever watching, ever sighing, for the fabled fairy land ; For this earth, he held it hateful, and its sons a soulless band. ’Twas midsummer midnight, silence on the isles and ocean lay, Fleets of sea-birds rode at anchor, on the waveless moonbright bay, To the moon, across the waters, stretched a shining silver way. When — oh, Christa ! — in the offing like a ship upon the sight, Loomed a land of dazzling verdure, crossed with streams that flashed like light, Under emerald groves whose lustre glorified the solemn night. As the hunter dashes onward when the missing prey he spies, As to a gracious mistress the forgiven lover flies, So across the sleeping ocean Eman in his currach hies. Eman Oge means young Edward FAIliY BALLADS 159 Nay, he never noted any of the Holy Island’s signs, Saint Mac Duach’s tall Cathedral, or Saint Brecan’s ivied slu’ines, Or the old Cyclopean dwellings — for a rarer scene he pines. Now he nears it — now he touches the gold-glittering precious sand — Lir of Ocean * is no miser when such treasures slip his hand — But whence come these antique galleys crowding the deserted strand ? Tynan galleys with white benches, sails of purple, prows of gold, Triremes such as carried Caesar to the British coast of old — Serpents that had borne Vikings southward on adventures bold. Gondolas with glorious jewels sparkling on their necks of pride — Bucentaurs that brought the Doges to their Adriatic bride — Frisian Hulk and Spanish Pinnace lay reposing side by side. Carracks, currachs, all the vessels that the ocean yet had borne, By no envious foemen captured, by no tempests toss’d or torn, Lay upon that stormless sea-beach all untarnish’d and unworn But within them, or beside them, crew or captain, saw he none : “Have mankind for ever languish’d for the land I now hav* won?” So said Email, as he landed, by his Angel tempted on. Where it led him — what befel him — what he suffer’d — who shall say? One long year was pass’d and over — a long year and summer's day; Morning found him pallid, pulseless, stretch’d upon the island bay Dead he lay — his brow was calcined like a green leaf scorch’d in June, Hollow was his cheek, and haggard, gone his beaming smile and bloom — Dead he lay, as if his spirit had already faced its doom. * Lir is the Neptune of the Celt* and father of several sea-spirits of iiffenor »rder. 160 FAIRY BALLADS. Who shall wake him? Who shall care him? Wayward Einan stark and still, Who will nerve anew his footsteps to ascend life’s craggy hill ? Who will ease his anguish’d bosom ? Who restore him Thought and Will? Hark ! how softly tolls the matin from the top of holy tower, How it moves the stark man 1 Lo you ! hath a sound such magic power? Lo you ! lo you ! up he rises, waked and saved ! ah, blessed hour Now he feels his brow — now gazes on that shore, and sky, and sea— Now upon himself, and, lo you, now he bends to earth his knee ; God and angels hear him praying on the sea-shore fervently. THE PRAYER OF EMAN OGE. God of this Irish Isle, Blessed and old, Wrapt in the morning’s smile In the sea’s fold — Here, where thy saints have trod, Here where they prayed, Hear me, oh, saving God, May I be saved ! God of the circling sea Far-rolling and deep, Its caves are unshut to thee — Its bounds thou dost keep — Here, from this strand Whence Saints have gone forth, Father ! I own thy hand Humbled to earth. God of this blessed light Over me shining, On the wide way of right I go, unrepining. No more despising My lot or my race, But toiling, uprising, To thee thro’ thy grace. FAIRY BALLADS. 1G1 THE FAIRY CHILD * BY DR. ANSTER, Translator of “ Faust,” &c. The summer sun was sinking With a mild light, calm and mellow ; It shone on my little boy’s bonny cheeks, And his loose locks of yellow. The robin was singing sweetly, And his song was sad and tender ; And my little boy’s eyis, while he heard the son# , Smiled with a sweet soft splendour. My little boy lay on my bosom While his soul the song was quaffing^ The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek, And his heart and his eye were laughing. I sate alone in my cottage, The midnight needle plying ; I feared for my child, for the rush’s light In the socket now was dying ! There came a hand to my lonely latch, Like the wind at midnight moaning ; I knelt to pray, but rose again, For I heard my little boy groaning. I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast, But that night my child departed — They left a weakling in his stead, And I am broken-hearted ! Oh ! it cannot be my own sweet boy, For his eyes are dim and hollow/ My little boy is gone — is gone, And his mother soon will follow 1 * The woman, in whose character these lines are written, supposes her child stolen by a fairy. I need not mention how prevalent the superstition was among the peasantry, which attributed instances of sudden death to the agency of these spirits. II. L 162 FAIRY BAJLLADS. The dirge for the dead will be sung for me, And the mass be chaunted meetly, And I shall sleep with my little boy, In the moonlight churchyard sweetly. THE OLDEN TIME. My blessing rest upon thee, thou merry olden time, When the fairies were in fashion, and the world was in its prime ; Every ruin had its goblin, every green rath had its fey, Till the light of Science chased them from their ancient haunts away. How rich wert thou in legends, of magic lamps and ring — Of genii, whom a single word to mortal aid would bring ; Of caves of gold and diamonds, where foot had never been, Till by the favoured one their depths were all unveiled and seen. Thou wert the time for monarchs — then kings were kings indeed, With potent fairy sponsors to summon at their need ; Whose wands could change their enemies to marble at their will : Ah, many a king would need to have those wands of power still ! Oh, cruel race of stepmothers ! where have you vanished now? Where are the henpecked husbands who before you used to bow, And yield their lovely daughters to glut your jealous ire, Forgetful, ’mid your blan dishments, of ev’n the name of sire ? Sweet beauteous persecuted tribe, princesses young and fair, With faces like a poet’s dreams, and veils of flowing hair, Beloved by vile enchanters, who turned to stone and wood, The princes who to rescue you dared steel, and fire, and flood. Fierce cannibalish giants, who dwelt in forests wild, And worn and weary wayfarers to darksome dens beguiled ; Brave knights with charmed weapons, who laid the monsters low, And opening wide the dungeon doors, bid cease the captive’s woe. Where are you all departed ? — where lie your treasures hid ? Where are the pearls and emeralds that came when they were bid? Where are the mines of gold and gems, that but to think of now, Dazzle our mental eyes with light — Old World, where art thou? FAIRY BALLADS. 163 We want those endless riches, we want the magic spells, That brought the fairies to your aid from woods, and hills, and wells ; We’ve no enchanters now-a-days, no cabalistic flames — The world has lost them all, and keeps but their time- honoured names. Oh, could I find a magic wand, I’d bring those days again — I’d call the treasures from the caves of earth and throbbing main ; The land should be a glorious land, as ’twas in ancient time, When the fairies were in fashion, and the world was in its prime. Tiny. J^cnkqj $allak FIONN. BY EDWARD KENEALY. Lightly through the forest glancing, like an arrow sharp and fleet, Flies a doe of milk-white beauty, with black eyes and twinkling feet. O’er the glades that laugh in sunshine, through the dells that sleep in shade, Darts the doe of milk-white beauty, like a little trembling maid. Quickly rose the mighty Fionn, and he called his faithful hounds, Bran and Sgoelan, and they hurried when they heard the well- known sounds. Through the forest — through the forest, in pursuit the monarch hies, While the milk-white doe of beauty still before him ever flies. The morning sun shone sweetly when the wondrous chase began. The evening sun descended, yet still followed dogs and man, Through the many woodland windings, o’er the forest’s grassy floor, While the milk white doe of beauty was before them evermore. Till they came to old Slieve-Guillin the white doe before them flew; When they came to old Slieve-Guillin then she vanished from their view ; East and west looked mighty Fionn, north and south the monarch gazed, Sweet and broken was the baying b.v his sad hounds wildly raised. LEGENDARY BALLADS. 165 From the deep heart of a valley, by a silver-bosomed lake, Strains of plaintive sorrow wander, and the forest echoes wake ; Wild and mournful was the music as it struck the monarch’s ears, And the voice to which he listen’d, seem’d a voice of sobs and tears. By the still and gentle waters where the weeping willows twined, He beheld a beauteous ladye on the lonely bank reclined ; Her wild blue eyes were swollen with the big tears of despair, And adown her neck of lilies hung her long dishevell’d hair. Like the queenly cygnet sailing o’er the water’s crystal breast, Like the rosy light of evening when the sun is in the west, Like a freezing star of brightness when the heavens are fair to see Was the sad and beauteous ladye as she sang beneath the tree. “ Oh say, thou beauteous ladye,” thus outspake the noble chief, “ Whence comes thy great affliction ? whence proceeds thy song of grief? Hast thou wandered in this wild wood — hast thou wandered from thy way ? Or can knightly succour aid thee, 0 enchanting ladye say?” Then outspake the lovely ladye smiling through her tears of woe, “ Gentle chieftain, noble chieftain, since my sorrows thou would’st know, In the well of yonder lake there lies a jewel rich and rare, A ring of gold with diamonds set, which once my finger ware. 1 A ring of gold more dearly loved than I do love mine eyes, A ring which more than aught on earth my foolish wishes prize— Since rose the morning sunlight, I have wept the lake beside, Gazing like a maid distracted on its waters deep and wide. “ Gentle chieftain, valiant chieftain, wilt thou find my ring for me? Wilt thou dive beneath the crystal waves and search them curiously?” — Scarcely spake the beauteous ladye, when the brave and noble king Plunged beneath the shining waters of the lake to find the ring. On the sands that beamed like crystal lay the jewel glittering bright, And it shone as shines a golden starj or gleams the moon at nighty 166 LEGENDARY BALLADS. Gladly seized the gem the monarch ; and he clutch’d it in his hand, Aloft above the sparkling wave, and swam towards the land. Alas ! alas I what languor seizes on the monarch’s limbs, His brawny shoulders shrivel in the moment that he swims, He crawls into the valley green with footsteps faint and slow, His eyes are dim and glassy, and his hairs as white as snow. Far away that lovely ladye hath departed, — far away, And beside the magic waters sits the monarch old and gray, * Ah, the cursed spell of sorcery 1 that fate like this should fall On Eire’s noblest warrior, — her chief, the great Fingal. In the Hall of Spears at Alwin there is festal joy and mirth, The wine cup sparkles brightly; brightly shines the blazing hearth; Oh 1 where tarries mighty Fionn from the feast of cups and shells? Why stands his gold chair vacant while the harp’s proud music swells ? Sadly rise his noble chieftains — to the wild wood forth they wend, Where the green and drooping willows with the lake’s blue waters blend ; In the valley bent and wither’d still the sorrowing king repines, Like a famish’d way-worn wanderer his weak limbs he reclines. (l O weak and weary wanderer ! — Oh, hast thou seen to-day A mighty king with two fleet hounds come coursing by this way? A milk-white doe of beauty through these glens the monarch chased, And we follow in his footsteps o’er the lonely wooded waste.” * Miluachra and Aine, the two fair daughters of Guillin Cualgne, of the magic race of the Danaans, once saw and fell in love with Finn, the beauteous son of Comhall. Miluachra was jealous of her sister’s charms, and hearing her one day take an oath that she would never many any man whose hair was grey she determined, if possible, to make this rash vow a oar to her union with Finn. She assembled her friends of the Tuatha-de-Danaans, and by the power of their enchantments they called forth a magic lake at the side of Slieve Guillin, which had the property of rendering any person grey-headed who should enter its waters. 1 nls done, she assumed the form of a beautiful doe, and appeared to Finn as above related : then followed the chase, which ended in the destruction of the enchantress’s cave. The magical cup which restored Finn to his former shape, endowed him at the same time with additional wisdom and knowledge. LUOENDAliY BALLADS. 167 Deeply sigh’d the stricken monarch as he saw his chieftains bold, To their wondering ears his story with slow faltering tongue he told ; Long they cursed the vile Enchantress, as their much loved king they bore On their well-bound golden bucklers to the Witch’s cavern door. For three whole nights they labour’d till they burst the living tomb, For three whole days they labour’d till they pierced the deadly gloom ; In the middle of the cavern’d rock upon her fiery throne They found the vile Enchantress sitting balefully alone. Loudly shrieked the vile Enchantress as the chieftains all rush’d in, With clanging sword and aspen spear and fiery javelin. From her throne of magic terror she descended, trembling, pale, Shivering like a frighted ghost that flies on the northern gale. Then she moved to mighty Fionn, bearing in her snowy hand A cup of strange Enchantment which he drank at her command ; The spell pass’d off like darkness, and the monarch stood confess’d, In the light of all his beauty, — in his former splendour dress’d. THE PILGRIM HARPER. BY SAMUEL LOVER. The night was cold and dreary ! — no star was in the sky, When, travel-tired and weary, the harper raised his cry ; He raised his cry without the gate, his night’s repose to win, And plaintive was the voice that cried, “ Ah, won’t you let me in ? ” The portal soon was opened, for in the land of song, The minstrel at the outer gate yet never linger’d long ; And inner doors were seldom closed ’gainst wand’rers such as he, For locks or hearts to open soon, sweet music is the key. But if gates are oped by melody, so grief can close them fast, And sorrow o’er that once bright hall its silent spell had cast ; All undisturb’d, the spider there his web might safely spin, For many a day no festive lay — no harper was let in 168 LEGENDARY BALLADS. But when this harper entered, and said be came from far, And bore with him from Palestine the tidings of the war, And he could tell of all who fell, or glory there did win, The warder knew his noble dame would let that harper in. They led him to the bower, the lady knelt in prayer; The harper raised a well-known lay upon the turret stair ; The door was oped with hasty hand, true love its meed did win, For the lady saw her own true knight, when that harper was let in! THE GOBBAN SAER. BY T. D. IVl'GEE. [In Petrie’s “ Round Towers,” there is a short account of “ the Gobban Saer ” — their builder. He is there supposed to have lived in the first Christian age of Ireland — the 6th century, but his birth, life, and death, are involved in great obscurity and many legends. He is, perhaps, after Finn and St. Patrick, the most popular personage in the ancient period of Irish history.] He stept a man out on the ways of men, And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name — Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen, From some source unexplor’d, the Master came ; Gossips there were, who, wondrous keen of ken, Surmis’d that he should be a child of shame ! Others, declared him of the Druids — then, Through Patrick’s labours fallen from power and fame. He lived apart wrapt up in many plans — He woo’d not women, tasted not of wine — He shunn’d the sports and councils of the clans — Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine. His orisons were old poetic ranns, Which the new Olla ves deem’d an evil sign ; To most he seem’d one of those Pagan Khans, Whose mystic vigour knows no cold decline. He was the builder of the wondrous Towers, Which tall, and straight, and exquisitely round, Rise monumental round the isle once ours ; Index-like, marking spots of holy ground — LEGENDARY BALLADS. 1G9 In gloaming glens, in lowland bowers — On rivers’ banks, these Cloiteachs old abound : Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hours, And Science flutters like a bird spell-bound I Lo ! wheresoe’er these pillar-towers aspire, Heroes and holy men repose below — The bones of some glean’d from the Pagan pyre, Others in armour lie, as for a foe : It was the mighty Master’s life- desire, To chronicle his great ancestors, so ; What holier duty, what achievement higher Remains to us, than this he thus doth show ? Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death : His labours done, no man beheld him more — *Twas thought his body faded like a breath — Or like a sea-mist, floated off Life’s shore. Doubt overhangs his fate, and faith, and birth, His works alone attest his life, and lore — They are the only witnesses he hath — All else Egyptian darkness covers o’er. Men call’d him Gobban Saer, and many a tale Yet lingers in the bye- ways of the land, Of how he cleft the rock, and down the vale Led the bright river, child-like, in his hand : Of how on giant ships he spread great sail, And many marvels else by him first plann’d — But though these legends fade — in Innisfail His name and Towers for centuries shall stand. THE DEATH OF LEURY. A LEGEND OF TYRONE. [Within the precincts of the episcopal demesne of Clogher stands an earthen mound, called Mullagh-rath, bearing considerable resemblance to those of Tara and Emania. Local tradition points to it as once the residence of an Irish monarch who, as history records, swaged the sceptre of Ireland when St. Pa- trick began his mission, (see Moore’s Ireland, vol. i.) and whose fate is recorded in the following legend, the memory of which is imperishably preserved in the names of some of tho neighbouring townlands. The harbour of Dunleary 170 BALLADS. (Dun-Laoghaire — Anglic^, the fortress of Leary) near Dublin is said to have had its name from that monarch. Clogher (Cloch-oir) — Anglicd, the Golden $tone — took its appellation from a stone covered with plates of gold, from which an idol of the Pagan Irish, called Kerman or Hermand, Kelstack, deliv- ered oracular responses to his worshippers in the days of heathenism, (O’Fla- herty’s Ogygia, vol. ii.). — The Closach is the ancient name of the district in the centre* of which stands the city of Clogher. Tulnafoil signifies “the ground of the torn flesh.” — The grave of King Laoghaire is still shown in the ancient burying-ground in the town-land of Killuaheery, which derives its name from it. Its site, however, is now scarcely distinguishable from the surround- ing fields.] In Clogher once King Leury raigned, Cruelle hee was and sterne ; From Mullali-rath oft went hee forth To spoyle, to slay, to burne. And noughte liys spyrritte fierce could tame Save ye mystique voyce alone From Kerman Kelstaek’s bloudie shryne, Where stoode ye Golden Stone. One morne hee liadde assembled alle Hys galloglasses trewe, To hold a greate and merrie huntynge Ye wooddes of ye closach throughe. They alle hadde gathered in ye bawne To wage ye sylvanne warre, When, lo ! a hoarie aged manne Stoode ther their sporte to marre. In sackclothe coarse hee was attyred, Erin’s greate Sayncte was hee, And from hys gyrdle ther honge doune Both crosse and rosarie. Thenne up hee spake to that haughtie kvnge, “ Repente for ye sinnes thou’st done ; Worshippe ye trewe Almightie Godde, And Chryste ye virginne’s sonne.” A wrathfulle manne was ye kynge that daie Whenne hee herde what ye olde manne sayd. Hys eyes they flashed like yo levin-fyre, Hys hand on hys swerde boo layde. LEGENDARY BALLADS. 171 11 But no,” hee cryed, “ ’twere shame that I Should shedde ye caytiffe’s bloud And hee laughed, and sayde, “We’ll have a chase,” And thryce hee whystled loude. Thenne round hym thronged hys fierce wolf-dogges, Bran, Luath, Buscar, Ban ; And louder hee laughed, and cheered them on That hoarie reverend manne. But soone ye kynge hys aspect chaunged Whenne ye Sayncte sayed scornfullie, 11 That deth thou hast for mee prepared Thou surelie now shalt die.” Thenne, wondrous, at ye Sayncte’s commando Ye dogges forgette their lorde, And baye at hym that nurtured them And l'edde them at hys boarde. And fiercelie now they rushe on hym, And grapple at hys throat e — Tho’ never hee hadde in battell quayled, With feare hys herte is smote. And onward paste ye gazing thronge Hee franticlie did flie, And pale and ghastlie was hys cheeke And frenzied was hys eye. On, on hee dashed, o’er hille and dale, Ye baying dogges before ; And now Knockmanye’s height is passed, And now he gaines Cormore. But still ye sleuth-hounds on hys tracke Come howling keene behinde, And still whenne he slacked hys frantiquo speedc* Their crye rose on ye winde. On, on hee stretched-— hys lyppes were parched And hee breathed heavilie, And on hys haggard forehedde stood Bigge droppes of agoidc. LEGENDARY BALLADS. Stoopinge, hys deer-liyde brouges he loosed, As hee strayned agaynste ye hille, Esker-na-brouge they call ye place, In memorie of it stille. Now, Leury, now thy strength exerte, And everie muscle plye, 0 couldst thou reach thy huntynge-lodge Of distant Donogli-an-Igh ! Alas, thou ne’ere slialt reache thy halle, — In vain ye feaste is spredde, To-night ye Seanachie shall mourne Hys chiefe and master dead. Ye openynge packe gain grounde apace, And now, o’erspent with toyle, Ye illstarred kyng they overtake In bloude-stained Tul-na-foil. But who shall telle hys frantique mien And crie of agonie, When Luath foremost e gripped hys throate And broughte hym to hys knee. Deepe in hys quiv’ryng flankes they fixe : Hys lyfe-bloude now flows faste ; Ye fearfulle chase at length is o’er, — Hee shrieking breathes hys laste. In Kill-na-heery now he sleeps — Hys is a lowlie grave — May Heaven in mercie from such ende Eche erryng synner save 1 KING CORMAC’S CROWN. Prince Cormac sheathed his sharpest sword In the breast of his brother’s son ; And his nobles hailed him as Riagh and Lord, When the treacherous dood was done ; LEGENDARY BALLADS. 173 And they bore him in triumph to his palace, near Where Bann’s deep waters wind — Oh, Ulster I didst thou see and hear, Or wert thou deaf and blind ? And Cormac sate at the feast that night, In Antrim’s royal hall, With his vassal Tiernachs and men of might, And iron chieftains all ; “ And where is the Kingly diadem,” he cried, “ Ye have destined for this head?” When the oaken door swung suddenly wide, And lo ! a sight of dread 1 A bier with coffin and sable pall, And bearers in mournful attire, Moved slowly up the spacious hall — Wliile hushed was laugh and lyre ! And the Murderer shook in his royal chair, While he tried to grasp his spear ; But the curse of crime had stricken him there, And he look’d a statue of fear ! And the bearers lifted the coffin lid, And a corpse, with a gory wound In its naked breast, stood up amid The death-pale revellers ’round ; And a crown of blood-cemented clay In its hands it seem’d to bear, And it spake — “ Oh, King, enjoy thy sway 1 This Diadem shalt thou wear I ” A silence deeper than -the grave’s Now thrills the throng with dread ; And the broken murmurs of Banna’s waves Seem voices of the dead ! It>was far in the wane of the emerald Spring, And a bright May morning pour’d Its rays thro’ the hall, but the Irish King Sate dead at his banquet board I 174 LEGENDARY BALLADS. CATHAL THE HUNTER. A LEGEND OF LOUGH SWILLY The hoarse Autumn wind down the valley went sweeping, The leaves of the forest hung high on its wing ; The torrents, surcharged, from the mountains came leaping, To join the fierce raid of the dark Storm-King : The thunder-clouds burst o’er the breast of Lough Swilly The lightning shafts shivered the oaks on its shore ; And the echoes awakened a fitful reveille, And died far away in the hills of Rosscore. Young Eily sat lone in her ivy-crowned bower, For Cathal, the chief, of the dark flowing hair ; But the pulse of her heart had out-counted the hour That told of their meeting ; no Hunter was there : The big pearly tears on her dark eyelids glisten, The throb of her bosom rose loud o’er her breath, As she bends by the fast-fading embers to listen, When the tramp of the charger is heard on the heath She flies through the night. It roars hoarser and higher She hears the deep bay of his dog o’er its swell ; When riderless, foaming, his dark steed sweeps by her — The chief that bestrode him lies stretched in the dell ! His last gush of life tinged the foam of the fountain, A spear-shaft still drank at the source of its tide ; And his own, that oft pierced the red deer of the mountain, Lay shivered, and told that not tamely he died. A hunter of Eire, was Cathal O’Connor : The lord of the valley sought Eily O’More ; He sought her in guile , but ere stoop to dishonour, She wandered a huntress on mountain and shore. And Cathal, thus doomed , was the friend of her childhood ; And the wand, as the sceptre, had passed from his race : No castle was his, but a cot by the wild wood, A wolf-dog, a steed, and a spear for the chase. The stormwraith, still, through the valley went sighing, The wolf-dog lay crouched on the rocks at his head. LEGENDAiltf BALLADS. 175 When the dawning disclosed where the Hunter was lying. And the bride of his bosom, young Eily was dead ! The death-wail was chaunted, the mourners arrayed them, And laid them to rest in a cloister so gray ; But the walls of that shrine and the yew-trees that shade them, Like the race of the island bow down to decay. The footsteps of Time, down that valley went stealing ; The stag gamboled freely, and drank of its rills ; No music arose from that wood-bosomed sheeling ; No voice of the hunter was heard on the hills ; But often, when midnight in dark spells abounded, The rock where they w r eltered, re-echoed their moans, And the peasants’ rough hands raised the Cairn around it,* But their vows of red vengeance outnumbered the stones The third year had toll’d in that valley of mourning, Its lord was away at his monarch’s behest, And the bride of his bosom awaits his returning, Till patience holds war with the fears of her breast : The deer in the old forest coverts were belling, And the wraith as before was abroad on the blast ; And the deep midnight bells of the convent were knelling For souls then departing, and souls that had passed. Anon, the grey mountains seemed parted asunder ; The owl flapped his wings in the storm fiend’s face, And the lightning-flasli leaped from the low-riven thunder, And convent and castle were rock’d to their base, All night through the castle, a deathbell kept ringing, On its turret the raven foreboded of fate ; And a lull in the tempest the dark omen bringing — Two riderless chargers lay gored at the gate. * The manner of raising the cairn, on the site of a murder, is this. Each passer by throws a stone, perhaps more than one, on the fatal spot, and offers up prayers for the repose of the murdered, and the revealment of the murderer. The prayers are offered, or not, according to the character of the deceased; but to pass without depositing the stone is held an offence against this time- honoured custom. How this habit arose, or at what time, is not known. Perhaps it is the offspring of a veiy natural cause: a desire to hide the traces of human crime, &c. Yet it is one of the agents — and certainly a very good one— in preserving the traditions of a primitive people. The belief that such places are haunted, is but a feature of the time in which it originated* 176 LEGENDARY BALLADS. The torches were lit. On the round haunted Cairn The lord lay extended — his spirit had flown ; And his spear that lay fixed, the same night of the year , in The heart of the Hunter drank deep at his own. Beside him, in death, lay the page of his training ; Above him a wolf-dog yet dripping with gore, That glared on the corse with a wild vengeful meaning, Yelled down through the night, and was heard of no more. * * m * * And yet in that vale, when the faggot is sparkling, The tale of the Hunter is told by its light ; And the peasant, abroad, when the shadows are darkling, Hears strains of wild song, in that valley, at night. And when the full moon of the Autumn breaks o’er him, A horseman is seen on the hills of Rosscore ;* A lady beside, and a wolf-dog before him : ’Tis Catlial the Hunter, and Eily O’More. Mylo. A LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK. BY T. D. M‘GEE. Seven weary years in bondage the young Saint Patrick pass’d, Till the sudden hope came to him to break his bonds at last ; On the Antrim 'hills reposing with the North star overhead As the grey dawn was disclosing “I trust in God,” he said — “ My sheep will find a shepherd and my Master find a slave, But my mother has no other hope, but me this side the grave.” Then girding close his mantle, and grasping fast his wand, He sought the open Ocean through the bye-ways of the land. The berries from the hedges on his solitary way, And the cresses from the waters were his only food by day. The cold stone was his pillow, and the hard heath was his bed, Till looking from Benbulben, he saw the sea outspread. * It was a popular superstition that the old feudal chiefs, who, while living, were passionately fond of the chase, hunt through their old demesnes after death. That this superstition was also believed in England, appears from Harrison Ainsworth’s tale of u Windsor Finest. LEGENDARY BALLADS. 177 lie saw that ancient Ocean, unfathomed and unbound, That breaks on Erin’s beaches with so sorrowful a sound. There lay a ship at Sligo bound up the Median sea, “ God save you, master mariner, will you give berth to me ; I have no gold to pay thee, but Christ will pay thee yet ; ” Loud laughed that foolish mariner, “ Nay, nay, lie might forget !” Forget ! oh, not a favour done to the humblest one, Of all his human kindred, can ’scape th’ Eternal Son ! ” In vain the Christian pleaded, the willing sail was spread, His voice no more was heeded than the seabirds overhead — And as the vision faded, the ship against the sky, On the briny rocks the Captive prayed to God to let him die But God, whose ear is open to catch the sparrow’s fall, At the sobbing of his servant frowned, along the waters all — The billows rose in wonder and smote the churlish crew, And around the ship the thunder like battle-arrows flew ; The screaming sea-fowl’s clangor, in Kish-corran’s inner caves, Was hushed before the anger of the tempest-trodden waves. Like an eagle-hunted gttnnet, the ship drove back amain, To where the Christian captive sat in solitude and pain — “ Come in,” they cried, “ oh Christian, we need your company, For it was sure your angry God that met us out at sea.” Then smiled the gentle heavens, and doffed their sable veil, Then sunk to rest the breakers and died away the gale. So sitting by the Pilot the happy captive kept On his rosary a reck’ning, while the seamen sung or slept. Before the winds propitious past Achill, south by Ara, The good ship gliding left behind Hiar-Connaught like an arrow— From the southern brow of Erin they shoot the shore of Gaul, And in holy Tours, Saint Patrick findeth freedom, friends, and all. In holy Tours he findeth home and Altars, friends and all ; There matins hail the morning, sweet bells to vespers call; There’s no lord to make him tremble, no Magician to endure, Nor need he to dissemble in the pious streets of Tours ; But ever, as he rises with the morning’s early light, And still erewhile he sleepeth, when the North star shines at night; When he sees the angry Ocean by the tyrant Tempest trod, He murmurs in devotion — “ Fear nothing t Trust to God !” M 178 LEGENDARY BALLADS. THE DREAM OF EITHNE. A TRADITION OF RATH-CROGHAN. Tue day is waning eve-w T ard* Starr’d with gold and costly stone, Young Eithn4, peerless partner of King NiaU’s heart and throne, In her gorgeous bridal chamber sitteth musingly alone. From the banquet-hall where revel his chief nobles, comes the king;— Much he marvels at the silence of his bride on entering ; Then he smiles the while he gazes, for he deems her slumbering. But that long and painful shudder ; that horror-gaze intent ; Why these changes all unwonted in each pale-hued lineament? Why the fixed eyes, outstaring with intensest wonderment ? “ Best beloved ! Eithn4 ! Eithn6 ! What betokens this strange mood? ” Cries the monarch, with distraction in his tone and attitude. She looks not — she replies not — but the shudder is renewed ! u My Eithn4 1 ” — and he clasps her in a passionate embrace, Dashing back the unbound tresses that fell clustering round her face — Well its aspect might affright him, for of Life it wore no trace ! Long and wistful thereon gazed he, with anguish-starting eye ; As the Dead are kissed, he kissed her, in a burst of agony. Hush ! the bloodless lips are parted ; — is not that a smothered sigh? Sudden Life hath lit the features ; they are manifestly stirred ; Like the echo of an echo — rather felt to be, than heard — Was the almost soundless sweetness of the single issuing word \t had often thrilled him, thundered on the well-won battle field ; It had thrilled him, though a whisper, when her Love was first revealed ; But all tame was such emotion to the rapture this doth yield ! ‘ Niall ! ” — How it circled like a cordial through each vein I How he bounded as health’s crimson on her cheeks appeared again, Like the flush that heralds sun-rise, lighting hill, and sea, and plain! LEGENDARY BALLADS. 179 Softer, purer, lovelier, than the lustrous isles of blue Which the tempest-clouds, dispersing, give in glimpses to the view, When her eyelids woke to vision, was the colour that beamed through. u Thanks to thee, O, blessed Briga ! Son of Lir! prudent art thou. For the guarding of this Dear One from the doom I dreaden now!” — Thus exclaims he, in a transport, bending reverently low. When, all suddenly up-springing, round his neck her arms she flings ; Muttering sounds that were not language, there she frantically clings, Speaks this Love’s too blest emotion, neglecting other things. “ My soul’s idol, my own Niall! be not angry now with me, Nor chide, albeit thou deemest what I shall recount to thee As the wanderings of a dreamer — as the spirit’s phantasy. “ I have had a waking vision, most unlike a thing of thought, In the day-hours so presented, and the more with warning fraught, That its palpable creations from the fancy borrowed nought. “ I beheld proud hosts collecting — winged curraghs on the brine, From whose prow and tall masts floating, blazoned banners, Dun-like, shine ; In the headmost ship their Chief stood — never face was liker thine! “On a Southern shore disbarked they — laid it waste with fire and sword ; Vain was rampart, vain resistance, where the armed torrent poured. In their Leader I could err not — thou it was, my Love, my Lord! “ Onward swept they, flushed with conquest — but th p record why prolong ? — Spoils in richness passing fancy, and in number power of tongue, As the guerdon of their labours, to the conquerors belong. “ War-fed, sated, gorged with plunder, now for home the clans- men yearn, As the goal of the incursion ; on the eve of their return, Camped beside a rolling river the glad thousands I discern *80 LEGENDARY BALLADS. ff At a distance, pacing slowly, thou thyself dost too appear Unguarded, unattended; while, unseen, is lurking near One whom, couldst thou dread aught mortal, it were well to shun and fear. “ Dark-browed Eochy, Prince of Leinster — as I live, his was the scowl, The sullen, sombrous visage, with assassin-meanings foul, Beholding which, forebodings shot like snake-stings thro’ my soul. " Yet my mental scope was dimm’d not — the more keen grew every sense ; — Arrow fits he to the bow-string — gives it wing — oh ! the suspense And the horror of that instant are but mocked by utterance 1 4 Well the deadly shaft was levelled — quivering in thy heart it stood ! I perceived thee reeling — fallen — weltering in thy heart’s red flood! ’Twas too much for human sufFrance — feeling fled the while I viewed. 'Why awoke I from that torpor? Then but once thy griefs were drained — Thou wert spared Hope’s dread revulsion : nor was I, alas ! constrained Finis to tell thee — listen, Niall ! — that my life draws near an end. * From the fount-springs of existence flow its currents slowlier ; Mine eyes are shadow-shrouded ; feel — my pulse forgets to stir ; Ah ! too well I read the symptoms — seldom do the dying err!” That night in Croghan’s chambers things not earthly-shaped are seen 1 Dissolution’s solemn warner, sad upswells the Banshee’s keen ! Morning consummates the omens; dead is Eire’s youthful Queen! On her breast, when bared for burial, lo ! a strangest sign is found Deeply marked, — the gory semblance of an arrow-given wound, * With the figures she had dreamed of wreathed curiously around ! Truly read her glance the future. As she said, so was the end ; Niall led his warlike legions over many a sea and land, On the Loire’s banks to perish by the traitor Eochy’s hand. Mac-Duacii. LEGENDARY BALLADS. 181 A LEGEND OF ANTRIM. BY T. D. M ( GEE. (fiHOWTNG HOW RANDALL M‘DONALD OF LORN, WON THE LANDS OV ANTRIM AND THEIR LADY.) The Lady of Antrim rose with the morn, And donned her grandest gear ; And her heart beat fast, when a sounding horn Announced a suitor near ; Her’s was a heart so full of pride, That love had little room, And faith, I would not wish me such bride, For all her beautiful bloom. One suitor there came from the beottish shore, Long, and lithe, and grim ; And a younger one from Dunluce hoar, And the lady inclined to him. “ But hearken ye, nobles both,” she said, As soon as they did dine — “ The hand must prove its chieftainry That putteth a ring on mine. u But not in the lists with armed hands, Must this devoir be done, Yet he who wins my broad, broad lands Their lady may count as won. Ye both were born upon the shore, — Were bred upon the sea, Now let me see you ply the oar, For the land you love — and me 1 “ The chief that first can reach the strand May mount at morn and ride, And his long day’s ride shall bound his land, And I will be his bride ! ” McQuillan felt hope in every vein, As the bold, bright lady spokty And McDonald glanced over his rival again, And bowed with a bargeman’s stroke. 182 LEGENDARY BALLADS. ’Tis Summer upon the Antrim shore — The shore of shores it is — Where the white old rocks deep caves arch o’er, Unfathomed by man I wis — Where the basalt breast of our Isle flings back The Scandinavian surge, To howl through its native Scaggerack, Chaunting the Viking’s dirge. ’Tis Summer — the long white lines of foam Roll lazily to the beach, And man and maid from every home Their eyes o’er the waters stretch. On Glenarm’s lofty battlements Sitteth the Lady fair, And the warm west wind blows softly Through the links of her golden hair. The boats in the distant offing, Are marshalled prow to prow ; The boatmen cease their scoffing, And bend to the rowlocks now ; Like glory-guided steeds they start — Away o’er the waves they bound ; Each rower can hear the beating heart Of his brother boatman sound. Nearer ! nearer ! on they come — Row, McDonald, row ! For Antrim’s princely castle home, Its lands, and its Lady, row ! The chief that first can grasp the strand May mount at morn and ride, And his long day’s ride shall bound his land, And she shall be his bride ! He saw his rival gain apace, He felt the spray in his wake — He thought of her who watched the race More dear for her dowry sake 1 Then he drew his skein from out its sheath, And lopt off his left hand, And pale and fierce, as a chief in death, He hurled it to < he strand 1 LEGENDARY BALLADS. 183 “ The chief that first can grasp the strand, May mount at morn and ride Oh, fleet is the steed which the bloody hand Through Antrim’s glens doth guide 1 And legends tell that the proud ladye Would fain have been unbanned, For the chieftain who proved his chieftainry Lorded both wife and land. AILEEN THE HUNTRESS. BY EDWARD WALSH. [The incident related in the following ballad happened about the year 1731. Aileen, or Ellen, was daughter of M l Cartie of Clidane, an estate originally be- stowed upon this respectable branch of the family of M‘Cartie More, by James, the seventh earl of Desmond, and which, passing safe through the confiscations of Elizabeth, Cromwell, and William, remained in their possession until the beginning of the present century. Aileen, who is celebrated in the traditions of the people for her love of hunting, was the wife of James O’Connor, of Cluain-Tairbh, grandson of David, the founder of the Siol-t Da y a well-known sept at this day in Kerry. This David was grandson to Thomas MacTeige O’Connor, of Ahalahanna, head of the second house of O’Connor Kerry, who, forfeiting in 1666, escaped destruction by taking shelter among his relations, the Nagles of Monanimy.] Fair Aileen MUartie, O’Connor’s young bride, Forsakes her chaste pillow with matronly pride, And calls forth her maidens (their number was nine) To the bawn of her mansion, a-milking the kine. They came at her bidding, in kirtle and gown, And braided hair, jetty, and golden, and brown, And form like the palm-tree, and step like the fawn, And bloom like the wild rose that circled the bawn. As the Guebre’s round tower o’er the fane of Ardfert — As the white hind of Brandon by young roes begirt — As the moon in her glory ’mid bright stars outhung — Stood Aileen M‘Cartie her maidens among. Beneath the rich kerchief, which matrons may wear, Strayed ringletted tresses of beautiful hair ; They wav’d on her fair neck, as darkly as though Twere the raven’s wing shining o'er Mawfirerton’s snow ! 184 LEGENDARY BALLADS. A circlet of pearls o’er her white bosom lay, Erst worn by thy proud Queen, O’Connor the gay,* * * § And now to the beautiful Aileen come down, The rarest that ever shed light in the Laune. f The many-fringed falluinn\ that floated behind, Gave its hues to the sun-light, its folds to the wind — The brooch that refrain’d it, some forefather bold Had torn from a sea-king in battle-field old ! Around her went bounding two wolf-dogs of speed, So tall in their stature, so pure in their breed ; While the maidens awake to the new-milk’s soft fall, A song of O’Connor in Carraig’s proud hall. As the milk came outpouring, and the song came outsung, O’er the wall ’mid the maidens a red-deer outsprung — Then cheer’d the fair lady — then rush’d the mad hound — And away with the wild stag in air-lifted bound ! The gem-fastened falluinn is dash’d on the bawn — One spring o’er the tall fence — and Aileen is gone ! But morning’s rous’d echoes to the deep dells proclaim The course of that wild stag, the dogs, and the dame ! By Cluain Tairbh’s green border, o’er moorland and height, The red-deer shapes downward the rush of his flight — In sunlight his antlers all-gloriously flash, And onward the wolf-dogs and fair huntress dash ! By Sliabh-Mis now winding, (rare hunting I ween !) He gains the dark valley of Scota the queen § Who found in its bosom a cairn-lifted grave, When Sliabh-Mis first flow’d with the blood of the brave 1 By Coill-Cuaigh’s || green shelter, the hollow rocks ring — Coill-Cuaigh, of the cuckoo’s first song in the spring, * O’Connor, sumamed “ Sugach,” or the Gaj, was a celebrated chief of this race, who flourished in the fifteenth century. f The river Laune flows from the Lakes of Killarney, and the celebrated Kerry Pearls are found in its waters. X Falluinn,, — the Irish mantle. § The first battle fought between the Milesians and the Tuatha de Danans for the empire of Ireland was at Sliabh-Mis, in Kerry, in which Scota, an Egyptian princess, and the relict of Milesius, was slain. A valley on the north side of Sliabh-Mis, called Glean Scoithin, or the vale of Scota, is said to be the place of her interment. The ancient chronicles assert that this battle was fought 1300 years before the Christian era. ii Coill-Cuaigh , — the Wood of the Cuckoo, so called from being the favourite LEGENDARY BALLADS. 185 Coill-Cuaigh of the tall oak and gale-scenting spray — God’s curse on the tyrants that wrought thy decay ! Now Maing’s lovely border is gloriously won. Now the towers of the island* gleam bright in the sun, And now Ceall-an Amanach’sf portals are pass’d, Where headless the Desmond found refuge at last ! By Ard-na greachj mountain, and Avonmore’s head, To the Earl’s proud pavilion the panting deer fled — 'Where Desmond’s tall clansmen spread banners of pride, And rush’d to the battle, and gloriously died ! The huntress is coming, slow, breathless, and pale, Her raven locks streaming all wild in the gale ; She stops — and the breezes bring balm to her brow — But wolf-dog and wild deer, oh ! where are they now ? On Reidhldn-Tigli-an-Earla, by Avonmore’s well, His bounding heart broken, the hunted deer fell, And o’er him the brave hounds all gallantly died, In death still victorious — their fangs in his side. ’Tis evening — the breezes beat cold on her breast, And Aileen must seek her far home in the west ; Yet weeping, she lingers where the mist -wreathes are chill, O’er the red-deer and tall dogs that lie on the hill ! Whose harp at the banquet told distant and wide, This feat of fair Aileen, O’Connor’s young bride ? O ’Daly’s — whose guerdon tradition hath told, Was a purple-crown’d wine-cup of beautiful gold ! haunt of the bird of summer, is now a bleak desolate moor. The axe of the stranger laid its honours low. * u Castle Island ” or the “island of Kerry,’’ — the stronghold of the Fitz- geralds. f It was in this churchyard that the headless remains of the unfortunate Gerald, the 16th Earl of Desmond, were privately interred. The head was carefully pickled, and sent over to the English queen, who had it fixed on Lon- don-bridge. This mighty chieftain possessed more than 570,000 acres of land, and had a train of 500 gentlemen of his own name and race. At the source of the Blackwater, where he sought refuge from his inexorable foes, is a mountain called “ Reidhlan-Tigh-an-Earla,” or “ The Plain of the Earl’s House.” He was slain near Castle Island on 11th November 1583. f Ard-na greach . — the height of the spoils or armies. 188 LEGENDARY BALLADS. SHANE DYMAS’ DAUGHTER It was the eve of holy St. Bride, The Abbey bells were ringing, And the meek- eyed nuns at eventide The vesper hymns were singing. Alone, by the well of good St. Bride, A novice fair was kneeling ; And there seem’d not o’er her soul to glide One shade of earthly feeling. For ne’er did that clear and sainted well Reflect from its crystal water, A form more fair than the shadow that fell From O’Niall’s lovely daughter. Her eye was bright as the blue concave, And beaming with devotion ; Her bosom fair as the foam on the wave Of Erin’s rolling ocean. Yet 0 ! forgive her that starting tear : From home and kindred riven, Fair Kathleen, many a long, long year, Must be the Bride of Heaven. Her beads were told, and the moonlight shone Sweetly on Callan Water, lYhen her path was cross’d by a holy nun ; — “ Benedicite, fair daughter ! ” Fair Kathleen started — well did she know — O what will not love discover ! Her country’s scourge, and her father’s foe, — ’Twas the voice of her Saxon lover. 1 Raymond!” — “ Oh hush, my Kathleen dear, My path’s beset with danger ; But cast not, love, those looks of fear Upon thy dark-hair’d stranger. “ My red roan steed’s in yon Culdee grove, My bark is out at sea, love ! My boat is moored in the ocean cove ; Then Ixaste awev with me. love ! LEGENDARY BALLADS. 183 “My father has sworn my hand shall le To Sydney’s daughter given ; And thine, to-morrow, will offer thee A sacrifice to heaven. u But away, my love, away with me ! The breeze to the west is blowing ; And thither, across the dark-blue sea, Are England’s bravest going.* u To a land where the breeze from the orange bowers Comes over the exile’s sorrow, Like the light-wing’d dreams of his early hours Or his hope of a happier morrow. M And there, in some valley’s loneliness By wood and mountain shaded, We’ll live in the light of wedded bliss, Till the lamp of life be faded. u Then thither with me, my Kathleen, fly ! The storms of life we’ll weather, Till in bliss beneath the western sky, We live, love, die together!” — “ Die, Saxon, now 1 ” — At that fiend-like yell An hundred swords are gleaming : Down the bubbling stream, from the tainted well, His heart’s best blood is streaming. In vain does he doff the hood so white, And vain his falchion flashing ; Five murderous brands through his corslet bright Within his heart are clashing ! His last groan echoing through the grove, His life blood on the water, He dies, — thy first and thy only love, O’Niall’s hapless daughter ! Vain, vain, was the shield of that breast of snow ! In vain that eye beseech’d them ; Through his Kathleen’s heart, the murderous blow, Too deadly aimed, has reach’d him. Alluding fen the of Virginia, by Sir Walter Raleigh. 188 LEGENDARY R A.LL The spirit fled with the red red blood Fast gushing from her bosom ; The blast of death has blighted the bud Of Erin’s loveliest blossom ! ’Tis morn ; — in the deepest doubt and dread The gloomy hours are rolling ; No sound save the requiem for the dead, Or knell of the death-bell tolling. ’Tis dead of night— not a sound is heard, Save from the night-wind sighing ; Or the mournful moaivof the midnight bird, To yon pale planet crying. Who names the name of his murder’d child ? What spears to the moon are glancing ? ’Tis the vengeful cry of Shane Dymas wild,* His bonnacht-men advancing. Saw ye that cloud o’er the moonlight cast, Fire from its blackness breaking ? Heard ye that cry on the midnight blast, The voice of terror shrieking ? ’Tis the fire from Ardsaillach’s f willow’d height, Tower and temple falling ; ’Tis the groan of death, and the cry of fright, From monks for mercy calling ! AILEEN O’MOOEE. BY J. FRAZER. Our weapons were broken, and silent our lyres — O’Moort; was a serf on the land of his sires ! Yet over his heart, the vain hope to recover His right, held a sway — like the spell on a lover — (And could he but cope with the conqueror still, Oh ! curse on the slave who could censure the will !) * For an account of this fierce but high-souled chieftain, see Stuart s His- torical Memoirs of the citv of Armagh. \ “ The Height of Widows” the ancient name of Armagh. LEGENDARY BALLADS. 189 But in the bright omens of triumph he drew, From banding around him the faithful — the few — Deep certainty merely of merciless slaughter Was read by his Aileen — his only — his daughter ! But if it was strange that he feared not the danger, For Aileen’s proud spirit to shun it, was stranger ! She haughtily swept by the Sassenach maiden, Whose brow was with jewels the brightliest laden ! She startled our tyrants, while stalking along Our down-trodden necks, with the bursts of bold song ! She kept the faint spirit of freedom in life ! Yet vowed to betray , should we hazard the strife ! God bless us ! we deemed that the fairies had caught her, And left the O’Moore an old crone for his daughter. And often, when only the crickets were keeping Their watch by the “ rakings,” * low whispers came creeping Around her green casement ; and, fitfully starting, O’Moore could distinguish the fairies departing ! Her brow lost its bloom, and her step lost its lightness — She shrunk to her bower, from the sun in its brightness ! But when the last glories of evening were sinking — When the stars to each other deep silence were winking — The maid was away to dim lane or grey water ! He quailed— the O’Moore — for the faith of his daughter. Else easy it were, on our courage relying, To rive every chain — our old tyrant lay dying ! And Gerald, the heir, seemed contriving by stealth To catch from the breezes the blessing of health, So idly he roamed ! — yet a manlier form Ne’er made of young mortal a match for the storm ! Each sunrise he came to the fountain, but quaffed Not a drop, till fair Aileen had lifted the draught ; And quaintly would tell the O’Moore — in the water Was rose-seed, that fell from the cheek of his daughter. At last he had laid his dark sire in the tomb, And his cheek from poor Aileen’s had caught all the bloom ; * Tb i remains of the turf-fir* covered up with the ashes to keep it n till morning. 190 LEGENDARY ballads. His arms, and his gates were expectingly wide — She must mix with the maidens to welcome his bride ! And something unearthly of spirit and grace blazed out from her heart, o’er her form and her face ! “ Now — now, while our tyrants are cooped in the hall, We may banquet our gaunt, haggard skeins upon all; Oh ! would I could spare the good Gerald from slaughter !’* The O’Moore had forgotten the vow of his daughter. Far out on the night -air the torches were blazing, The gentles were dancing— the vassals were gazing — The mirth and the music — the loving and laughing — The wine and the welcome — the coaxing and quaffing Were treading on midnight; when, sweeping and crushing, A band of rough serfs on the reyel came rushing ! Why halts the O’Moore ? Comes enchantment to sever, And dash from his grasp the vain weapon for ever? Thanks — thanks to the maid, and the fairies that taught her — O’Moore’s in his hall, and the bride is his daughter ! FINEEN DHUV. See you those crumbling castle walls on Innis Sherkin’s Isle ? A chieftain once held princely state within that ruined pile, And there was heard the bard’s wild harp thrill through the lofty hall — There armour gleamed in the torches’ light, as it hung upon the wall ; And quickly flowed upon the board the mantling blood-red wines In silver cups and chalices, the spoil of plundered shrines. Yet in that pirate’s fortress was one who might have been Of many a prouder castle the meet and stately queen. Though gentle in her bearing, yet of all the rude crew there Not one would dare uncourteously to treat that lady fair. She was the gloomy chieftain’s bride. From Italy’s fair land — From father, mother, kindred, snatched by his adventurous hand. She could not love her captor : his bearing stern and rude Was suited ill to win upon one of such gentle mood. And many a day she sorrow’d for her own romantic home, With the tamarisk branches weeping o’er the Arno’s leaping foam, LEGENDARY BALLADS. 191 And her orange trees, all golden with their heavy glowing fruit, And the wild acanthus twining round the pine tree’s mossy root, And the sweet south wind that stealeth with perfume-laden sighs, O’er the brilliant flowers whose chalices outshine the rainbow’s dyes. There is hurrying in the castle walls, for the pirate chief to-night Sails with his gallant ship to sweep the sea so calm and bright ; His vassals all are polishing the cuirass and the shield, And some are trying whether the breastplate’s links would yield. And the castle hall is thickly strewn with heaps of armour round, And the old walls loudly echo with the sword-blade’s clashing sound. The good ship now is ready — the chieftain steps on board, And seems of all the boundless wave the master and the lord ; And as the vessel joyously the blue waves boundeth o’er, Proud thoughts inspire the bosom of the Chief of Baltimore. That night from out the pirate’s ship the flames rose fierce and high, And tinged with reddening blushes the cold grey evening sky ; And all her fair proportions, that her chief had scanned with pride, Now lay a burning, sinking wreck upon the sleeping tide. And the warders of the castle saw the redness in the sky, And they gazed upon their Ghieftain’s fate with dim and tearful eye"; For though his words were stern, yet his old time-honoured name Was loved by them from mem’ries of his father’s ancient fame. Not one of them but wept to see the blue waves closing o’er That last of those stern Sea-kings — the lords of Baltimore. Three years have passed ; the summer’s sun is smiling in the bay ; ind the castle walls with banners bright are gleaming in the day. Light boats with minstrels singing sweet are floating o’er the wave, The chapel bells are ringing peals such as they never gave. The vassals crowd the castle-yard, and glad shouts rend the skies, The blue rock-pigeon from his cave in frighten’d circles flies ; And sprightly village maidens, with wreaths of flowers, are seen To strew the bridal chamber of their young and lovely Queen, And hollow peals of cannon come booming o’er the tide, For a youthful minstrel weds to-day the pirate chieftain’s bride. But there gazes One upon that scene with passion at his heart — One ^ho from the gladsome crowd holds sullenly apart ; 192 LEGENDARY BALLADS. With fever’d eye he gazes on that well-remembered scene, Whose aspect filled his visions when distant he had been. In a foreign dungeon he had spent three years of weary days, A dungeon where he never saw the bright sun’s blessed rays. Was it for this, as his vessel sank, the day he left his home — Was it for this his life was snatched from greedy ocean’s foam, To see his bride another’s ? and shall he only weep ? No ! his must be the vengeance that shall never die nor sleep. Unrecognised, and sternly, he hath crossed the lofty hall, And sadly breaks upon his ear the sound of festival. Sternly, in his dark resolve, he treads the castle stair — His eye-balls fiercely glowing, like a lion in his lair — While memories crowd about his heart, of times that once had been ; But still with hasty step he gains the castle’s magazine, And with determined hand he opes the heavy iron door, And with his pistol fires the casks that lie about the floor. A crashing sound, a lightning glare, was for a moment given, And the mighty walls, with a roar of rage, leaped upwards to the heaven ; And the frighten’d sea from its shores sprang back as it heard the stunning sound ; And the caves and cliffs of the rugged coast trembled for leagues around ; And the sea-birds on their summits fell unconscious on the shore — So perished the bold Fineen Dhuv, the Chief of Baltimore. One fragment there yet remains of that castle, once so proud ; And the ivy twines around it, like a dead man’s burial shroud ; And people say, that ev’ry night, there wanders by the tide The dim and wailing spirits of the Minstrel and his Bride. St. Senanus. THE VIRGIN MARY’S BANK BY J. J. CALLANAN. [From the foot of Inchidony Island, an elevated tract of sand runs out into the sea, and terminates in a high green bank, which forms a pleasing contrast with the little desert behind it, and the black solitary rock immediately under. Tradition tells that the Virgin came one night to this hillock to pray, and was discovered kneeling there by the crew of a vessel that was coming to anchor LEGEND Alt Y" DALLADS. 193 near the piace. They laughed at her piety, and made some meriy and unbe- coming remarks on her beauty, upon which a storm arose and destroyed the ship and her crew. Since that time do vessel has been known to anchor near the spot.] The evening star rose beauteous above the fading day, As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray, And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight’s mellow fall But the bank of green where Mary knelt was brightest of them all Slow moving o’er the waters, a gallant bark appear’d, And her joyous crew look’d from the deck as to the land she near’d; To the calm and shelter’d haven she floated like a swan, And her wings of snow o’er the waves below in pride and beauty shone. The master saw our Lady as he stood upon the prow, And mark’d the whiteness of her robe — the radiance of her brow; Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless breast, And her eyes look’d up among the stars to Him her soul lov’d best. He show’d her to his sailors, and he hail’d her with a cheer, And on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with laugh and jeer ; And madly swore, a form so fair they never saw before ; And they curs’d the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the shore. The ocean from its bosom shook off the moonlight sheen, And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their Queen*. And a cloud came o’er the heavens, and a darkness o’er the land, And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady on the strand. Out burst the pealing thunder, and the lightning leap’d about ; And rushing with his watery war, the tempest gave a shout ; And that vessel from a mountain wave came down with thund’ring shock ; And her timbers flew like scatter’d spray on Inchidony’s rock. Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild and high ; But the angry surge swept over them, and hush’d their gurgling cry; And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest pass’d away, And down, still chafing from their strife, th’ indignant waters lay. II. N 19 ± LEGENDARY BALLADS. When the calm and purple morning shone out on high Dunmore, Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchidony’s shore ; And to this day the fisherman shows where the scoffers sank : And still he calls that hillock green, “ the Virgin Mary’s bank.” SIR DOMNALL. Afar in the vales of green Houra my heart lingers all the day long, ’Mid the dance of the light-footed maidens, with the music of Ounanar’s song, Where the steep hills uprise all. empurpled with the bloom of the bright heather bells, Looking down on their murmuring daughters the blue streams of Houra’s wild dells ! In the hush of a calm Summer sunset, where sing these sweet streams as they flow, As I sat with the bright-eyed young maidens, they made me their bard long ago ; Then I told of each valley some story, some tales of each blue mountain crest, But they loved, of all wild tales I sang them, the lay of Sir Domnall the best; So I’ll sing once again of his deeds in my boyhood’s rude mea- sures and rhymes — Then, gentles, all list to the story, this lay of old chivalric times ! Nigh the shores of the loud-sounding Bregoge, high towering o’er valley and wold, Walled in by the rough steeps of Houra, there standeth a grey feudal hold ; It is worn by the hard hail of battle, decay is awork on its hill, Yet it stands like a sorrow-struck Titan, high, lone, and uncon- quer’ble still ! The green ivy clingeth around it, the blast is at play in its halls, The weasel peeps forth from its crannies, the black raven croakj on its walls ; The peasants who pass in the even will hurry their steps from its height, For they tell fearful things of its chambers, and call it the Tower of the Sprite ! LEGEUDAlir BALLADS. But though lone be its halls, they rang merry with wassail and Minstrel’s wild lay, When it sheltered the youthful Sir Domnall, its lord in the good olden day ! Oh ! he was a brave forest knight 1 As each morning upspraijg from the sea He was out by the fay-haunted streams with his falcons in woody Fear Muighe ;* Or away, far away, mid the mountains with stag-hound and bugle and steed, O’er-matching the gray wolf in boldness, outstripping the red deer in speed 1 And his heart and his strong hand were bravest ; when high rose the trumpet’s wild strain, When the war-fires blazed red on the hill-tops, and the horsemen rode hard on the plain, He was dight in his harness, and spurring to the Desmond’s bright banner away, His mountaineers dashing behind him with sabres athirst for the fray ! In bower and in hall he was welcomed, and the dames of the crag castles brave Were proud when he smiled on their daughters at eve by the Avonmore’s wave ! ’Tis noon on the broad plain of Limerick and down by the calm Lubach’s tide, f The sunbeams smite hot on the meadows and burn by the green forest side, And brightly they glint from a helmet, and broadly they gleam from a shield, Where a Knight rideth up by the river, in brave shining panoply steeled. * Fear Muighe Feine— the present barony of Fermoy — means the “ plain * the Fenian men.” Along its northern confines runs the Houra mountains, is the midst of which the Ounanar river rises, and flowing through a magnificent glen — Glean-an-awr, or the “Valley of Slaughter” — mils into the Oubeg or Mullow, below Doneraile. The Bregoge, another tributary of the Oubeg, has its source also in these mountains ; and near its banks, a few miles north-east of Doneraile, stands the ancient Castle Phooka— the “ Tower of the Sprite,” t Lutach, the Kilmallock river. 196 LEGENDARY BALLADS. Kerne crouch on his path in the greenwood with pikes ready raised for a foe, But they know the high mien of Sir Domnall, and stay for some Saxon the blow ; And the Gallowglass scowls from his ambush, but he too remem- bers that plume, And wishing good luck to its owner, strides back to his lair in the gloom ! But why rides Sir Domnall so lonely, and why is his gladness all fled? On a field by Lough- Gur’s lonely water the friend of his bosom lies dead ! Away then, away toward the mountains he giveth his war-horse the rein, While he longs for the clangour of battle to drown his dejections again ; The blest Hill of Patrick* slopes green with its tall Guebre tower on his way, But the good monk who waits in the Abbey in vain looketh out for his stay ; And anon the Black Rock of the Eagle frowns down on his path by Easmore, fill he crosseth the bright Oun-na-geerah and windelh away by its shore. Beside him Suidhe Feine riseth proudly, o’er wild Glenisheen’s ancient wood, And yawns like a gate in the mountains, Red Shard’s Gap of conflict and blood ; As he turns by the crags of Sleib Fadha, and on by a flat moor- land side, Till lie lights nigh a clear fairy fountain at length by the Ounanar’s tide. It is on a small shrubby islet with huge forest cliffs all around, Save where the bright streams from the blue hills, outleap with lone, lulling sound, * Ard Patrick, the height of St. Patrick, is a beautiful green hill at the Limerick side of the Houras. On its summit is an ancient church, the time oi whose foundation is unknown. Near the church are the remains of a round tower which fell nearly half a century ago. Bama Dearg— the “ Bloody Gap” — now called the Gap of Red Shard, was the most important pass leading from Limerick into the county Cork. legendary ballads. 197 And it seems as It step of nought human did e’er on its low strand alight, Yet a lady peers out from the thicket beyond the good steed of the Knight ! She is old, yet there’s fire in her dark eye, but sorrow is stamped on her mien, And she knows the tall crest of Sir Domnall and comes to his side from the screen ; She waveth her hand to him sadly, he follows her steps by the flood Till they enter a hut of thick brambles concealed in the dark spreading wood ; And there, on a couch of green fern, an old dying chieftain is laid, And o’er him in wild, bitter weeping, there bendeth a golden- haired maid ! He turns to the knight as he enters, and thus in meek accents of woe : — “Thy sire was my friend, good Sir Domnall, in the days of our youth long ago — The Saxon hath slaughtered my people, alas for that gloom- dark- ened hour, When he forced me to fly deeply wounded thus far from Du Ara- gil’s tower ! * A friend, ah ! a friend false and hollow hath tracked me to Ouna- nar’s grove, And he swears on his sword to betray me, or have this young maid for his love — Black Murrogh, stern lord of Rathgogan ! soon, soon from thy wiles lam free, But, alas for the wife of my bosom, — alas, my fair daughter for thee ! ” He died on that eve, and was borne away to the age-honoured spires Of grey Kilnamulloch next noontide, and laid down to rest with his sires. There was feasting that night in Kilcolman, and all in their bright martial gear, Black Murrogh and fearless Sir Domnall, and many stout cham- pions are there ; * Du Aragil, an ancient castle in the parish of Dromagh, near Kantnrk, was one of the pnncipal seats of the O’Keefes. Kilnamullach — the “ Church of the Curse” — is the ancient name of Buttevant. Ivilcolman, near Doneraile, was a castle belonging to the Earls of Desmond, and for some time the resi- dence of Spenser. Rathgogan, — “ Charlevilie.” 193 LEGENDARY BALLADS. And there speaks Sir Domnall, uprising, and bends on Black Murrogh his gaze — “ Ho ! freres of the feast and the battle, a tale of the wild forest maze I As I rode by the Ounanar’s water, Du Aragil’s chieftain I found, He was driven from his home by the Saxon, and said ere he died of his wound — A friend, ah! a friend false and hollow, has tracked me to Ounanar’s side, A friend who has sworn to betray me, or have my young daughter his bride.’ By my faith, but the traitor was knightly, to woo her with ardour so brave, Now, there lies my gauntlet before him, thus proof of his passion I crave!” Then up starts the lord of Rathgogan, and fierce is the flash of his eye, As he glares on the dark brows around him with bearing defiant and high — ‘ False Knight of a falser young maiden, thy gauntlet I take from the board, And soon on thy crest in the combat, I prove my good name with my sword ; For I see but one path to my glory, a path o’er that false heart of thine, And fired by the love of young damsels, but steeled by the red gushing wine — And close be the palisade round us, and short be the distance between, Where a liar’s black life-blood shall poison the bloom of the bright Summer green ! ” 11 And fair shine the sun,” quoth Sir Domnall, “ the clear sunny sheen on my blade, When I close with the lord of Rathgogan, avenging Du AragiF maid ! ” Calm eve on the fair hills of Houra and down by the Mulla’s green marge, The red beams are burning in glory from hauberk and sabre and targe, And the warriors are circling around it, that smooth listed green by the wave, When the two mailed champions are standing with keen axe and target and glaive I LEGENDARY BALLADS. 199 Flash lances around them in brightness, gleam banners along by the shore, Fierce Condon’s from Araglin’s water, De Rupe’s from the towers of Glenore ; And the Barry’s wild pennon is waving, and the flags of the chieftains whose towers Defy from their crag-seats the foeman, by Avonmore’s gorges and bowers ; Yet still the two champions stand moveless, all silent and darkly the while, Like the panoplied statues that frown round the walls of some old abbey aisle 1 But hark ! how the wild martial trumpets outroll the fierce signal for strife ! And see how these motionless statues outstart from their postures to life ! The mailed heels go round on the green sward, the mailed hands ply weapons amain, Till the targes are battered and cloven, and the axes are shivered in twain ! Wide and deep are the wounds of Sir Domnall, but wider the gash of his foe, As their sabres cross gleaming and clashing — two flames in the red sunny glow — One thrust through the blood-spattered hauberk, one stroke by the crest waving o’er, And the lord of Rathgogan has fallen, to rise to the combat no more ; And there for a space swaying, reeling, and faint from his wounds’ gushing tide, Sir Domnall looks down on the vanquished, then sinketh to earth by his side ! They bear one away to his tower, and they bear one away stark and cold ; One ne’er may awake, and one waketh, a bright blessed scene to behold, For the maid of Du Aragil bendeth above the dim couch where he lies, With love as her spirit immortal, and joy like the morn in her eyes I Oh ! sweet are the dreams of his slumbers, o’erflowing with fairy delight, But sweeter the dreams of his waking each day in the Tower of the Sprite ; 200 LEGENDARY BALLADS. And now ’tis the fulness of Summer — a fair breezy morning in June— And the streams of green Houra are leaping along with a sweet gushing tune, And thy bells, Kilnamullach, are ringing — no knells of the bloorn- footed hours — But the sweet bridal chimes of Sir Domnall and the maid of Du Aragil’s towers ! Feardana. THE WELSHMEN OF TIRAWLEY. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A. [At one time when the Barretts had supremacy over Tirawley, they sent their steward, who was called Sgoi'nach bhuid bhearrtha , to exact rents from the Lynotts. The Lynotts killed this steward, and cast his body into a well called Tobar na Sgomaighe, near Garranard, to the west of the castle of Cams, in Tirawley. When the Barretts had received intelligence of this, they assembled their armed forces and attacked the Lynotts, and sub- dued them. And the Barretts gave the Lynotts their choice of two modes of punishment , namely, to have their men either blinded or emasculated ; and the Lynotts, by advice of some of the elders among them, took the choice of being blinded, because blind men could propagate their species, whereas emasculated men could not. The Barretts then thrust needles into the eyes of the Lynotts, and accordingly as each man of them was blinded, they compelled him to cross over the stepping-stones of Clochan na n-dall , near Cams, to see if more or less of sight remained with them, and if any of them crossed the Clochan with- out stumbling he was taken back and reblinded ! Some time after this the Lynotts meditated how T they could revenge their animosities on the Barretts, and the contrivance which occurred to their minds, — one derived from their ancestors, — was to procure a Dalta, [i. e. an adopted son], from some powerful man of the Clann William Burke, who, previously to this period, had inhabited the south of the mountain [Nephin] ; and to this end Lynott fed a spirited horse which the Lynotts took with them to receive the adopted son, in order that the Burke who should break that steed might be their adopted son. And thus they obtained Teaboid Maol Burke as an adopted son, who was afterwards killed by the Barretts. So that it was in eric for him that the Barretts gave up to the Burkes eighteen quarters of land ; and the share w r hich Lynott, the adopted father of Teaboid, asked of this eric was the distribution of the mulct, and the distribution he made of it was, that it should be divided throughout all Tirawley, in order that the Burkes might be stationed in every part of it as plagues to the Barretts, and to draw the country from them. And thus the Burkes came over the Barretts in Tirawley, and took nearly the whole of their lands from them ; but at length the Saxon heretics of Oliver Cromwell took it from them all, in the year of our Lord 1652 ; so that now there is neither Bar- fett nor Burke, not to mention the Clan Fiachrach, in possession of any lands there. — Tribes and Customs of Hy Fiachrach. Irish Archaeological Society's Publications , p. 337.] LEGENDARY BALLADS. 201 Scorn ey Bwee, tlie 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 boya, 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, «aid* “ 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-a-n’dall They drove them, laughing loud at every fall, As their wandering footsteps dark 1’ailed to reach the slippery mark, And the swift stream swallowed stark, One and all, As they stumbled — Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 202 LEGENDARY BALLADS. Out of all the blinded Lynotts, one alone Walked 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 crossed 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 — " Oh, ye foolish sons of Wattin, Small amends are these you’ve gotten, For, while Scorney Bwee 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 or of his clan ; But in the manly mind And in loins with vengeance lined, That your needles could never find, Though they ran Through my heartstrings ! ” Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. “ Bat, little your women’s needles do I reck ; For the night from heaven never fell so black, But Tirawley, and abroad From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod, I could walk it every sod, Path and track, Ford and togher, Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley ) LEGENDARY BALLADS. u The night when Dathy O’Dowda broke your camp, What Barrett among you was it held the lamp — Showed the way to those two feet, When through wintry wind and sleet, I guided your blind retreat In the swamp Of Beal-an-asa ? 0 ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley l ” So leaving loud-shriek-eclioing Garranard, The Lynott like a red dog hunted hard, With his wife and children seven, ’Mong the beasts and fowls of heaven In the hollows of Glen Nephin, Light -debarred, Made his dwelling, Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. And ere the bright-orb’d year its course had run, On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son, A child of light, with eyes As clear as are the skies In summer, when sunrise Has begun ; So the Lynott Nursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size, Made him perfect in each manly exercise, The salmon in the flood, The dun deer in the wood, The eagle in the cloud To surprise, On Ben Nephin, Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley. With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow, With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow, He taught him from year to year And trained him, without a peer, For a perfect cavalier, Hoping so — Far his forethought — For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. 201 LEGENDARY BALLADS. And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed, Eman Oge sat a cavalier indeed : Like the ear upon the wheat When winds in autumn beat On the bending stems, his seat ; And the speed Of his courser Was the wind from Barna-na-gee o’er Tirawley ! Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent, (He perfected in all accomplishment) — The Lynott said, “ My child, We are over long exiled From mankind in this wild — — Time we went O’er the mountain To the countries lying over-against Tirawley.” So out over mountain-moors and mosses brown, And green stream-gathering vales, they journeyed down Till, shining like a star, Through the dusky gleams afar, The bailey of Castlebar, And the town Of Mac William Rose bright before the wanderers of Tirawley. “ Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go, What seest thou by the loch-head below.” “ Oh, a stone-house strong and great, And a horse host at the gate, And their captain in armour of plate — Grand the show ! Great the glancing ! High the heroes of this land below Tirawley ! “ And a beautiful Bantierna* by his side, Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide ; And in her hand a pearl Of a young, little, fair-haired girl ” Said the Lynott, “ It is the Earl ! Bantierna— the good house-wife. LEGENDARY BALLADS. 205 Let us ride To his presence.” And before him came the exiles of Tirawley. “ God save thee, Mac William,” the Lynott thus began ; “ God save all here besides of this clan ; For gossips dear to me Are all in company — For in these four bones ye see A kindly man Of the Britons — Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley. “ And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows, I come to claim a scion of thy house To foster ; for thy race, Since William Conquer’s * days, Have ever been wont to place, With some spouse Of a Briton, A Mac William Oge, to foster in Tirawley. “ And to show thee in what sort our youth are taught, I have hither to thy home of valour brought This one son of my age, For a sample and a pledge For the equal tutelage, In right thought, Word, and action, Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley.” When Mac William beheld the brave boy ride and run, Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder spun — With a sigh, and with a smile, He said, — “ I would give the spoil Of a county, that Tibbot Moyle, My own son, Were accomplished Like this branch of the kindly Britoms of Tirawley.” When the Lady Mac William she heard him speak. And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek, * William Fitz Adelm de Burgho, the conqueror of Connaught 206 LEGENDARY BALLADS. She said, — “ I would give a purse Of red gold to the nurse That would rear my Tibbot no worse ; But I seek Hitherto vainly — Heaven grant that I now have found her in Tirawiey P So they said to the Lynott, — “ Here, take our bird I And as pledge for the keeping of thy word, Let this scion here remain Till thou comest back again : Meanwhile the fitting train Of a lord Shall attend thee With the lordly heir of Connaught into Tirawiey.” So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard, Like a lord of the country with his guard, Came the Lynott, before them all. Once again over Clochan-an’-dall, Steady-striding, erect, and tall, And his ward On his shoulders ; To the wonder of the Welshman of Tirawiey. Then a diligent foster-father you would deem The Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream, To cast the spear, to ride, To stem the rushing tide, With what feats of body beside, Might beseem A Mac William, Fostered free among the Welshmen of Tirawiey. But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart and mind ; For to what desire soever he inclined, Of anger, lust, or pride, He had it gratified, Till he ranged the circle wide Of a blind Self-indulgence, Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawiey. LEGENDARY BALLADS. 207 Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound, Lynott loosed him — God’s leashes all unbound — In the pride of power and station, And the strength of youthful passion, On the daughters of thy nation, All around, Watt in Barrett 1 Oh ! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley 1 Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame, Filled the houses of the Barretts where’er he came ; Till the young men of the Bac, Drew by night upon his track, And slew him at Cornassack — Small your blame, Sons of Wat tin ! Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. Said the Lynott, — “ The day of my vengeance is drawing near, The day for which, through many a long dark year, I have toiled through grief and sin — Call ye now the Brehons in, And let the plea begin Over the bier Of Mac William, For an eric* upon the Barretts of Tirawley.” Then the Brehons to Mac William Burk decreed An eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed ; And the Lynott’s share of the fine, As foster-father, was nine Ploughlands and nine score kine ; But no need Had the Lynott, Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley. But rising, while all sat silent on the spot, He said, — “ The law says — doth it not ? — If the foster-sire elect His portion to reject, He ma.y then the right exact Eric, — a mulct, fine, or reparation. 208 LEGENDARY BALLADS. To applot The short eric.” “ ’Tis the law,” replied the Brehons of Tirawley. Said the Lynott, — “ I once before had a choice Proposed me, wherein law had little voice ; But now I choose, and say, As lawfully I may, I applot the mulct to-day ; So rejoice In your ploughlands And your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawley. " And thus I applot the mulct : I divide The land throughout Clan Barrett on every side Equally, that no place May be without the face Of a foe of Wattin’s race — That the pride Of the Barretts May be humbled hence for ever throughout Tirawley.. “ I adjudge a seat in every Barrett’s hall To Mac William : in every stable I give a stall To Mac William; and, beside, Whenever a Burk shall ride Through Tirawley, I provide At his call Needful grooming, Without charge from any Brughaidh of Tirawley, “ Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throes Ye lawlessly caused me and caused those Unhappy shamefaced ones, Who, their mothers expected once, Would have been the sires of sons — O’er whose woes Often weeping, I have groaned in my exile from Tirawley. « I demand not of you your manhoods ; but I take — For the Burks will take it - your Freedom l for the sake LEGENDARY BALLADS. 209 Of which all manhood’s given And all good under heaven, And, without which, better even Ye should make Yourselves barren, Than see your children slaves throughout Tirawley l “ Neither take I your eyesight from you ; as you took Mine and ours : I would have you daily look On one another’s eyes, When the strangers tyrannize By your hearths, and blushes arise, That ye brook Without vengeance The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley I “ The vengeance I designed, now is done, And the days of me and mine nearly run — For, for this, I have broken faith, Teaching him who lies beneath This pall, to merit death ; And my son To his father Stands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley.” Said Mac William — “ Father and son, hang them high I w And the Lynott they hanged speedily ; But across the salt-sea water, To Scotland with the daughter Of Mac William — well you got her !— Did you fly, Edmund Lindsay, The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawley I ’Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tell How, through lewdness and revenge it befell That the sons of William Conquer Came over the sons of Wattin, Throughout all the bounds and borders Of the land of Auley Mac Fiachra ; Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell And his valiant, Bible-guided, Free heretics of Clan London Coming iuj in their succession, U 0 210 LEGENDARY BALLADS. Hooted out both Burk and Barret, And in their empty places New stems of freedom planted, With many a goodly sapling Of manliness and virtue ; Which while their children cherish, Kindly Irish of the Irish, Neither Saxons nor Italians, May the mighty God of Freedom Speed them well : Never taking Further vengeance on his people of Tirawley. Several Welsh families, associates in the invasion of Strongbow, settled in the west of Ireland. Of these, the principal whose names have been preserved by the Irish antiquarians were the Walshes, Joyces, Heils (a quibus MacIIale), Lawlesses, Tolmyns, Lynotts, and Barretts, which last draw their pedigree from Walynus, son of Guyndally, the Ard Mam', or High Steward of the Lord- ship of Camelot, and had their chief seats in the territory of the two Bacs, in the barony of Tirawley, and county of Mayo. Cloghan-ati-ii’dall, or “ the Blind Men’s Stepping-stones,” are still pointed out on the Duvowen river, about four miles north of Crossmolina, m the townland of Garranard ; and Tubber-na-Scomey, or “ Scrag’s Well,” in the opposite townland of Cams, in the same barony. For a curious terrier or applotment of the Mac William’s revenue, as acquired under the circumstances stated in the legend preserved by Mac Firbis, see Mr. O’Donovan’s highly-learned and interesting “ Genealogies, &c. of Hy Fiachrach,” in the publications of the Irish Archosological Society — a great monument of antiquarian and topographical erudition. THE “ DARK GIRL ” BY THE “ HOLY WELL.” BY JOHN KEEGAN. [I think it was in the midsummer of 1832 that I joined a party of the pea- santry of my native village, who were en route to a “ pilgrimage ” at St. John’s Well, near the town of Kilkenny. The journey (about 25 Irish miles) was commenced early in the afternoon, and it was considerably after sunset when we reached our destination. My companions immediately set about the fulfil- ment of their vows, whilst I, who was but a mere boy, sat down on the green grass, tired and in ill humour, after my long and painful tramp over a hundred stony hills, and a thousand rugged fields, under the burning sun of a midsum- mer afternoon. I was utterly unable to perform any act of devotion, nor, I must confess, was I very much disposed to do so, even were I able ; so I seated myself quietly amid the groups of beggars, cripples, “ dark people,” and the other various classes of pilgrims who thronged around the sacred fountain. Amongst the crowd I bad marked two piliirims, who, from the moment I saw LEGENDARY BALLADS. 211 them, arrested my particular attention. One of these was an aged female, decently clad — the other was a very fine young girl, dressed in a gown, shawl and bonnet of faded black satin. This girl was of a tall and noble figure — strikingly beautiful, but stone blind. I learned that they were natives of the county of Wexford ; that the girl had lost her sight in brain fever, in her thildhood ; that all human means had been tried for her cure, but in vain ; and that now, as a last resource, they had travelled all the way to pray at the shrine of St. John, and bathe her sightless orbs in the healing waters of his well. It is believed that when Heaven wills the performance of cures, the sky opens above the well, at the hour of midnight, and Christ, the Virgin Mother, and St. John, descend in the form of three snow-whites, and descend with the rapidity of lightning into the depths of the fountain. No person but those destined to be cured can see this miraculous phenomenon, but every body can hear the musical sound of their wings as they rush into the well and agitate the waters ! I cannot describe how sad I felt myself, too, at the poor girl’s anguish, for I had almost arrived at the hope that, though another “ miracle” was never wrought at St. John’s well, Heaven would relent on this occasion, and restore that sweet Wexford girl to her long-lost sight. She returned, however, as she came— -a “ Dark Girl” — and I heard afterwards that she took ill and died before she reached home.] 44 Mother ! is that the passing bell ? Or, yet, the midnight chime ? Or, rush of Angel’s golden wings ? Or is it near the Time — The time when God, they say, comes down This weary world upon, With Holy Mary at His right, And, at His left, St. John 1 44 I’m dumb 1 my heart forgets to throb ; My blood forgets to run ; But vain my sighs — in vain I sob — God’s will must still be done. I hear but tone of warning bell, For holy priest or nun ; On Earth, God’s face I’ll never see ! Nor Mary ! nor St. John ! 44 Mother ! my hopes are gone again ; My heart is black as ever ; — Mother ! I say, look forth once more , And see can you discover God’s glory in the crimson clouds — See does He ride upon That perfumed breeze — or do you see, The Virgin, or St. John I 212 LEGENDARY BALLADS. “ Ah, no ! ah, no ! Well, God of Peace, Grant me thy blessing still ; Oh, make me patient with my doom, And happy at Thy will ; And guide my footsteps so on earth, That, when I’m dead and gone, My eyes may catch Thy shining light, With Mary ! and St. John ! “ Yet, mother, could I see thy smile, Before we part, below- -- Or watch the silver moon and stars Where Slaney’s ripples flow ; Oh ! could I see the sweet sun shine My native hills upon, I’d never love my God the less, Nor Mary, nor St. John 1 “ But no, ah no ! it cannot be ; Yet, mother ! do not mourn — Come, kneel again, and pray to God, In peace, let us return ; The Dark Girl’s doom must aye be mine — But Heaven will light me on, Until I find my way to God, And Mary, and St. John ! ’* THE HAUNTED CASTLE. BY T. D. M‘GEE. [Donegal Castle, the chief seat of the princely family of the O’Donnell’s, stands now in ruins, in the centre of the village of the same name, at the head of Donegal Bay. It was built in the 15th century, and shows, even in its de- cay, royal proportions. The present owner, Lord Arran, to his credit be it told, has it well walled and cared for. The remains of the Abbey where the Four Masters compiled their Annals, are within sight of the Castle.] u How beautiful ! — how beautiful ! ” — cried out tho children all, As the golden harvest evening’s moon beamed down on Donegal; And its yellow light that danced along the Esker to the Bay — There tinged the rQofless AbbeyV* walls, here gilt the Castle grey. LEGENDARY BALLADS. 213 4< How beautiful 1 — how beautiful ! — let us go hide and seek ” — Some run along the river’s edge, some crouch beside the creek ; While two, more dauntless than the rest, climb o’er the Castle’s wall, And without note, or horn, or trump, enter the silent hall. Brave little boys, as bright as stars, beneath the porch they pass’d, And paused just where along the hall, the keep its shadow cast ; And, Heaven protect us ! there they saw a fire burning away And, sitting in the ingle-nook, an ancient man and grey : He sat upon his stony seat like to another stone, And ever from his breast there brake a melancholy moan ; But the little boys they feared him not, for they were two to one, And the man was stooped and aged, and sad to look upon. And he who was the eldest — his mother called him Hugh — Said, “ Why for, sir, do you make moan, and wherefore do you rue? Are you one of the old-timed kings that were exiled to Spain, Like a linnet to its last year’s nest, that here returns again?” And the shape stood up and smiled, as the tiny voice he heard, And the tear that hung upon his cheek fell to his snowy beard— “ My boys,” he said, “ come sit ye here beside me, until I Tell you why I haunt this hearth, and what so makes me sigh. “ I am the Father of their Race — the Cinnel- Connell’s sire — And, therefore, thus I watch their home, and kindle still their fire ; For the mystic heat would perish among a land of slaves If it were not tended nightly by the spirits from their graves ; And here I still must keep my stand until the living are Deemed meet to track the men of might along the fields of war ; And, ah 1 my little men, my watch is very, very long — Unpromised of an end — uncheered by friend or song. “ And the present is embittered by the memories of old — The Bards and their delights, and the tales the Gossips told ; I remember me the ringing laughs and minstrelsie divine, That echoed here for Nial Garv and Thorlogh of the Wine ; I remember how brave Manus — an early grave he met — Traced the story here of Columb-cille, a tale surviving yet ; And, oh! I weep like Jacob, when of Joseph’s death he heard, When I think upon you, young Hugh Roe, Tirconnell’s staff and sword. 214 LEGENDARY BALLADS. “ My boys, he was not thirty years of age, although his namt* Was spread all over Ireland upon the wings of fame ; Entrapped — imprisoned — frozen on Wicklow’s wintry hills — He rose, he fought, he died afar, crowning our country’s ills. Alas ! I cannot help but cry — and you, what, crying, too ? Indeed, it might melt iron hearts to think upon my Hugh. My boys, go home, remember him, and haste, to be men, That you may act, on Irish soil, his gallant part again.” “ How beautiful ! how beautiful ! ” cried out the children all, As the two boys clambered over the ancient Castle wall ; Run here — run there — take care — take care ; but silently and slow To their humble homes, the little friends, hand in hand, they go ; And from that night they daily read, in all the quiet nooks, About their homes, old Irish songs, and new-made Irish books — And many a walk, and many a talk, they had down by the Bay Of the Spirit of the Castle Hall, and the words they heard him say. A LEGEND OF LOUGH ERNE. While gazing on that placid wave, Why should the maiden’s cheek be pale, And childhood’s merry look grow grave, And age suspend the half-told tale ? Alas ! those peaceful waters flow O’er many a young and buoyant breast— O’er manhood in its pride laid low, And love untimely hush’d to rest ! Where ripples now that silver lake, A busy hamlet once was seen ; Near yonder wild and tangled brake, The village spire adorn’d the green. Around yon thorn the infant band Have danc’d away the evening hours, Or playful snatch’d with eager hand, Its berry red, or snowy flowers. While seated nigh, the hoary sage, Indulgent watch’d their childish glee ; LEGENDARY 13ALLADS. 216 And who could tell that hawthorn’s age ? A fairy charm preserved the tree ! Beneath its bending branches lay, Deep, clear, and still, a crystal well, Where monks would oft their Aves say, And pilgrims would their Rosaries tell. A lightsome flag the waters hid ; And all who came the spring to taste, With reverence raised the stony lid To guard the liquid treasure placed. For when that well St. Columb bless’d, And bade its healing streams impart Health to the frame by pain oppress’d, And comfort to the mourning heart — " Protect my well from vulgar sight,” The holy man prophetic said, “ For one short hour exposed to light, Its waters shall destruction spread.” When midnight’s silence reigned around, And all was darksome, lone, and drear, A hasty footstep press’d the ground, And to the holy well drew near — A fair, a young, and widow’d wife, The parent of a drooping boy, One draught she sought to save his life ; She raised the stone with trembling joy . When lo 1 an infant’s feeble cries The night wind wafted to her ear ; “ Oh, holy saint, my Gilbert dies ! ” She shriek’d in agonizing fear. But soon within her fond embrace, The babe forgot his pain the while, And smiled upon his mother’s face, With infancy’s own artless smile. When — shrieks of horror rent the air, Upon her anguish’d ear they fell, And springing forth in wild despair, She faintly scream’d — J The well ! The well l ” 216 LEGENDARY BALLADS. Ah, fatal haste, remembrance late ! Beneath, around, the waters gush’d ; Vainly she strove to fly from fate, Destruction yawn’d where’er she rushed. And whilst in hopeless woe she wept, While yet the unconscious infant smiled, A ruthless wave, which o’er them swept, Entomb’d the parent and the child. No longer now the waters gush’d, You might have heard the softest breath, All was around so calm, so hush’d — Hush’d in the stilliness of death. Where late so active man had been, Fate had decreed his toil should cease : O’er hamlet, spire, and village green, Erne’s limpid waters roll’d in peace. Since then have ages pass’d away, The story of its grief is old, But still, in legendary lay, That hamlet’s fearful fate is told ; Still in the wave the hawthorn dips, Unharm’d by years, unscath’d by storm ; But none will pull its crimson hips — They’re guarded by a spectral form. And if beside the copsy brake, Benighted peasant chance to stray, He glances at the darksome lake, And, shuddering, turns another way. For there a shadowy figure stands, Now gazing round in anguish wild, Now wringing sore her snowy hands, And plaintive sighs, “ My child, my child!” The softest gale that murmurs by, The purest wave that ripples here, That zephyr wafts the mother’s sigh, That wave contains the parent’s tear. Her mournful vigil must she keep, — Still at the midnight hour’s return, And still her fatal fondness, weep, While flow thy crystal waves, Lough Erne ’ LEGENDARY BALLADS. 217 ST. KEVIN AND KATHLEEN. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. [The legend of St. Kevin and Kathleen, as it has been sung by Moore, and more recently by Gerald Griffin, is totally devoid of foundation in fact. Not to speak of the absurdity of our Saint’s qualifying for canonization by committing murder, there is no trace of such a tale in any ecclesiastical MS., Latin or Irish, that has survived to our times. This, at least, is the opinion of all from whom I have sought information on the subject, amongst whom not a few were antiquarians and erudite clergymen. In particular, the reverend gentlemen of Glendalough, to whom the legends of the lakes are familiar as their shadows, have assured me that the whole story which tries to prove that “ Saints have cruel hearts,” is a recent invention and finds no echo by the firesides of the glens. Tradition authorizes, and poesy loves to contemplate the grouping of St. Kevin and Kathleen in the same picture ; but beyond their names we have no certain data. I have therefore followed the more natural and simple version — that Kevin and Kathleen were betrothed in early jouth Beyond this I do not travel. Whether Kathleen died young, or retired to the neighbouring con- vent at Luggelaw, where it is easy to suppose Kevin’s sister may have been also, we do not know. Great shadows must have fallen before he gained the strength that reared the churches so wonderfully and made him finally a Saint."] Come, Kathleen, pure and soft as dew, The lake is heaving at our feet, The stars ascend the eternal blue, Primeval granite makes our seat. Beneath eternal skies above, ’Mid everlasting hills around, I speak of love — immortal love— Such as in Eden first was found. Let each look thro’ the other’s soul, Until each thought within that lies, Like spar o’er which these clear waves roll, Unveil its lustre to our eyes. I bless thee, Kathleen, o’er and o’er, For all the joy thy smiles have brought me, And mysteries of loving lore Thy very presence oft hath taught me. For beauty innocent as thine — Such lovely soul in lovely form — Still makes diviner aught divine, And «»lms the spirit’s wildest storm. 213 LEGENDARY BALLADS. Whene’er I muse — how oft ! — on thee, Half seen, each high and holy feeling Of love and immortality Take shape, like angels round me wheeling To thee, I owe the purest flow’rs Of song, that o’er my pathway burst, And holy thought, at midnight hours, From thine unconscious beauty nurst. There is no stain on flowers like these, That from my heart to thine are springing ; And thoughts of thee are like the breeze, When bells for midnight mass are ringing. Without thy knowledge, from thee beams Some gentle and refining light, That fills my heart with childhood’s dreams, And I grow purer in thy sight. Thou art no Queen — no hero I — But thou’rt the fairest Christian maid To whom the worship of a sigh, By Christian bard was ever paid. And this I am — Sire — God above, Who made my soul of that rich flame, All adoration, song, and love, That from thine own great Spirit came ! Than mine no purer, warmer zeal For justice, and sublime desire Of freedom, truth, and human weal, Glows in the seraph ranks of fire I’ve bower’d thee in a lonely shrine — My bosom’s convent-garden, sweet — Where song and pray’r their sighs combine, Where love and adoration meet. I’ve rob’d thee like Ban-Tierna olden Of EirS, in a vesture green ; And clasp’d thee with a girdle golden O’er all my dream-world Saint and Queen. I’ve starr’d thy hands with Irish gems, And sought to wreathe thy rich brown hair. The oakwood’s dewy diadems, And won the sacred shamrocks there. LEGENDARY BALLADS. 219 Oh, would that thou couldst read my heart, Or that my lips might be unseal’d, And by love’s lamp, in every part, My spirit’s inmost crypt reveal’d ! Witnin, like maid in minstrel tale, One lovely Vision sleeping lies, Beside her Hope, with forehead pale, And timid Joy with downcast eyes. ’Tis Love, in long enchantment bound, I know not how, in torpor there — The spells obey but one sweet sound, When Kathleen sings, they melt in air. See ! over yonder mountains, crack’d And sunder’d by Volcanic fire, Sings Glendalough’s white cataract — Fit chord of such a granite lyre. And then the cloud-born waterfall Summons aloud, from rock and wood, The child-like springs, and leads them all, With laughter to this gloomy flood. And thus thy love my heart shall lave — When Sorrow’s rocks, faith-cloven, sever Giving a glimpse of God — and save Life’s current pure and fresh for ever ! A LEGEND OF THE SHANNON. On Shannon’s fair majestic tide The moon with queenly splendour Looks down in her meridian pride, While vassal stars attend her ; Light zephyrs dancing o’er the wave Scarce break its peaceful slumbers, While Echo from each rock and cave Sings forth her magic numbers. But why doth yon frail shallop bear Across the Shannon’s water, At such an hour, Teresa fair, De Burgo’s only daughter ? 220 LEGENDARY BALLADS. Why flies she thus alone and free, From home and kindred speeding? Why seeing, sigh, yet sigh to see Portumna’s tower receding ? Ah 1 sure ’tis love alone could teach The maiden thus to wander, Yes ! see upon the moonlit beach A youth awaits her yonder ; With bounding heart and eager glance He views Clanricarde’s daughter, Like some aerial being dance Across the rippling water. The brave O’Carroll, he for years Had dared the Saxon power, And taught the force of Irish spears On battle-field and tower ; But one sad day saw fall his best And bravest kerns around him — Insatiate for revenge, the next ’Mid Burgo’s clansmen found him. Twas then Teresa’s soft blue eye First wrought its magic power ; Teresa’s love now bids them fly For aye from yonder tower. “ Now hie thee, love,” O’Carroll cried, “ By yon fair moon I swear thee, Far, far away from Shannon’s tide This faithful steed shall bear thee. “ For this I braved thy father’s wrath, He swore my heart should shun thee, But I had plighted thee my troth, And I had died or won thee. Then hie — ” but hark ! Teresa, fair, What peril now hath found her ? Oh 1 see, ’mid shrieks of wild despair, The waters close around her ! As to the serpent’s witching eye The victim bird is borne — LEGENDARY BALLADS. 221 Quick as from out the warring sky The lightning flash is torn, So dashed into the dark cold wave Teresa’s frantic lover ; But while with hands outstretched to save, The tide rose calm above her 1 Though Time has since flown fast away The Shannon rolls as ever, And oft upon a moonlit bay That hems the noble river, The midnight wanderer has espied A steed, while o’er the water The tiny bark is seen to glide That wafted Burgo’s daughter. B. C, Utkfllamfltts A LAY SEKMON. BY CHARLES GAY AN DUFFY, M.P, Brother, do you love your brother ? Brother, are you all you seem ? Do you live for more than living ? Has your Life a law, and scheme ? Are you prompt to bear its duties, As a brave man may beseem ? Brother, shun the mist exhaling From the fen of pride and doubt, Neither seek the house of bondage Walling straitened souls about ; Bats ! who, from their narrow spy-hole, Cannot see a world without. Anchor in no stagnant shallow — Trust the wide and wondrous sea, Where the tides are fresh for ever, And the mighty currents free ; There, perchance, oh ! young Columbus, Your New World of truth may be. Favour will not make deserving — (Can the sunshine brighten clay ?) Slowly must it grow to blossom, Fed by labour and delay, And the fairest bud of promise Bears the taint of quick decay. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 223 You must strive for better guerdons ; Strive to be the thing you’d seem ; Be the thing that God hath made you, Channel for no borrowed stream ; He hath lent you mind and conscience ; See you travel in their beam ! See you scale life’s misty highlands By this light of living truth ! And with bosom braced for labour, Breast them in your manly youth ; So when age and care have found you, Shall your downward path be smooth. Fear not, on that rugged highway, Life may want its lawful zest ; Sunny glens are in the mountain, Where the weary feet may rest, Cooled in streams that gush for ever From a loving mother’s breast. “ Simple heart and simple pleasures,” So they write life’s golden rule ; Honour won by supple baseness, State that crowns a cankered fool, Gleam as gleam the gold and purnle On a hot and rancid pool. Wear no show of wit or science, But the gems you’ve won, and weighed ; Thefts, like ivy on a ruin, Make the rifts they seem to shade : Are you not a thief and beggar In the rarest spoils arrayed ? Shadows deck a sunny landscape, Making brighter all the bright : So, my brother ! care and danger On a loving nature light, Bringing all its latent beauties Out upon the common sight. Love the things that God created, Make your brother’s need your care \ 224 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Scorn and hate repel God’s blessings, But where love is, they are there ; As the moonbeams light the waters, Leaving rock and sand-bank bare. Thus, my brother, grow and flourish, Fearing none and loving all ; For the true man needs no patron, He shall climb and never crawl ; Two things fashion their own channel — The strong man and the waterfall. DAY DREAMS. King of the sacred midnight skies ! beneath whose footsteps roll The solemn starry harmonies that fill the poet’s soul, Look down, in pity, on thy child by passion’s billows toss’d, And be thyself the pilot ere the fragile bark be lost. O’ermaster’d by the power I love, song chains me to the car, And vainly ’gainst a host of dreams I wage a feeble war. For love and glory weave their spells before my dazzled eyes, And clog my spirit’s wounded wings, that fain would seek the skies. I dream of war in Freedom’s cause, I grasp the fancied spear, And o’er my country’s marshall’d ranks her ancient banner rear ; In visionary panoply I smite the foreign foe, And spur my barb through broken ranks where battle-torrents flow. Again, within the midnight watch, I turn my soul from wars, And think of home while gazing on the gentle Queen of stars ; Or, while my comrades wearily around in slumber lie, I kneel adoring on the sod where I next morn may die ; For who more oft should think of thee than they whose lot is cast, Where death, exulting, rides supreme the fiery battle-blast ? Anon soft gales, from balmy isles, that melt like Venus’ sighs, Flow o’er mine ear, and at my feet love languishingly lies. I dream of woman’s steadfast faith, unchanged by grief or years, Unshrinking, trusting, loving still through bitterness and tears. And now upon the armed barque, the fresh’ning breezes blow, All sail is set — how proud she is ! with her I pine to go, MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 225 Where’er upon the glorious deep her stately step may be., Majestic and triumphantly along the subject sea. And when Iern£ wills it from forth her heaving side, To hurl young Freedom’s thunderbolts across the affrighted tide; And ’neath a green flag sailing, to roam the ocean free, With Irish hearts, in Irish barques, upon the Irish sea. And then, at night, in pensive mood, to watch the golden stars, Depict upon the slumbering tide the shadow of her spars ; Or hear upon the darkened deep, the tempest fiend rejoice, While billows leap, like startled steeds, in terror at his voice ; And mournfully, most mournfully, dread Ocean ! at thy roar, As if thy moan could wake the dead, uprise the dreams of yore For mem’ry then recalls the joys that never more may be, And “ plaintive sounds of long ago,” swell sadly from the sea. If it be mine dear Eire’s harp to strike with mailed hand, And wake the martial melodies that fire an arming land. Oh! never shall thy glorious gift perverted be to wrong, Nor prostitute to tyranny the loveliness of song. Ah, no ! mo vourneen, grab machree , mo colleen dhas asthore* For thee alone this harp shall sigh, hope, triumph, or deplore ; And though, perhaps, to other climes I wander far away, Yet still of home shall fondly breathe the retrospective lay ; And, while the sun o’er Italy his evening kiss prolongs, The lonely Irish boy shall sing his melancholy songs. *Tis thine alone to grant me peace, to bid the wave be still, And bend unto its destiny my fluctuating will. Though many a folly’s meteor fire has led me oft astray, I still to thee am journeying, but faint upon the way ; Send down thy peaceful messenger to calm my troubled breast, And grant, within some tranquil vale, my weary spirit rest. Oh, set at length, from earthly charms, my wounded bosom free— And, spite of love and glory’s spells, attract my soul to Thee ; For Thine ine glory, Thine the love that fadeth not away, But brighter grows eternally, with still increasing ray. No tears defile thy sanctuary — no chains support thy throne ; On boundless Love — for Thou art Love — its pillars rest alone * * The dearest love of my you are, — my darling girl. P 226 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. False tyrants there shall crush no more the humble and the just — Nor mercy, truth, and liberty, be trampled in the dust. My soul is very weary here, so far from Thee to roam — Oh ! take me to Thy mercy soon — Thy bosom is my home ! THE STRANGER. BY THOMAS MOORE. Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger, Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground ; Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger Hears soft fairy music re-echo around. None e’er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady ; Her language, though sweet, none could e’er understand ; But her features so sunn’d, and her eyelash so shady, Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land. ’Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping, A soft strain of melody came o’er our ears ; So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping, Like music that sorrow had steep’d in her tears. We thought ’twas an anthem some angel had sung us— But, soon as the day-beams had gush’d from on high, With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us, All lovely and lone, as if stray’d from the skyl Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended, For pale was her cheek with that spirit-like hue, Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended And light from another already shines through. Then her eyes, when she sung — oh, but once to have seen them— Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart ; While her looks and her voice made a language between them, That spoke more than holiest words to the heart. But she pass’d like a day-dream — no skill could restore her ; Whate’er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast ; MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 227 She died, with the same spell of mystery o’er her, That song of past days on her lip to the last. Nor ev’n in the grave is her sad heart reposing ; Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb ; For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing, The same strain of music is heard through the gloom I THE FLIGHT TO CYPRUS. BY B. SIMMONS. He Vere has loos’d from Ascalon — Judea’s holy gale Fresh with the spikenard’s evening scent, is rustling in his sail A victor he to Normandy ploughs homeward through the brine Herald and harp shall laud him long for deeds in Palestine. How gallantly, as night comes down, upon the Syrian seas, The “ Bel-Marie” all canvass crowds to catch the springing breeze A prosperous course be hers ! — the spears above her poop that gleam Have flash’d ere now, like stars I trow, on Siloa’s solemn stream. Precious the freight that proud bark bears — the ransom and the spoil Reap’d from Mahound’s blaspheming crew on man} a field of toil; Large lustrous cups — Kath&y’s bright robes — the diamond’s living rays — Carpets from Tyre, whose costly fire for kings alone should blaze ; And worth them all, that Fairest One, whose tresses’ sunny twine, Far down unroll’d, outshames the gold of tawny India’s mine ; When storm’d the Cross round Gaza’s fosse, all bright but faith- less, she Fled from her Emir-spouse, De Yere’s light paramour to be. And now, when sultry day is done, her languid brow to cool, Soft couch’d upon the curtain’d deck reclines the Beautiful ; Voluptuous in repose, as She who, ’mid the iEgean Isles, Rose radiant from the frowning deep, she dazzled into smile*. 223 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Fast by that lady’s pillow sits the passionate De Yere, Now dimming with his doating kiss the glory of her hair ; Or watching till their sleepy lids her eyes’ blue languish veil — Or murmuring on her lips of rose fond love’s untiring tale. Yet restless all is her repose, no solace can she find; The press of canvass overhead hoarse-groaning in the wind — The cordage-strain — the whistling shrouds — De Yere’s devoted words — All things, or soft or sullen, now disturb her spirit’s chords. " In vain thy love would lull my ear, thou flattering knight, for whom I faithless fled my lord and land ! — methinks that, through the gloom, Some fearsome Genii’s mighty wings are shadowing my soul, Black as the clouds and waters now that round about us roll.” “ Ah, cheer thee, sweet — ’tis but the rude and restless billows’ heaving, That frets thy frame of tenderest mould with weariness and grieving; ’Twill vanish soon ; when mounts the moon at midnight from the sea. Sweet Cyprus, with its rosy rocks high shining on our lee, il Shall see us anchor’d — if the truth our Moorish pilot tell, Who, since we weigh’d, has steer’d for us so steadily and well. E’en now I go to track below our bearings by the chart ; — With freight like thee can I be free from wistfulness of heart ? ” De Yere is gone. His silent crew, from all the decks above, Descend, lest even a murmur mar the slumbers of his Love ; Yon aged Moor, who, spectre-like, still at the rudder stands, Yon stripling, station’d at the prow, are all the watching hands. Pavilion-screen’d, from her soft couch how oft that lady bright Raised like an evening star her head, and look’d upon the night, Praying the tardy moon to rise — and through the shadows dim, Encountering but that spectral form beside the rudder grim. The moon at last ! — blood-red and round, she wheeleth up the wave, Soaring and whitening like a soul ascending from the grave ; Then riseth too the Beauty-brow’d, and quits with gentlest motion Her tent’s festoons, — two rival Moons at once upon the ocean! MISCELLANEOUS HALL ADS. 229 O Queen of Quiet — thou who winn’st our adoration still, As when a wondering world bow’d down on thine Ephesian hill ! — Stainless thyself, impart thy cahn and purifying grace, To her, the stain’d one, watching thee with her resplendent face 1 The breeze has dropp’d — the soundless sails are flagging one by one While in his cabin still De Yere the parchment pores upon ; Sudden a shriek — a broken groan, his ear have smitten — hark ! That laughing yell ! — sure fiends from hell are hailing to the Bark . He gains the deck — the spot where last idolatrous he stood, Is cross’d by some dark horrid thing — a narrow creeping flood ; Great Heaven forbid! — but where’s the heart from whence it gush’d ? — for now The decks contain no form but that stone-stiff beside the prow. Stone-stiff — half life, half death — it stands with hideous terror dumb, And bristling hair, and striving still for words that will not come: Speak thou — speak thou, who from the prow kept watch along the water, And kill thy lord with one dread word of Gaza’s glorious daughter! He told at last, that as he turn’d, what time the breeze had died, To rouse his mates — far at the stern, the lady he espied, Sky-musing there : and by the helm, with eyes coal-blazing — Him, The Eyil One, in semblance of their Moorish pilot grim, Who stole to her, before that boy could cross himself for grace, His turban doff’d, then touch’d her arm, and stared her in the face — That furnace-stare ! — her scorch’d head droop’d — a flash — at once she fell Prone at his feet, who instantly sprang with her down to hell ! Where olive-groves their shadows fling from Cyprus’ musky shore, The “ Bel-Marie” high stranded lies, to plough the waves no more * And day by day, far, far away, in Rouen’s aisles I ween, Down -broken, like that stately bark, a mournful monk is seen. 230 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. TIME AND THE VIRGIN. BY T. J. LYNCH. “ Oh Time, be kind and be my guide, now prithee come with me, To where my love expectant waits beside the moonlit sea. 1 ’ And Time consents, — and on they move ; it was a sight most rare, To see old Time with scythe and glass trip with this Virgin fair. Through woods they pass, till near the path a little streamlet roll’d, Still Time went on : — the maiden paused to deck her locks of gold. Her form within the star-bright wave she view’d with fond delight ; She linger’d long— and when she rose old Time was out of sight. With beating heart she eager sought the moonlit beach so fair ; But Time had pass’d ; — her love was gone, and all was silence there. “ Ah, me 1” she sigh’d in accents sweet, “too late I see my crime, By trifling thus I have lost my love, as well as losing Time.” FEAGH M‘HIJGH* BY T. D. M‘GEE. Feagh M‘Hugh of the mountain — Feagh MTIugh of the glen — Who has not heard of the Glenmalur chiet And the feats of his hard-riding men ? Came you the sea-side from Carmen — Crossed you the plains from the west — No rhymer you met but could tell you, Of Leinster men, who is the best. Or seek you the LifFey or Dodder — Ask in the bawns of the Pale — Ask them whose cattle they fodder, Who drinks without fee of their ale. * A celebrated Wicklow Chief of the 16th century. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 231 From Ardamine north to Kilmainham, He rules, like a king, of few words, And the Marchmen of seven score castles Keep watch for the sheen of his swords. The vales of Kilmantan * are spacious — The hills of Kilmantan are high — But the horn of the Chieftain finds echoes, From the water-side up to the sky. The lakes of Kilmantan are gloomy, Yet bright rivers stream from them all — So dark is our Chieftain in battle, So gay in the camp or the hall. The plains of Clan Saxon are fertile, Their Chiefs and their Tanists are brave, But the first step they take o’er the border, Just measures the length of a grave; Thirty score of them forayed to Arklow, Southampton and Essex their van — Our Chief crossed their way, and he left of Each score of them, living a man. Oh, many the tales that they cherish, In the Glens of Kilmantan to-day, And though church, rath, and native speech perish. His glory’s untouched by decay ; Feagh M‘Hugh of the mountain— Feagh M‘Hugh of the glen — Who has not heard of the Glenmalur Chief, And the feats of his hard-riding men ? * Kilmantan, the Irish name of Wicklow. SIR EUSTACE. BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. [Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton is the second daughter of Thomas, and granddaughter of Richard Brinsley, Sheridan. Whilst very young she married the Honourable George Chappie Norton, brother to the present Lord Grant ley. She and her sister, the Hon. Mrs. Price Blackwood, were educated by their mother, and to her is due their literary fame. When very young thay used to 232 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. write together, and before either of them reached the age of twelve, they pro- duced two little books of prints and verses which gave evidence of the genius which both of them have since manifested.] Child of the dust ! whose number’d hours are stealing fast away, Whose sins are unrepented of, go shrive thee quick and pray ! For the hour will come, or soon or late, when thou must leave this scene ; Wien all that is to thee shall be, as if’t had never been. Sir Eustace w^as a goodly youth, as beautiful as brave ; He sleeps the long, long sleep of death, but rests not in his grave : For though this blind world called him good, and worshipped his nod, He was a most unholy man— he did not know his God 1 ’Tis true, he murdered not, nor stole ; he gave much alms away, But he gave not to his God the praise, nor bowed beneath His sway. He loved his lady better far, than all the heavens contain, And oft the saintly Edith tried, t ’enlighten him in vain. He only smiled, and laughing said, “ I do the best I can ; Your God is just, my Edith, and will ask no more from man.” — “ But ’tis because my God is just, he asks much more from thee ; Oh, lean on him, my Eustace, and his love and mercy see.” He would not listen to that voice, though sweet it was, and dear; And Edith breath’d a prayer for him, and crush’d a rising tear. Sir Eustace rode to hunt one day, but came not back at night ; Fair Edith laid her broid’ry down, and fear’d all was not right. For he was faithful to his word, and never gave her pain, And when he said he would return, was sure to come again. She wander’d through her splendid hall, the moon shone bright and clear, Its beams fell on a cloister’d wall, which rose in an angle near ; And from out that cloister’d wall arose, a quiet vesper lay ; It rose mid the stillness soft and clear, then died in peace away. The lady listen’d and she felt, her spirit sooth’d thereby ; “ Thou wilt protect,” she said, and gazed, upon the tranquil sky. She turned, and paced again the hall, no sound broke on her ear; Why starts she as she gazes on a picture hanging near ? MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 233 A moonbeam fell upon the spot, and lighted up that face ; It was her Eustace as he stood, in the pride of manly grace. But there was something sad and pale, in that loved face to-night, Seen by the flitting, flickering beams, of a pensive moon’s pale light, Which made the Lady Edith start, and gaze with anxions fear ; 44 Oh, Eustace I if thou shouldst be pale, and ill, and I not near 1 “ Thou hast no comforter besides ; thou knowest not thy God. Save him, ye Heavens ! oh, spare him still 1 and stay thy chasten- ing rod 1 ” A Holy Father stood beside, 44 Lady,” he said, 44 thy prayer Has come too late, thy lord is ill, I come thee to prepare — “Thee to prepare, who in the strength of another’s might can stand, And drink the cup, however keen, when sent by His high hand.” The Lady bowed before the Priest, then raised her gentle brow, A tear had gathered in her eye, she did not let it flow. 44 Father,” she said, 44 I am prepared, that high hand to obey, Unmurm’ringly — resignedly — w T here is my Eustace, say ? ” 44 Thy Eustace, Lady, has arrived, is now within these walls, And ev’ry time his speech returns, it is for thee he calls.” 44 Then let us hasten to him now, nor longer useless stand ; My Father, thou wilt lead the way ” — and she took his aged hand. They reached the room where Eustace lay, the Beautiful ! the Brave ! And on that noble brow there slept, the shadows of the Grave. And Edith knelt beside his couch, and kissed his dark’ning brow ; The Father stanched his bleeding wounds, though vain he knew it now. His sense returned, he oped his eyes, and saw his Edith there, Patient and pale as the humble flower, which scents the midnight air. 44 Edith, my Edith 1 ” were the words, the first dear words he said ; 44 Thou wilt not leave me now, I know, 1 have no other aid. My hour is come — I feel it is, with thee I may not stay ; 0 teach me, Edith ! even now, teach me the way to pray I 234 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. “ But vain is my request — vain, vain — nay, shake not that dear head, Yon moon snail not have sunk to rest, ore I am with the dead, And he who spent his summer-time, ungrateful to that Power, Who made it summer, cannot hope, for peace in this dark hour.” “ Eustace, you do not know how great, how powerful to save, Is He who died for us, then rose, victorious o’er the grave. Have faith, my Eustace, have but faith, and He will give thee peace, In Heaven thou wilt be purified, where sin and suffering cease.” She stopped, but in her speaking eyes, her serious, earnest air, Sir Eustace fancied that he read, the very soul of prayer. Fondly he gazed upon that face, then sadly turned away, And faint his dead lips breathed forth, “ It is too late to pray” THE POET AND HIS VERSES. BY T. IRWIN. Come to my fireside. Sing to me to-night, Poor Verses, echoes of my vanished years; Though all unknown to fame and fortune’s light, My heart still guards you with its smiles and tears. Old Memories, though in jarring music sung, And rough to other ears, still sweet to mine, Your voice recalls the days when I was young, And morning makes the dullest things divine. Sing, Verses, sing! the night is dark and cold ; Sing, though your voices gain but little gold , Rise, Scenes of Banquet, flashing far and wide, Your chambers silvered from the fountain’s rain ! Pace proudly forward, Prince and beaming Bride, And let the Minstrels sound their richest strain !— Alas, that feast so fragrant and so prime, With meats and wines was coloured hue on hue, When one good dinner in the Lenten time Made me plethoric for a day or two : Sing by my fireside, as in days of old, Poor singing Children gain but little gold. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 23S Come, Fairy fancies, breathing of the moon, Dance, little Elves, through your enchanted bowers ' In some dim garret rose the airy tune That timed your tiny footsteps o’er the flowers. Soar, daring Songs of Liberty and Right, Let Tyrants tremble ! — but awhile be still, For in the landlady’s sour face to-night The rent seemed scrawled as blank as in her bill : Sing by my ear — but be not loud or bold — Poor singing Children gain but little gold. Rise, Strains of Passion, from the twilight land, Where Lovers pace along the glimmering stream, And whisper low, and press the parting hand, And homeward wander in a happy dream. Ah, where is she who woke my earliest lay, Whose fearless faith was mine for woe or weal ? — Along the noisy streets but yesterday Her carriage splashed me o’er from head to heel : Sing, Verses, by my hearth — that tale is old, Poor singing Children gain but little gold. Dear lonely offspring of a lonely heart, No rich saloon resounds with your acclaim ; No eager student wafts you from the mart, Or critic stings you with an epigram ; Beside me rest concealed from stranger minds Content if some old comrade, loved and known, Lists to your lay by evening light and finds Within your soul some tremblings of liis own. Sing, Little Ones, and round me closer fold, Such Singing Children gain but little gold. Yes, we have wandered heart by heart, unseen, Round foreign shores, and through the ocean’s blast, Far from the memoried Isle whose fields of green Sleep in the spectral stillness of the past : Oft, oft, when far away I’ve looked through tears Into the dying light that o’er them shone ; Where all I loved amid the happier years, Where all save you who sing of them are gone. Sing, Memories, sing — the heart that can behold Heaven in the sunset little heeds its gold. 236 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. THE HIGH-BORN LAD YE. BY THOMAS MOORE. In vain all the knights of the Underwald woo’d her, Though brightest of maidens, the proudest was she ; Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her, But none was thought worthy the high-born Ladye. “ Whomsoever I wed,” said this maid, so excelling, “ That knight must the conqu’ror of conquerors be ; He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in — None else shall be bridegroom of the high-born Ladye.” Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her On knights and on nobles of highest degree, Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her, And sigh’d at a distance for the high-born Ladye. At length came a knight, from a far land, to woo her, With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea ; His vizor was down — but, with voice that thrill’d through her, He whisper’d his greeting to the high-born Ladye. “ Proud maiden, I come with high spousals to grace thee ; In me the great conqu’ror of conquerors see ; Enthron’d in a hall fit for monarchs I’ll place thee, And mine thou’rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye 1 ” The maiden she smiled, and in jewels array’d her, Of thrones and tiaras already dreamed she ; And proud was the step, as her bridegroom convey’d her In pomp to his home of the high-born Ladye. “But whither,” she, starting, exclaims, “have you led me 9 Here’s nought but a tomb and a dark cypress tree ; Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me ? v With scorn in her glances, said the high-born Ladye. “ ’Tis the home,” he replied, “ of earth’s loftiest creatures ” — Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see ; But she sunk on the ground — ’twas a skeleton’s features, And Death was the bridegroom of the high-born Ladye 1 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 237 SIR CONSTANTINE. BY T. D. M‘GEE. A BALLAD OF THE CRUSADES. [In “ the Middle Ages,” there were Orders of Knights especially devoted to our Blessed Lady, as well as many illustrious individuals of Knightly rank and renown. Thus the Order called Levites in France was known as les esclaves de Marie , and there was also the Order of “ Our Lady of Mercy,” for the Re- demption of Captives ; the Templars, too, before their fall, were devoutly at- tached to the sendee of our Blessed Lady.] Beneath the stars in Palestine seven knights discoursing stood, But not of warlike work to come, nor former fields of blood, Nor of the joy the pilgrims feel prostrated far, who see The hill where Christ’s atoning blood pour’d down the penal tree ; Their theme was old, their theme was new, ’twas sweet and yet ’twas bitter, Of noble ladies left behind spoke Cavalier and Ritter, And eyes grew bright, and sighs arose from every iron breast, For a dear wife, or plighted maid, far in the widowed West. Toward the knights came Constantine, thrice noble by his birth, And ten times nobler than his blood, his high out-shining worth, His step was slow, his lips were moved, though not a word he spoke, Till a gallant lord of Lombardy his spell of silence broke. “ What aileth thee, oh, Constantine, that solitude you seek? If counsel or if aid you need, we pray thee do but speak ; Or dost thou mourn, like other freres, thy lady-love afar, Whose image shineth nightly through yon European star?” Then answered courteous Constantine — “ Good Sir, in simple truth I chose a gracious lady in the hey-day of my youth, . I wear her image on my heart, and when that heart is cold, The secret may be rifled thence, but never must be told. For her I love and worship well by light of morn or even, I ne’er shall see my Mistress dear, until we meet in heaven, But this believe, brave Cavaliers, there never was but one Such lady as my Holy Love, beneath the blessed sun.” He ceased, and passed with solemn step on to an olive grove, And kneeling there he prayed a prayer to the lady of his love. 238 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. And many a Cavalier whose lance had still maintained his own Beloved to reign without a peer, all earth’s unequalled one, Looked tenderly on Constantine in camp and in the fight ; With wonder and with generous pride they marked the lightning light, Of his fearless sword careering through the unbelievers’ ranks, As angry Rhone sweeps off the vines that thicken on his banks. “He fears not death come when it will, he longeth for his love, And fain would find some sudden path to where she dwells above, How should he fear for dying when his Mistress dear is dead,” Thus often of Sir Constantine his watchful comrades said ; Until it chanced from Zion wall the fatal arrow flew, That pierced the outworn armour of his faithful bosom through ; And never was such mourning made for knight in Palestine As thy loyal comrades made for thee, beloved Constantine. Beneath the royal tent the bier was guarded night and day, Where with a halo round his head the Christian champion lay ; That talisman upon his breast — what may that marvel be Which kept his ardent soul through life from every error free ? Approach 1 behold ! nay, worship there the image of his love, The Heavenly Queen who reigneth all the sacred hosts above, Nor wonder that around his bier there lingers such a light, For the spotless one that sleepeth, was the Blessed Virgin's Knightl THE TROUBADOUR’S PILGRIMAGE. BY T. IRWIN. Eastward, moonlit peaks are glancing O’er the dusk with silvery eyes ; Westward, tracks of Summer forest Deepen down the crimson skies ; Pilgrims pass the bridge whose crescent Darkens o’er the gleaming frith, And the noon heat camps its vapour O’er the bronzed moorland’s width — Toll, bell of sunset, toll Over listening land and river ; Sing, Memory, to my soul, Of Spirits lost, but loved for ever ! MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 239 Toward the norland distance yonder Listening, praying, forth I go ; Starry stream and solemn mountain Lure me, shining in their snow ; There, within a silent valley, Full of the cold planets’ light, Lies the grave to which my fancy, Dreaming, wanders through the night — Toll, bell of sunset, toll Over silent land and river, Sing, Memory, to my soul, Of Spirits lost, but loved for ever*. Onward, where awhile the Summer Slumbers round in twilight blooms — Waters showering from the summits, Forests full of topaz glooms ; Moon and sea beneath me rising, O’er me star and cottage nest — Sadness in the eastern evening, Music in the golden west — Toll, bell of sunset, toll Down the gorgeous glooming river; Sing, Memory, to my soul, Of Spirits lost, but loved for ever. Wheresoe’er the world I’ve wandered — Realm of life, or place of tombs ; Through the Mediterranean splendours, Through the dumb Egyptian glooms ; Radiant spirits round me hover, Watch my rest, or with me stray, While our hearts, in mournful anthems Mingling, close the lonely day — Toll, bell of evening, toll O’er the starry, trembling river, Sing, Memory, to my soul, Of Spirits lost, but loved for ever. Oft I hear their charmed voices Lingering round some mountain height ; Utterance rich as planet music Swooning through the magic night. 240 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Oft great brows of meteor beauty, O’er the star-dim seas appear; Oft in moonlit towns a silence Falling, tells me they are near — Toll, bell of darkness, toll, Fate-like, down the ghostly river ; Sing, Memory, to my soul, Of Spirits lost, but loved for ever. Upward, where the moulder’d castle Guards the quick, unquiet fords, All its moated depth of waters, Glossed with beams, like blades of swords ' Now the lowland’s dark expansure Widens from the mountain crest ; And a low star lights the valley, Where my pilgrim heart would rest — Toll, bell of silence, toll Down the silver-rippled river ; Sing, Memory, to my soul, Of Spirits lost, but loved for ever. By this well, that bubbles sprayless, Shall I rest upon my way : Earth is broadening in shadow — Heaven in brightness, while I pray. 11 Blessed spirits, rise above me, When the death-dark round me flows, Like a crescent in the sunshine, Beaconing where the glory goes.” Toll, bell of Heaven, toll Down the sapphire radiant river. God, waft my trembling soul Where rest the Spirits loved for evar i . THE POET AND HIS SON. BY J. FRAZER. Comb forth, my son, into the fields — What is there in the crowd Of hearts, or scenes, the city yields, To make young spirits proud ? MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 241 Girt by mankind, we dream a God May in the skies abide ; But oh ! he must be all a clod, Who feels not on the fragrant sod, God walketh by his side 1 Could I withdraw thee from the cold, The mean, the base, the stern, And selfish craft that young and old From grasping crowds must learn ; How gladly to some rural nook Would I transplant thy mind; From nature’s brow and Sage’s book, To learn that highest lore — to look With love upon mankind ! Field, forest, glen, rock, hill, and stream, Green robe and snowy shroud — The calm, the storm, the lightning gleam, The sea, the sky, the cloud, — Are volumes the Eternal One Hath sent us from above, For every heart to study on, And learn to suffer, seek, or shun, In charity and love. The weak may there be taught to cope, The mighty to beware ; The Fond to doubt, the slave to hope, The Tyrant to despair — Changing and changeless, that which dies, And that no death can mar, Silent and sounding, wild and wise, Before each mood of passion rise A Beacon, or a Bar. My son, to these rich volumes oft From throngs and streets retire ; So shall thy spirit soar aloft From low and base desire. And when thy country, chained or free, From city and green sod Arrays the people’s majesty, Thy soul, in truth and wisdom, be A soul that spoke with God. XI Q 242 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. THE BRIDAL IN PARADISE. BY D. P. STARKEY. It was a night of glorious light, magnificent with stars, Which flashed along the firmament in their triumphal cars ; The overarching dome of heaven was blazing far and wide, For Adam, sinless and sublime, that day had wed his bride. Within a garden the pair slept, enfolded arm in arm, Their pulses thrilling as they welled from life’s young fountains warm ; Soft went their sighlngs to and fro, and round each breath there fluttered Ten thousand words of love, half-winged, and struggling to be uttered. And one was powerful in sleep, with brow intently wrought — A solemn calm, as though a spell had fixed some mighty thought : His length of limb lay still as stone, for the moon’s broad beam to carve ; Yet not in marble death — but all electric with life’s nerve. For there was strength and sternness in the slumber of that form — A something fearful and august, like a pause amidst a storm ; Misdoubting spirits hover’d near, nor could their gaze forbear — They almost felt that they must kneel before God’s image there. The other lay all loveliness, defencelessly reposing Within the arm that twined her round; and her sweet lips, unclosing, Poured murmurs, half in prayer, half dream, yet more of song than word, as the breath of innocence swept by, and the fresh-strung feelings stirred. Each lustrous eye, in love’s eclipse, was shrouded o’er with fringe. Which lay like shade, and lent her cheek the glow of contrast’s tinge ; And the marble carving of her brow shone white ’twixt tress and tress, Like Thought’s pure tempi# reared amidst a fragrant, wilderness. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 243 There, all unconscious, yet intense, glowed human feeling first ; Each heart that beat, each breast that swelled, creation’s self had nursed : — All, all was new — the pressed herb heaved beneath the breathing pair, And long sprays reached all trembling down to touch whit seemed so fair : — Hush, hush, earth, air! — glide softly, streams!- stea gently, waves, to shore ! — Back, echoes, to your inmost grots ! — repress, O winds, your roar Nature with finger on her lip, looked breathlessly around, Lest one of all her new-fledged brood should break the trance profound. The shadows plunged amidst the woods, and down in caverns lay, Which wild beasts haunt, before a tread was printed in their clay;— And orbs unnamed upon the breasts of glancing streams were caught, Unnamed as they, and rolling down thro’ sands of gold unsought. Thro’ many a glade the maiden moon pursued the midnight hours— In many a lawn the enamoured dew fell back amidst its flowe s ; The forests whispered on their hills and the mighty mountains rose Like silent altars under heaven, in eloquent repose. And the pebbly brook told o’er and o’er its wanderings from its source, And questioned every stone it met of its yet untravelled course; And as it murmured through the dell, it listened — for it heard An answer from the rock, how soft ! responding word for word. And palms and cedars rose to heaven, with graceful tendrils hung Festooned from lowly plants which grew their loftier lords among; And the rugged oak allowed the vine to seize it, unreproved ; And the moss had clasp’d its own gray stone, that nought might be unloved. One silvery link of harmony stretched betwixt heaven and earth, Too ravishing for sense to say from which it had its birth : — A nightingale’s lone note arose — but trembled in the ether, So slender was the thread that hung silence and song together. 244 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. And the lion and the leopard lay beside the kid and lamb, And the wolf sought not to tear its prey from the fostering of it? dam ; The fawn and the great stag-hound slept, for their fleetness they had tried, And, tired with the unbloody chase, now slumbered side by side Oil, wherefore was that trance not death ? Why did the morning break ? Why, why must they who slept in peace, to sin and sorrow wake? Too long, or far too short that sleep — for on the morrow, Death Will breathe the lying hope of life, and blast them with his breath " Peace, dreamer ! — Slumber on, blest pair ! ye needs must sin — and die. To him that disobeyeth — Death is Nature’s sole reply. Ye die — but for your life, behold ! a God shall leave the skies, To murmur o’er earth’s sepulchres the magic word — Arise 1” THE SOLDIER BOY. BY DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. [To the readers of English literature, it is almost unnecessary to do more than mention the name of Dr. Maginn, to make them acquainted with his his- tory and his fame. He was born in Cork in 1794, the son of a schoolmaster; and on his father’s death undertook the management of the establishment at the age of twenty. In this position he continued till 1817, when he became a contributor to Blackwood , which had been started that year under the editorial management of Professor Wilson. Maginn was a constant contributor till 1828. He wrote without labour and without limit. His thoughts gushed forth in ex- uberant abundance, clothed in rich and varied phraseology. He was the first Irishman who disclaimed the low, disgusting caricatures which had been writ- ten and published in London as the songs of Ireland. He repudiated the pater- nity of the “ Murtagh Delany” and “Larry M‘Fig” school of ballads, which were at one time so popular on the English stage, but which are now regardea as Irish songs only by the vulgar and illiterate. Irishmen were then intro- duced to English society, as the drunken helots and gladiators of ©Id were intro iuced to disgust and amuse their masters ; and much of English dislike ana many of its prejudices may be traced to this source. Maginn married in 1823, and then went to London to seek his fortune. His engagements were soon numerous, and the opinion entertained of his abilities may be estimated from the fact that John Murray, the publisher, placed Lord Byron’s letters and papers in his hands for a biography of the poet, shortly after his lordship’s death. Fortunately for the memory of Byron, this work fell ultimately into the more congenial hands of Moore. In consequence of some disagreement MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 245 witn Blackwood, Maginn established Frazers Magazine in 1830, and became its editor. His writings are scattered over the broad field of English periodical literature for thirty years. Selections from his articles were published previ- ously to his death under the title of “Magazine Miscellanies ; ” his “ Homeric Ballads ” have been published since that sad event, which occurred in 1841.1 I give my soldier boy a blade, In fair Damascus fashioned well ; Who first the glittering falchion swayed, Who first beneath its fury fell, I know not, but I hope to know That for no mean or hireling trade, To guard no feeling base or low, I give my soldier-boy a blade. Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood In which its tempering work was done, As calm, as clear, as cool of mood, Be thou whene’er it sees the sun : For country’s claim, at honour’s call, For outraged friend, insulted maid, At mercy’s voice to bid it fall, I give my soldier-boy a blade. The eye which marked its peerless edge, The hand that weighed its balanced poise, Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, Are gone with all their flame and noise — And still the gleaming sword remains ; So, when in dust I low am laid, Remember by those heart-felt strains, I gave my soldier-boy a blade. THE HEART’S RESTING PLACE. BY T. D. M‘GEE. Twice have I sailed the Atlantic o’er, Twice dwelt an exile in the west ; Twice did kind nature’s skill restore, The quiet of my troubled breast — 246 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS, As moss upon a rifted tree, So time its gentle cloaking did, But though the wound no eye could see, Deep in my heart the barb was hid. I felt a weight where’er I went— I felt a void within my brain ; My day hopes and my dreams were blent, With sable threads of mental pain ; My eye delighted not to look, On forest old or rapids grand ; The stranger’s joy I scarce could brook, My heart was in my own dear land. Where’er I turned, some emblem still Roused consciousness upon my track , Some hill was like an Irish hill, Some wild bird’s whistle called me back A sea-bound ship bore off my peace, Between its white, cold wings of woo ; Oh, if I had but wings like these, Where my peace went I too would go LEONIDAS. BY REV. GEORGE CROLY. Shout for the mighty men, Who died along this shore — Who died within this mountain’s glen ! For never nobler chieftain’s head Was Did on Valour’s crimson bed, Nor ever prouder gore Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day Upon thy strand, Thermopylae ! Shout for the mighty men, Who on the Persian tents, Like lions from their midnight den Bounding on the slumbering deer, Rush’d. — a storm of sword and spear;— Like the roused elements, MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 247 Let loose from an immortal hand, To chasten or to crush a land ! But there are none to hear ; Greece is a hopeless slave. Leonidas ! no hand is near To lift thy fiery falchion now ; No warrior makes the warrior’s vow Upon thy sea-wash’d grave. The voice that should be rais’d by men. Must now be given by wave and glen. And it is given ! — the surge — The tree — the rock — the sand — On Freedom’s kneeling spirit urge, In sounds that speak but to the free, The memory of thine and thee I The vision of thy band Still gleams within the glorious dell, Where their gore hallow’d, as it fell l And is thy grandeur done ? Mother of men like these ! Has not thy outcry gone, Where Justice has an ear to hear? — Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear Till in thy crimson’d seas Are plunged the chain and scimitar, Greece shall be a new-born Star ! THE SISTER OF CHARITY.* BY GERALD GRIFFIN. She once was a lady of honour and wealth, Bright glow’d on her features the roses of health ; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, And her motion shook perfume from every fold : * Griffin’s sister entered this pious order, which circumstance probaoly sug- gested the noem 248 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Joy revelTd around her — love shone at her side, And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride ; And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall, When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul She felt, in her spirit, the summons of grace, That call’d her to live for the suffering race ; And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, Rose quickly like Mary, and answered, “ I come.” She put from her person the trappings of pride, And pass’d from her home, with the joy of a bride, Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved, — For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved. Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost. That beauty that once was the song and the toast— No more in the ball-room that figure we meet, But gliding at dusk to the wretch’s retreat. Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, For she barters for heaven the glory of earth. Those feet, that to music could gracefully move, Now bear her alone on the mission of love ; Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them ; That voice that once echo’d the song of the vain, Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ; And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl, Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. Her down-bed a pallet — her trinkets a bead, Her lustre — one taper that serves her to read ; Her sculpture — the crucifix nail’d by her bed ; Her paintings one print of the thorn-crowned head ; Her cushion — the pavement that wearies her knees, Her music the psalm, or the sigh of disease ; The delicate lady lives mortified there, And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer Yet not to the service of heart and of mind, Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined, MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 249 Like him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. She strengthens the weary — she comforts the weak, And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ; Where want and affliction on mortals attend, The Sister of Charity there is a friend. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, Like an angel she moves, ’mid the vapour of death ; Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord. How sweetly she bends o’er each plague-tainted face With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ; How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, For she sees in the wounded the image of Him. Behold her, ye worldly ! behold her, ye vain ! Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain ; Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days, Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. Ye lazy philosophers — self-seeking men, — Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen, How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid v THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A* The shades of eve had crossed the glen That frowns o’er infant Avonmore ; When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, We stopped before a cottage door. “ God save all here,” my comrade cries And rattles on the raised latch-pin; “ God save you kindly,” quick replies A clear sweet voice, and asks us in. We enter ; from the wheel she starts, A rosy girl with soft black eyes* Her fluttering court’sy takes our hearts, Her blushing grace and pleased surprise. 250 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Poor Mary, she was quite alone, For, all the way to Glenmalure, Her mother had that morning gone And left the house in charge with her. But neither household cares, nor yet The shame that startled virgins feel, Could make the generous girl forget Her wonted hospitable zeal. She brought us in a beechen bowl, Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll Of butter — it gilds all my rhyme ! And, while we ate the grateful food, (With weary limbs on bench reclined,) Considerate and discreet, she stood Apart, and listened to the wind. Kind wishes both our souls engaged, From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual thought — we stood and pledged,— The modest rose above Loch Dan. 11 The milk we drink is not more pure, Sweet Mary — bless those budding charms l Than your own generous heart, I’m sure, Nor whiter than the breast it warms ! ” She turned and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen ; But, Mary, you have nought to fear, Though smiled on by two stranger men. Not for a crown would I alarm Your virgin pride by word or sign ; Nor need a painful blush disarm My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. Her simple heart could not but feel The words we spoke were free from guile ; She stooped, she blushed — she fixed her wheel - ’Tis all in vain — she can’t but smile ! Just like sweet April’s dawn appears Her modest faoo — T see it yet— MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 251 And though I lived a hundred years Methinks I never could forget The pleasure, that, despite her heart, Fills all her downcast eyes with light, The lips reluctantly apart, The white teeth struggling into sight; The dimples eddying o ’or her cheek, — The rosy cheek that won’t be still ! — Oh ! who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill ? For such another smile, I vow, Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I’d take the mountain-side e’en now, And walk to Luggelaw again 1 THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTERS. BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. [At the Marischal College at Aberdeen, among other valuable curiosities, they show one of the banners formerly belonging to the Covenanters ; it is of white silk, with the motto, “Spe Expecto, in red letters; and underneath, the English inscription, “ For Religion, King, and Kingdoms.” The banner ia much tom, but otherwise in good preservation.] Here, where the rain-drops may not fall, the sunshine doth not play. Where the unfelt and distant breeze in whispers dies away ; Here, where the stranger paces slow along the silent halls, Why mutely art thou hanging thus against the massive walls ? Thou, that hast seen blood shed for thee- -that midst the battle tide Hast faintly lit the soldier’s eye with triumph ere he died ; Bright banner, which hath witness’d oft the struggles of the free, Emblem of proud and holy hope, is this a place for thee .* Wake ! wake aloft, thou Banner ! let every snowy fold Float on our wild, unconquer’d hills, as in the days of old ; Hang out, and give again to Death a glory and a charm, Where Heaven’s pure dew may freshen thoa and Heaven’s pure sunshine warm. 262 MISCEJLLANEOtS liALLAJ Dfe> Wake, wave aloft ! 1 hear the silk low rustling on the breeze, Which whistles through the lofty fir, and bends the birchen trees I hear the tread of warriors arm’d to conquer or to die ; Their bed or bier the heathery hill, their canopy the sky. What, what is life or death to them ? they only feel and know Freedom is to be struggled for, with an unworthy foe — Their homes — their hearths — the all for which their fathers, too have fought, And liberty to breathe the prayers their cradled lips were taught. On, on they rush — like mountain streams resistlessly they sweep — On ! those who live are heroes now — and martyrs those who sleep 1 While still the snow-white banner waves above the field of strife, With a proud triumph, as it were a thing of soul and life. They stand — they bleed — they fall! they make one brief and breathless pause, And gaze with fading eyes upon the standard of their cause ; — Again they brave the strife of death, again each weary limb Faintly obeys the warrior soul, tho’ earth’s best hopes grow dim; — The mountain-rills are red with blood, the pure and quiet sky Rings with the shouts of those who win, the groans of those who die ; Taken — retaken — raised again, but soil’d with clay and gore, Heavily, on the wild free breeze, that Banner floats once more. I hear the wail of women now : the dreadful day is done ; God’s creatures wait to strive and slay until to-morrow’s sun : I hear the heavy breathing of the weary ones who sleep, The death-sob and the dying word, “ the voice of them that weep, '* The half-choked grief of those who, while they stifle back their breath, Scarce know if what they watch be hush’d in slumber or in death While mournfully, as if it knew and felt for their despair, The moon-lit Banner flaps and falls upon the midnight air. Morning ! the glad and glorious light ! the waking of God’s earth, Which rouses men to stain with gore the soil that gave them birth In the still sunshine sleeps the hill, the stream, the distant town ; In the still sunshine — clogg’d and stiff — the battle-flag hangs down. Feace is in Heaven, and Heaven’s good gifts, but war is amongst men — Red blood is pouring on the hill, wild shouts are in the glen ; *Tis past — they sink, they b\oed, they fly — that faint, enfeebled host, Right is nof might — the Banner-flag, the victorv. are lost 1 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 253 Heaven’s dew hath drunk the crimson drops which on too heather lay, The rills that were so red with gore, go sparkling on their way The limbs that fought, the hearts that swell’d, are crumbled into dust, The souls which strove are gone to meet the spirits of the just ; But that frail silken flag, for which, and under which, they fought, (And which e’en now retains its power upon the soul of thought,) Survives — a tatter’d, senseless thing— to meet the curious eye, And wake a momentary dream of hopes and days gone by. A momentary dream ! oh ! not for one poor transient hour, Not for a brief and hurried day that flag exerts its power ; Full flashing on our dormant souls the lirm conviction comes, That what our fathers did for theirs , we could for our homes. We, too, could brave the giant arm that seeks to chain each word, And rule what form of prayer alone shall by our God be heard : We, too, in triumph or defeat, could drain our heart’s best veins, While the good old cause of Liberty for Church and State remains ! THE GRAVE OF MAC CAURA. BY MRS. DOWNING. AUTHOR OF “ SCR APS FROM THE MOUNTAINS.” J At Callan, a pass on an unfrequented road leading from Glanerought (the e of the Roughty) to Bantry, the country people point out a flat stone by the pathway, which they name as the burial-place of Daniel Mac Carthy, who fell there in an engagement with the Fitzgeralds in 1261. The stone still pre- serves the traces of characters which are, however, illegible. From the scanty records of the period, it would appear that this battle was no inconsiderable one. The Geraldines were defeated, and their leader, Thomas Fitzgerald, and his son, eighteen barons, fifteen knights, and many others of his adherents, slain. But the honour and advantage of victory were dearly purchased by the exulting natives, owing to the death of their brave and noble chieftain.] And this is tliy grave, MacCaura, Here by the pathway lone, Where the thorn blossoms are bending Over thy mouldered stone. Alas ! for the sons of glory ; Oh ! thou of the darkened brow 2o4 MISCELLANEOUS ballads. And tlie eagle plume, and the belted clans, Is it here thou art sleeping now ? Oh ! wild is the spot, MacCaura, In which they have laid thee low — The field where thy people triumphed Over a slaughtered foe ; And loud was the banshee’s wailing, And deep was the clansmen’s sorrow, When with bloody hands and burning teaw They buried thee here, MacCaura. And now thy dwelling is lonely — King of the rushing horde ; And now thy battles are over — Chief of the shining sword. And the rolling thunder echoes O’er torrent and mountain free, But alas ! and alas ! MacCaura, It will not awaken thee. Farewell to thy grave, MacCaura, Where the slanting sunbeams shine, And the briar and waving fern Over thy slumbers twine ; Thou whose gathering summons Could waken the sleeping glen ; IVLacCaura ! alas for thee and thine, ’Twill never be heard again. THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR. BY D. F. MCCARTHY, Yes ! the Summer is returning, Warmer, brighter beams are burning; Golden -roomings, purple evenings, Come to glad the world once more. Nature from her long sojourning, In the Winter-House of Mourning, With the light of hope outpeeping, 'Yom those eyes that late were weeping, MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 255 Cometh dancing o’er the waters To our distant shore. On the boughs the birds are singing, Never idle, For the bridal, Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing All the green bells on the branches, Which the soul of man doth hear ; Music-shaken, It doth waken, Half in hope and half in fear, And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year 1 For the year is sempiternal, Never wintry, never vernal, Still the same through all the changes That our wondering eyes behold. Spring is but his time of wooing — Summer but the sweet renewing Of the vows he utters yearly, Ever fondly and sincerely, To the young Bride that he weddeth, When to heaven departs the old, For it is her fate to perish, Having brought him, In the Autumn, Children for his heart to cherish. Summer, like a human mother, Dies in bringing forth her young ; * Sorrow blinds him, Winter finds him Childless, too, their graves among, Till May returns once more, and bridal hymns are sung. Thrice the great Betrothed naming, Thrice the mystic banns proclaiming, February, March, and April, Spread the tidings far and wide ; Thrice the questioned each new-comer, “ Know ye, why the sweet-faced Summer, With her rich imperial dower, Golden fruit and diamond flower, And her pearly rain-drop trinkets, Should not be the green Earth’s Bride ? ” 256 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS* All things vocal spoke elated (Nor the voiceless Did rejoice less) — u Be the marriage consummated I” All the many murmuring voices Of the music-breathing Spring, Young birds twittering, Streamlets glittering, Insects on transparent wing — All hailed the Summer nuptials of their King ! Now the rosy east gives warning, ’Tis the wished-for nuptial morning. Sweetest truant from Elysium, Golden morning of the May ! All the guests are in their places — Lilies with pale, high-bred faces — Hawthorns in white wedding favours, Scented with celestial savours — Daisies, like sweet country maidens, Wear white scolloped frills to-day ; ’Neath her hat of straw the Peasant Primrose sitteth, Nor permitteth Any of her kindred present, ’Specially the milk-sweet cowslip, E’er to leave the tranquil shade ; By the hedges, Or the edges Of some stream or grassy glade, They look upon the scene half wistful, half afraid Other guests, too, are invited, From the alleys dimly lighted, From the pestilential vapours Of the overpeopled town — From the fever and the panic Comes the hard-worked, swarth mechanic — Comes his young wife, pallor-stricken At the cares that round her thicken — Comes the boy whose brow is wrinkled, Ere his chin is clothed in down — And the foolish leasure-seekers, MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 257 Nightly thinking They are drinking Life and joy from poisoned beakers, Shudder at their midnight madness, And the raving revel scorn : All are treading To the wedding In the freshness of the morn, And feel, perchance too late, the bliss of being bom. And the Student leaves his poring, And his venturous exploring In the gold and gem-enfolding Waters of the ancient lore — Seeking in its buried treasures, Means for life’s most common pleasures ; Neither vicious nor ambitious — Simple wants and simple wishes. Ah ! he finds the ancient learning But the Spartan’s iron ore ; Without value in an era Far more golden Than the olden — When the beautiful chimera — Love — hath almost wholly faded Even from the dreams of men. From his prison Newly risen — From his book-enchanted den — The stronger magic of the morning drives him forth again And the Artist, too — the Gifted — He whose soul is Heavenward lifted — Till it drinketh inspiration At the fountain of the skies ; He, within whose fond embraces Start to life the marble graces ; Or, with God-like power presiding, With the potent pencil gliding, O’er the void chaotic canvass, Bids the fair creations rise ! And the quickened mass obeying Heaves its mountains ; From its fountains n R 258 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Sends the gentle streams a-straying Through the vales, like Love’s first feelings Stealing o’er a maiden’s heart ; The Creator — Imitator — From his easel forth doth start. And from God’s glorious Nature learns anew his Art 1 But who is this with tresses flowing, Flashing eyes and forehead glowing, From whose lips the thunder-music * Pealeth o’er the listening lands ? ’Tis the first and last of preachers — First and last of priestly teachers ; First and last of those appointed In the ranks of the anointed ; With their songs like swords to sever Tyranny and Falsehood’s bands ! ’Tis the Poet — sum and total Of the others, With his brothers, In his rich robes sacerdotal, Singing from his golden psalter. Comes he now to wed the twain — Truth and Beauty — Rest and Duty — Hope, and Fear, and Joy, and Pain, Unite for weal or woe beneath the Poet’s chair* ! And the shapes that follow after Some in tears and some in laughter, Are they not the fairy phantoms In his glorious visions seen ? Nymphs from shady forests wending, Goddesses from heaven descending ; Three of Jove’s divinest daughters, Nine from Aganippe’s waters ; And the passion-immolated, Too fond-hearted Tyrian Queen, Various shapes of one idea, Memory-haunting, Heart-enchanting, Cythna, Genevieve, and Nea ; Rosalind and all her sisters, MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 259 Born by Avon’s sacred stream, All the blooming Shapes illuming “ The Eternal Pilgrim’s ” dream, Follow the Poet’s steps beneath the morning beam. But the Bride — the Bride is coming ! Birds are singing, bees are humming ; Silent lakes amid the mountains Look but cannot speak their mirth ; Streams go bounding in their gladness, With a Bacchanalian madness ; Trees bow down their heads in wonder, Clouds of purple part asunder, As the Maiden of the Morning Leads the blushing Bride to Earth ! Bright as are the planets seven — With her glances She advances For her azure eyes are Heaven ! And her robes are sun-beams woven, And her beauteous bridesmaids are Hopes and Wishes — Dreams delicious — Joys from some serener star, And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar ! Now the mystic rite is over — Blessings on the loved and lover 1 Strike the tabours, clash the cymbals, Let the note of joy resound ! With the rosy apple blossom, Blushing like a maiden’s bosom ; With the cream-white clusters pearly Of the pear-tree budding early ; With all treasures from the meadows Strew the consecrated ground : Let the guests with vows fraternal Pledge each other, Sister, brother, With the wine of Hope — the vernal Vine-juice of Man’s better nature — Vintage of Man’s trustful heart. 260 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Perseverance And Forbearance, Love and Labour, Song and Art, Be this the cheerful creed wherewith the world may start. But whither have the twain departed ? The United — the One-hearted — Whither from the bridal banquet Have the Bride and Bridegroom flown- Ah ! their steps have led them quickly Where the young leaves cluster thickly , Blossomed boughs rain fragrance o’er them, Greener grows the grass before them, As they wander through the island, Fond, delighted, and alone ! At their coming streams grow brighter, Skies grow clearer, Mountains nearer, And the blue waves dancing lighter From the far-off mighty ocean Frolic on the glistening sand, Jubilations — Gratulations — Breathe around, as hand in hand, They roam by Sutton’s sea- washed shore, or soft Shanganah’s strand. LOVE’S WARNING. BY EDWARD KENEALY. A fair lady once, with her young lover walked, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; Through a garden, and sweetly they laughed and they talked, While the dews fell over the mulberry tree. She gave him a rose — while he sighed for a kiss, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; Quoth he, as he took it, “ I kiss thee in this,” While the dews fall over the mulberry tree. She gave him a lily less white than her breast, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 261 Quoth lie, “ ’twill remind me of one I love best ; ” While the dews fall over the mulberry tree. She gave him a two faces under a hood, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; “ How blest you could make me,” quoth he, “ if you would,” While the dews fall over the mulberry tree. She saw a forget-me-not flower in the grass, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; Ah ! why did the lady that little flower pass ? While the dews fell over the mulberry tree. The young lover saw that she passed it, and sigh’d, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; They say his heart broke, and he certainly died, While the dews fell over the mulberry tree. Now all you fair ladies, take warning by this, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; And never refuse your young lovers a kiss, While the dews fall over the mulberry tree. WILLY GILLILAND. AN ULSTER BALLAD. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A. Jp in the mountain solitudes, and in a rebel ring, He has worshipped God upon the hill, in spite of church and king And sealed his treason with his blood on Bothwell bridge he hath, So he must fly his father’s land, or he must die the death ; For comely Claverhouse has come along with grim Dalzell, And his smoking rooftree testifies they’ve done their errand well. In vain to fly his enemies he fled his native land ; Hot persecution waited him upon the Carrick strand ; His name was on the Carrick cross, a price was on his head, A fortune to the man that brings him in, alive or dead ! And so on moor and mountain, from the Laggan to the Bann, From house to house, and hill to hill, he lurked an outlawed man. 262 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS* At last, when in false company he might no longer nide, He staid his houseless wanderings upon the Collon side, There in a cave all under ground he laired his heathy den, Ah, many a gentleman was fain to earth like hill fox then. With hound and fishing-rod he lived on hill and stream by day, At night, betwixt his fleet greyhound and his bonny mare he lay. It was a summer evening, and, mellowing and still, Glenwhirry to the setting sun lay bare from hill to hill ; For all that valley pastoral held neither house nor tree, But spread abroad and open all, a full fair sight to see, From Slemish foot to Collon top lay one unbroken green ; Save where in many a silver coil the river glanced between. And on the river’s grassy bank, even from the morning grey, He at the angler’s pleasant sport had spent the summer day : Ah ! many a time and oft I’ve spent the summer day from dawn, And wondered, when the sunset came, where time and care had gone, Along the reaches curling fresh, the wimpling pools and streams, Where he that day his cares forgot in these delightful dreams. His blythe work done, upon a bank the outlaw rested now, And laid the basket from his back, the bonnet from his brow, And there, his hand upon the Book, his knee upon the sod, He filled the lonely valley with the gladsome word of God ; And for a persecuted kirk, and for her martyrs dear, And against a godless church and king he spoke up loud and clear. And now, upon his homeward way he crossed the Collon high, And over bush and bank and brae he sent abroad his eye, But all was darkening peacefully in grey and purple haze, The thrush was silent in the banks, the lark upon the braes — When suddenly shot up a blaze — from the cave’s mouth it came ; And troopers’ steeds and troopers’ caps are glancing in the samel He couched among the heather, and he saw them, as he lay, With three long yells at parting, ride lightly east away ; Then down with heavy heart he came, to sorry cheer came he, For ashes black were crackling where the green whins used to be, And stretched among the prickly coomb his heart’s blood smoking round, From slender nose to breast-bone cleft, lay dead his good grey hound ! MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 263 44 They've slain my dog, the Fhilistines ! they’ve ta’en my bonny mare 1 ” — He plunged into the smoky hole ; no bonny beast was there — He groped beneath his burning bed, (it burned him to the bone,) Where his good weapon used to be, but broadsword there was none ; He reeled out of the stifling den, and sat down on a stone, And in the shadows of the night ’twas thus he made his moan — “ I am a houseless outcast ; I have neither bed nor boaid, Nor living thing to look upon, nor comfort save the Lord : Yet was the good Elijah once in worse extremity ; Who succoured him in his distress, He now will succour me; He now will succour me, I know ; and, by His holy name, I’ll make the doers of this deed right dearly rue the same ! 44 My bonny mare ! I’ve ridden you when Claver’se rode behind, And from the thumbscrew and the boot you bore me like the wind; And, while I have the life you saved, on your sleek flank, I swear, Episcopalian rowel shall never ruffle hair ! Though sword to wield they’ve left me none — yet Wallace wight, I wis, Good battle did on Irvine side wi’ waur weapon than this.” — His fishing-rod with both his hands he griped it as he spoke, And, where the butt and top were spliced, in pieces twain he broke; The limber top he cast away, with all its gear abroad, But, grasping the tough hickory butt, with spike of iron shod, He ground the sharp spear to a point ; then pulled his bonnet down, And, meditating black revenge, set forth for Carrick town. The sun shines bright on Carrick wall and Carrick Castle grey, And up thine aisle, Saint Nicholas, has ta’en his morning way ; And to the North- Gate sentinel display eth far and near Sea, hill, and tower, and all thereon, in dewy freshness clear, Save where, behind a ruined wall, himself alone to view, Is peering from the ivy green a bonnet of the blue. The sun shines red on Carrick wall and Carrick Castle old, And all the western buttresses have changed their grey for gold ; And from thy shrine, Saint Nicholas ! the pilgrim of the sky Hath gone in rich farewell, as fits such royal votary ; But, as his last red glance he takes down past black Slieve-a-true, He leaveth where he found it first, the bonnet of the blue. 264 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Again he makes the turrets grey stand out before the hill, Constant as their foundation rock, there is the bonnet still ! And now the gates are opened, and forth in gallant show Prick jeering grooms and burghers blythe, and troopers in a row; But one has little care for jest, so hard bested is he To ride the outlaw’s bonny mare, for this at last is she ! Down comes her master with a roar, her rider with a groan, The iron and the hickory are through and through him gone I He lies a corpse ; and where he sat the outlaw sits again, And once more to his bonny mare he gives the spur and rein ; Then some with sword and some with gun, they ride and run amain ; But sword and gun, and whip and spur, that day they plied in vain ! Ah ! little thought Willy Gilliland, when he on Skerry side Drew bridle first, and wiped his brow after that weary ride, That where he lay like hunted brute, a caverned outlaw lone, Broad lands and yeomen tenantry should yet be there his own , Yet so it was ; and still from him descendants not a few Draw birth and lands, and, let me trust, draw love of Freedom too. 1829. MOLLY MULDOON. Molly Muldoon was an Irish Girl, And as fine a one As you’d look upon In the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl ; Her teeth were white, though not of pearl, — And dark was her hair, but it did not curl ; Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair, But owned that a power o’ beauty was there. Now many a hearty and rattling gorsoon Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune, Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon, But for that in her eye Which made most of them shy And look quite ashamed, though they couldn’t tell why — Her eye? were large, dark blue, and clear, And heart and mind seemed in them blended. If intellect sent you one look severe Love instantly leapt in the next to mend it — MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 265 Hers was the eye to check the rude, And hers the eye to stir emotion, To keep the sense and soul subdued And calm desire into devotion. There was Jemmy O’Hare, As fine a boy as you’d see in a fair, And wherever Molly was he was there. His face was round and his build was square, And he sported as rare And tight a pair Of legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere. And Jemmy would wear His caubeen and hair With such a peculiar and rollicking air, That I’d venture to swear Not a girl in Kildare Nor Victoria’s self, if she chanced to be there, Could resist his wild way — called “ Devil may care.” Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun, Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor run With Jemmy — No gorsoon could equal him — None. At wake or at wedding, at feast or at fight, At throwing the sledge with such dext’rous sleight, — He was the envy of men, and the women’s delight. Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O’Hare, And in troth J emmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon. I believe in my conscience a purtier pair Never danced in a tent at a pattern in June, — To a bagpipe or fiddle On the rough cabin door That is placed in the middle — Ye may talk as ye will There’s a grace in the limbs of the peasantry there With which People of Quality couldn’t compare. And Molly and Jemmy were counted the two That would keep up the longest and go the best through All the jigs and the reels That have occupied heels Since the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru. It was on a long bright sunny day Thev sat on a green knoll side by side, 26 6 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. But neither just then had much to say; Their hearts were so full that they only tried To do anything foolish, just to hide What both of them felt, but what Molly denied They pluck’d the speckled daisies that grew Close by their arms, — then tore them too ; And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk They threw at each other for want of talk ; While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile, Reflected pure souls without art or guile And every time Molly sighed or smiled, Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child ; And he fancied the sky never looked so bright, The grass so green, the daisies so white : Everything looked so gay in his sight That gladly he’d linger to watch them till night — And Molly herself thought each little bird Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred, — Sang only his lay but by her to be heard. An Irish courtship’s short and sweet, It’s sometimes foolish and indiscreet ; But who is wise when his young heart’s heat Whips the pulse to a galloping beat — Ties up his judgment neck and feet And makes him the slave of a blind conceit ? Sneer not therefore, at the loves of the poor, Though their manners be rude their affections are pure ; They look not by art, and they love not by rule, For their souls are not tempered in fashion’s cold school Oh ! give me the love that endures no controul But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul, As the mountain stream gushes its freshness and force, Yet obedient, wherever it flows, to its source. Yes, give me the love that but nature has taught, By rank unallured and by riches unbought ; Whose very simplicity keeps it secure — The love that illumines the hearts of the poor. All blushful was Molly, or shy at least As one week before Lent Jem procured her consent To go the next Sunday and spake to the priest. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 267 Shrove-Tuesday was named for the wedding to be, And it dawned as bright as they’d wish to see. And Jemmy was up at the day’s first peep For the live-long night, no wink could he sleep. A bran new coat, with a bright big button He took from a chest and carefully put on — And brogues as well lampblacked as ever went foot on Were greased with the fat of a quare sort of mutton! Then a tidier gorsoon could’nt be seen Treading the Emerald Sod so green — Light was his step and bright was his eye As he walked through the slobbery streets of Athy. And each girl he passed, bid “God bless him” and sighed, While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride. Hush ! here’s the Priest — let not the least Whisper be heard till the father has ceased. u Come, bridegroom and bride, That the knot may he tied Which no power upon earth can hereafter divide.” Up rose the bride and the bridegroom too, And a passage was made for them both to walk through ; And his Rev’rence stood with a sanctified face, Which spread its infection around the place. The bridesmaid bustled and whispered the bride, Who felt so confused that she almost cried, But at last bore up and walked forward, where The Father was standing with solemn air ; The bridegroom was following after with pride, When his piercing eye something awful espied! He stopped and sighed, Looked round and tried To tell what he saw, but his tongue denied : With a spring and a roar, He jumped to the door, And the bride laid her eyes on the bridegroom no more Some years sped on, Yet heard no one Of Jemmy O’Hare, or where he had gone. But since the night of that widow’d feast, The strength of poor Molly had ever decreas’d ; Till, at length, from earth’s sorrow her soul releas’d, Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least. 268 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased, Just five years after the widow’d feast, An American letter was brought to the priest, Telling of Jemmy O’Hare deceas’d ! Who, ere his death, With his latest breath, To a spiritual father unburdened his breast And the cause of his sudden departure contest, — “ Oh ! Father,” says he, “ I’ve not long to live, So I’ll freely confess, and hope you’ll forgive — That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed ; Ay, as well as the Creed That was never forsaken by one of my breed ; But I could’nt have married her after I saw ” — “ Saw what !” cried the Father desirous to hear — And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking — 11 Not in her ‘ karacter,’ yer Rev’rince a flaw ” — The sick man here dropped a significant tear And died as he whispered in the clergyman’s ear — “ But I saw, God forgive her, A hole in her stocking !* THE MORAL. Lady readers, love may be Fixed in hearts immovably, May be strong, and may be pure ; Faith may lean on faith secure, Knowing adverse fate’s endeavour Makes that faith more firm than ever: But the purest love and strongest, Love that has endured the longest, Braving cross, and blight, and trial, Fortune’s bar, or pride’s denial, Would — no matter what its trust — Be uprooted by Disgust Y es, the love that might for years Spring in suffering, grow in tears, Parents’ frigid counsel mocking Might be — where’s the use in talking Upset by a broken stocking ! MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 269 MAY. BY W. D. GALLAGHER. Would that thou couldst last for aye, Merry, ever-merry May ! Made of sun-gleams, shade and showers, Bursting buds, and breathing flowers ; Dripping-lock’d, and rosy vested, Violet-slipper’d, — rainbow-crested ; Girdled with the eglantine, Festoon’d with the dewy vine : Merry, ever-merry May, Would that thou couldst last for aye I Out beneath thy morning sky Dian’s bow still hangs on high ; And in the blue depths afar Glimmers here and there, a star. Diamonds robe the bending grass, Glistening, early flowers among — Monad’s world and fairy’s glass, — Bathing-fount for wandering sprite — By mysterious fingers hung, In the lone and quiet night. Now the freshening breezes pass — Gathering as they steal along, Rich perfume, and matin-song ; And quickly to destruction hurl’d, Is fairy’s diamond glass, and Monad’s dew-drop worlcL Lo ! yon cloud, which hung but now Black upon the mountain’s brow, Threatening the green earth with storm ; See ! it heaves its giant form, And ever changing shape and hue, Each time presenting something new, Moves slowly up, and spreading rolls away Towards the rich purple streaks that usher in the day ; Brightening, as it onward goes, Until its very centre glows With the warm cheering light, the coming sun bestows ; 270 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. As the passing Christian’s soul Nearing the celestial goal, Brighter and brighter grows, till God illumes the whole. Out beneath thy evening sky Not a breeze that wanders by But hath swept the green earth’s bosom, — Kifling the rich grape-vine blossom, Dallying with the simplest flower In mossy nook and rosy bower ; To the perfumed green-house straying, And with rich exotics playing ; Then, unsated, sweeping over Banks of thyme, and fields of clover ! Out beneath the evening sky, Groups of children caper by, Crown’d with flowers, and rush along With joyous laugh, and shout, and song. Flashing eye and radiant cheek Spirits all unsunn’d bespeak. They are in life’s May-month hours, And those wild bursts of joy, what are they but life’s flowers i Out beneath the noontide sky, Earth how beautiful ! how clear Of cloud or mist the atmosphere ! What a glory greets the eye ! What a calm or quiet stir, Steals o’er Nature’s worshipper — Silent, yet so eloquent, That we feel ’tis heaven sent ! Waking thoughts that long have slumber’d, Passion-dimm’d and earth-encumber’d — Bearing sense and soul away, To revel in the perfect day Which waits us, where we shall for aye Discard this darkiome dust — this prison-house of clay 1 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS, 271 THE BATTLE OF BUSACO. BY SIR A. DE VERE. [Sir Aubrey De Vere was bom in the year 1786, and after a life well spent in the performance of his duty as a good landlord and an active country gentleman, died at his seat, Curragh Chase, county of Limerick, in 1846. He was distin- guished for his literary attainments, and for his high poetic genius. He was the author of several dramatic works, in which he depicts the tragic passions with power and truthfulness ; his poems and songs are instinct with grace and feeling. Among his works are “ Mary Tudor,” “ The Lamentation of Ireland,” &c., “The Duke of Mercia,” “Julian the Apostate,” “The Search after Pro- serpine,” and some minor poems. The Battle of Busaco was fought between the combined British and Portu- guese armies, and the French, on the 27th September 1810. The former were commanded by Wellington, Hill, Crawfurd and Picton, and numbered fifty thousand men ; the latter by Massena, Ney (Duke of Elchingen), and Regnier, and were sixty thousand strong. Wellington had been retreating before the superior forces of Massena, who boasted that he would drive the English leopards into the sea. The British General having now obtained the most favourable position of the Sierra, determined to check Massena’s further pursuit. Pre- parations were immediately made, and the forces were disposed in proper order of battle. At day-dawn, and whilst the mist and grey clouds were rolling away, Ney’s division advanced straight up the hill against Crawfurd’s, and in spite of all opposition gained the crest of the Ridge, — but were immediately repulsed by a furious and deadly bayonet-charge made by the 88th and 45th regiments. In the straggle both parties mingled together, and fought hand to hand, down the mountain-side, amidst the greatest clamour and confusion, — the dead and dying strewing the way to the bottom of the valley. After a short time the French reformed their ranks, and under Loison again ascended with wonderful alacrity, in defiance of musketry and artillery, to the very crest of the hollow, scooped out of the Ridge, in which the British were intrenched ; their order was never disturbed nor their speed diminished till their victorious cries were heard within a few yards of the summit. In this emergency Colonel Wallace, who was without orders, turned to his men and addressed to them a few stirring words, — telling them to reserve their fire till they could press upon the enemy to the muzzle. In an instant the wild and terrific shout of the Connaught Rangers startled the French Column, and two thousand bayonets went bristling over the brow of the hill. In twenty minutes, the murderous conflict was decided, and the heroes of Marengo and Austerlitz reeled before the thunder-shout of Faugh a ballagh l The ballad describes the French as a “recreant train,” and says that they fled unresistingly. Such was not the fact. General Napier, who can extol the gallantry of an enemy, as brave men only can, says of this battle, — that after the most astonishing efforts of valour, the French were repulsed in the manner to be expected from the strength of the ground and the efficiency of the soldiers opposed to them. And that on the British side musketry and artillery were brought into full and deadly activity, whilst the French sought to gain the day by daring resolution, rather than by fire. About 4,000 of the French were slain, and 1,300 British and Portvuiuese. ] 272 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. The shadows lie broad on yon mountainous heath, And deep sinks the gloom in the valleys beneath ; Black clouds veil the sky, and the night-breeze blows chill From the wild matted woods round the base of the hill. But the wind dies away as the morning is near, And the gathering of foemen sounds sharp on the ear ; For the morrow’s first sun must behold their array • As they march to the Battle, and challenge the fray l The dawn kindles fast ; as an inflowing tide The bright beams dilate o’er a wilderness wide ; Like isles of the air beams each pinnacled height, With its feet wrapped in clouds, and its head crown’d with light While darkness still broods o’er the dingles below, And Mondego’s fierce currents in solitude flow. There’s a tremulous gleam through the vapoury air, Where the tower-crown’d ridge of Busaco stands bare. And the long level ray of the morning illumes A bright throng of bayonets, banners, and plumes ! But the silence of nature, the calm of the hour Is preserved by that resolute host in their power. How softly the heath-scented gale breathes around ! How sweet grows from distance the waterfall’s sound, As its deep tone unites with the dove’s matin song, And the melody floats on the breezes along ! Oh ! breezes of Heaven, how soon must ye swell With the thunders of battle, and combatants’ yell ! Pure torrents ! how soon must ye burst on the plain, All crimson’d with slaughter — all choked with the slain ! Hark ! hark ! ’twas the dreadful artillery’s roar ! And Mondego, re-echoing, shouts from his shore ! O’er the smoke proudly hover the eagles of France — Thro’ the sulphurous gloom the invaders advance ! — Hark again ! ’twas the drum — ’twas the trumpets’ fierce clang, And the madd’ning huzzas of the vanguard that rang. See, they scale the steep rocks — see, the summit is won, And as thousands are crush’d, bolder thousands rush on. Vain — vain every toil, for the Britons are there, And the Red Cross triumphantly floats on the air ; And the brave sons of Erin are there in their might, While invincible Wellington marshals the fight! MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 273 There, foremost, he stands, where the thickest bails fly. And Victory follows the glance of his eye ! — Spur, Elchingen, spur! push thy charger ahead Though he trample alike both the dying and dead ; For thy panic-struck bands fly the bayonets’ shock, As some wild torrent headlong leaps forth from a rock — Spur, Elchingen, spur, o’er the dying and slain, And curb the wild rout of yon recreant train. For all scatter’d like sparks from a down-trodden fire, Unresisting they fly, unavailing expire ! Oh vain every effort ! — who dreameth to bind The surges of ocean, or limit the wind ? Still they fly, but the death-shout resounds in their ear ; And the tramp of the foemen grows near and more near ; For Britain now bursts on the fugitive throng, And sweeps like an avalanche, resistless along ! *Tis sunset— and now, from the bright edge of heaven, Yon orb shoots aloft the last glories of even ; And the glowing clouds float o’er the bright crimson sky, Like standards of Vict’ry unfurl’d on high ! O’er far Caramula the deep blood-red stain, As if risen from earth, streams from heaven again ; And Estrella seems dyed to her snowiest peak, Like the deepening flush of a mild maiden’s cheek ’Tis sunset — the sounds of the fight die away ; The conflict expires with the waning of day ; The fugitives rush through the dark ilex shade, And fling from their grasp the encumbering blade — Yet hark ! still arise from the path of the foe New records of vengeance — new wailings of woe ; The villages blaze, and beneath the red gleam Swell the shouts of the spoiler — the victims’ wild scream. The foe, like the drag of a fast ebbing tide, Is fiercest at parting, and none may abide ! The tempest is past — but, what murmurs are these, That fitfully pass on the swell of the breeze ? — *Twas the last sob of pain — the last struggle of death. And the sad stifled moan of the soldier’s last breath. II. s 274 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. THE WAR NOTE. BY T. D. M*GEE. Gather together the nations ! proclaim the war to all : Armour and sword are girding in palace, and tower, and hall, The Kings of the earth are donning their feudal mail again, Gather together the nations ! arouse and arm The Men. Who cometh from the icy north ? ’Tis Russia’s mighty Czar ; With giant hand he pointeth to a never-setting star. The Cossack springs on his charger — the Tartar leaves his den * Ho ! herald souls of Europe, arouse and arm The Men. What does the Frank at Rome, with the Russian at the Rhine ? And Albion, pallid as her cliffs, shows neither soul nor sign ; See how pale Bomba trembles in his foul Sicilian fen. Ho ! wardens of the world’s strongholds, arouse and arm The Men, The future circleth nearer on its grey portentous wings, Pale are the cheeks of Princes, and sore afraid are Kings ! Once faced by the furious nations, they’ll flee in fear, and then, By the right divine of the fittest, we shall have the reign of Men OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING, BY THOMAS MOORE. Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning’s beam is glancing ' O’er files array’d With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing l When hearts are all high beating, And the trumpet’s voice repeating That song whose breath May lead to death, But never to retreating. Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning’s beam is glancing MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 275 O’er files array’d With helm and blade, And plumes in the gay wind dancing. Yet, ’tis not helm or feather — For ask yon despot, whether His plumed bands Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together. Leave pomps to those who need ’em — Give man but heart and freedom, And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead ’em The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever, ’Tis mind alone, Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever. Oh, that sight entrancing, When the morning’s beam is glancing, O’er files array’d With helm and blade, And in Freedom’s cause advancing 1 THE HERMIT. BY OLIVER GOLD8M1TH. “ Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray ; “ For here, forlorn and lost, I tread With fainting steps and slow — Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.” u Forbear, my son,” the hermit cries, “ To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. 27G MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. " Here, to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And, though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. “ Then turn, to-night, and freely share Whatever my cell bestows — My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. “ No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn — Taught by that power that pities me, I learn to pity them. “ But, from the mountain’s grassy side A guiltless feast I bring — A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. “ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego All earth-born cares are wrong : Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.” Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell ; The modest stranger slowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far, in a wilderness obscure, The lonely mansion lay ; A refuge to the neighbouring poor, And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Requir’d a master’s care ; The wicket, opening with a latch, Receiv’d the harmless pair. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The hermit trimm’d his little fire, And cheer’d his pensive guest ; MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 377 And spread his vegetable store, And gaily press’d and smil’d ; And, skill’d in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguil’d. Around in sympathetic mirth, Its tricks the kitten tries — The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies ; But, nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger’s woe — For grief was heavy at his heart. And tears began to flow. His rising cares the hermit spied — With answering care oppress’d ; “ And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried, The sorrows of thy breast ? “ From better habitations spurn’d, Reluctant dost thou rove ? Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d Or unregarded love ? “ Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay — And those who prize the paltry things More trifling still than they ; “ And what is friendship but a naiiiu, A charm that lulls to sleep — A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep ? “ And love is still an emptier sound — The modern fair-one’s jest ; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle’s nest. 4 For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush.— « And spurn the sex,” he said ; But while he spoke, a rising blush His lovelorn guest betray’d : 2T8 MISCELLANEOUF BALLADS. Surpris’d, he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view — Like colours o’er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands confess’d A maid in all her charms. “ And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn,” she cried — Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude Where heaven and you reside ; il But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray — Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. “ My father liv’d beside the Tyne — A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark’d as mine ; He had but only me. “ To win me from his tender arms Unnumber’d suitors came ; Who prais’d me for imputed charms, And felt or feigned a flame. 11 Each hour, a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Among the rest young Edwin bow’d — But never talk’d of love. “ In humble, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had— But these were all to me. “ And when, beside me in the dale, He carol’d lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale, And music to the grove. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 27 9 11 The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refin’d, Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind ; “ The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine : Their charms were his ; but, woe to me, Their constancy was mine. " For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touch’d my heart, I triumph’d in his pain. " Till, quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride ; And sought; a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. a But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay ; M seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. u And there, forlorn, despairing, hid— I’ll lay me down and die ; ’Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.” “ Forbid it, Heaven ! ” the hermit cried, And clasp’d her to his breast : The wondering fair-one turn’d to chide— ’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d. u Turn, Angelina 1 ever dear — My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor’d to love and thee. u Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign ; And shall we never, never part, My life — my all that’s mine ! 280 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. “ No ; never from this hour to part, We’ll live and love so true : The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin’s too.” THE SIEGE OF HENSBURGH. BY DR. JOHN RYAN. [*• When the Emperor Conrad the Third had besieged Guelphug, Duke of Bavaria, in the city of Hensburgh, the women, finding that the town jould not possibly hold out long, petitioned the Emperor that they might depa: t out of it with as much as each of them could carry. The Emperor, knowing that they could not convey away many of their effects, granted them their petition ; when the women, to his great surprise, came out of the place, with every one her husband on her bacE The Emperor was so much moved at the sight, that he burst into tears, and, after having very much extolled the women for their oon- iugal affection, he gave the men to their wives, and received the Duke into his Favour.”— Spectator^ Vol. vii., No. 499.] Brave news I brave news 1 the Emperor Hath girded on his sword, And swears by the rood, in angry mood, And eke by his knightly word, That humbled Hensburgh’s towers shall be, Witli all her boasted chivalry. The brazen clarion’s battle note Hath sounded through the land ; And brave squire and knight, in their armour dight. Ay, many a gallant band, Have heard the summons far and near, And come with falchion and with spear. u Ho l to the rebel city, ho ! Let vengeance lead the way ! And anon the sheen of their spears was seen, As they rushed upon the prey. Beneath where Hensburgh’s turrets frown’d Great Conrad chose his vantage-ground. Far stretching o’er the fertile plain His snow-white tents were spread ; & MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 281 And the sweet night air, as it linger’d there, Caught the watchful sentry’s tread. Then o’er the city’s battlement The tell-tale breeze its echo sent. Day after day the leaguer sat Before that city’s wall, And yet, day by day, the proud Guelph cried “ Nay,” To the herald’s warning call ; Heedless, from morn to eventide, How many a famish’d mother died ! Weak childhood, and the aged man, Wept — sorely wept for bread ; And pale Hunger seem’d, as his wild eye gleam’d On the yet unburied dead, As if he longed, alas 1 to share The night dog’s cold, unhallow’d fare. No longer Hensburgh’s banner floats ; Hush’d is her battle-cry, For a victor waits at her shatter’d gates, And her sons are doom’d to die. But Hensburgh’s daughters yet shall prove The saviours of the homes they love ! All glory to the Emperor, The merciful and brave ; Bound, clarions, sound, tell the news around, And ye drooping banners wave ! Hensburgh’s fair daughters, ye are free ; Go forth, with all your “ braveriel ” " Bid them go forth,” the Emperor cried, “ Far from the scene of strife, Whether matron staid, or the blushing maid, Or the daughter, or the wife ; For ere yon sun hath left the sky, Each man within shall surely die. “ Bid them go forth,” the Emperor said, “We wage not war with them ; Bid them all go free, with their ‘ bravcrie 1 And each richly valued gem ; 282 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS, Let each upon her person bear That which she deems her chiefest care ” The city’s gates are open’d wide ; The leaguer stands amazed ; ’Twas a glorious deed, and shall have its meed* And by minstrel shall be praised, For each had left her jewell’d tire. To bear a husband, or a sire With faltering step each laden’d one At Conrad’s feet appears ; In amaze he stood, but his thirst for blood Was quench’d by his falling tears ; The victor wept aloud to see Devoted woman’s constancy. AH glory to the Emperor, — All glory and renown ! He hath sheath’d his sword, and his royal word Hath gone forth to save the town , For woman's love is mightier far Than all the strategies of war. ST. KEVIN TO HIS SISTER. BY K. D. WILLIAMS. Sweet sister Eva, my dark soul is weary Pursuing phantoms, still in doubt and tears, With bitter pain, thro’ deserts foul and dreary, Entrapp’d in ambush and transfixed with spears. Sister, to thee I come in humble sorrow, To know the future and deplore the past. Gaze thro’ my spirit — say, shall mercy’s morrow, Thro’ griefs dark billow, shine on me at last ? The more I strive to virtue’s high dominion, With faltering footstep but unshaken will, With sullied robe and sorely wounded pinion, I fall down wailing from the sacred hill. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 283 My soul was once a pictured constellation, Dream-peopled ever with seraphic throngs, I knew no joy like tears of adoration, I loved no music but celestial songs. My heart is silent and mine eyes grow moister, All sweet emotions overflow my soul, When thro’ the woods that shrine the lonely cloister The vesper bells in holy sadness toll. Splendour of God ! how fair and Christ-like shining, The soul arrayed in virtue’s beamy robe, Such heaven’s pure queen, the stars her brows entwining, Sun-clad and gliding on the lunar globe. I see afar the lofty crystal mountain, In rainbows veil’d, whence gush the springs of life, And thirst to quaff them, but no sacred fountain Revives my heart, that faints in ceaseless strife. Oh, could I burst the heavy chains that bind me, As soars a golden eagle to the sun, No cloud should stay, nor brightest lightning blind me, Till pois’d ’mid heaven my starry home were won. But vain, in vain, for ever upward soaring, The shining gates a fearful darkness bars, Thro’ which, with tears, I see the blest adoring, Among the splendent temples of the stars, By Glendalough, one summer eve I slumbered, Night’s holy standard o’er the lake unfurl’d, And swift as thought, as angel shields unnumber’d, Flash’d forth the armies of the starry world : And from mine eyes the film of earth was riven, On ev’ry globe I saw an em’rald throne. And one to each victorious soul was given : But ah ! I wept — in vain I sought my own. Sweet sister Eva, child of song and vision, Harp of the cloister, songstress of the shrine, Read thou my dream, thy voice be fate’s decision, To hear thee humbly, and obey, be mine. And if thy lips command me forth for ever, Beyond the burning portals of the dawn, 284 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Fear not, our God, shall aid my weak endeavour, And fix my will like oaks on Derrybawn,* And as with ease creative sculpture fashions The soft, yet fire-resisting Brocka stone, f My heart, unscath’d by earth’s consuming passions, Shall melt to grace’s plastic hand alone. THE FORSAKEN GOBLET. BY B. SIMMONS. Take away that fair goblet — at least for to-night, Till my heart is less heavy, my fancy more bright ; In the land of the Stranger I pine when I see That memento of joys that have perish’d to me. Of the looks I last pledged o’er its luminous brim, All are distant, and some of the brightest are dim, And this moment the gleams of its silver appear Like the flash of the plate on dead Revelry’s bier. And back from the bier, as I sit in the gloom In which Spring’s sickly twilight envelopes the room, Stalks that long-buried Bacchant, and circles my board With the shadows of all I have loved and deplored. Again at the banquet we sit, but how mute ! With the grape in the chalice, the hand on the lute, The lips of the lovely apart, — but in vain May the thirsting heart pant for their musical rain Take away that fair wine-cup ! — I’ve none with me now To laugh back the ruby that reddens its flow — It was moulded for Hope’s happy meetings with mirth, Not for passion’s pale hermit alone at his hearth. * Derrybawn, the hill of white oaks, overhangs Glendalough, aDd stin abounds with the forest-tree, from which it takes its name. f From the Brocka mountain is quarried Actinolite, containing garnets and asbestos, to which latter constituent it is indebted for a great power of resisting fire. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 285 KITTY NEIL BV JOHN FRANCIS WALLER, LL.D. " Ah, sweet Kitty Neil ! rise up from your wheel ; Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning; Come, trip down with me to the sycamore-tree — Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning. The sun is gone down, but the full harvest moon Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley, While all the air rings with the soft, loving things Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley.” With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while, Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing, ’Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, So she couldn’t but choose to — go off to the dancing. And now on the green the glad groups are seen, Each gay-hearted lad wb\ the lass of his choosing ; And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil — Somehow, when he asked, she ne’er thought of refusing. Now Felix Magee puts his pipe to his knee, And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in motion ; With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the ground — The maids move around just like swans on the ocean. Cheeks bright as the rose — feet light as the doe’s — Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing ; Search the world all round, from the sky to the ground, No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing ! Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly — Your fair- turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form — Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly ? Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love ; The sight leaves his eye as he cries, with a sigh, “ Dance light , for my heart it lies under your feet , lore l ” 286 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. THE SACK OF MAGDEBURGH. BY DR. WILLL\M MAGINN. [The sack of this ill-fated city occurred during the Thirty Years’ War. The partisans of the Reformation formed a union as early as 1608 ; and the Catho- lics in opposition established a league in 1609. Here were the elements of an inevitable contest, and in 1618 the struggle commenced. For 30 years, Europe was the battle-field of religious factions, and Germany was reduced to a wil- derness. Fire and sword desolated it from end to end. The only result was the improvement of riie art of war, by the genius of Gustavus Adolphus, and the terrible warning it affords to those who stir up the religious animosities of a nation. — The defence of Magdeburgh was confided to Christian William of Brandenburg, and the gallant Colonel Falkenberg, who was sent by Gustavus Adolphus to its support. The investing army of the League was commanded by Tilly, a stern soldier, whose boast was that he never tasted wine, never lost his chastity, nor ever suffered defeat. Gustavus, however, conquered him ulti- mately ; but he had no occasion to retract his boast, for he fell with his defeat. At the sack of Magdeburgh, Tilly was before the city from March, 1631, and was about to raise the siege, in expectation of Gustavus to its assistance, but he was over-ruled by the fiery Pappenheira, who proposed an immediate at- tack. Preparations were made forthwith, and the storming commenced. In about six weeks the city fell, notwithstanding the bravery of the garrison, and it is estimated that upwards of 25,000 persons perished.] When the breach was open laid, bold we mounted to the attack; Five times the assault was made, — four times were we beaten back. Many a gallant comrade fell, in the desperate melee there Sped their spirits ill or well, — know I not nor do I care — But the fifth time, up we strode o’er the dying and the dead ; Hot the western sunbeam glowed, sinking in a blaze of red. Redder in the gory way, our deep-plashing footsteps sank, As the cry of “ Slay, slay, slay 1” echoed fierce from rank to rank. And we slew, and slew, and slew — slew them with unpitying sword : Negligently could we do, the commanding of the Lord ? Fled the coward — fought the brave, — wailed the mother, wept the child, But not one escaped the glaive, man who frowned, or babe who smiled. There were thrice ten thousand men, when the morning sun arose; Lived not thrice three hundred when sunk that sun at evening close, Then we spread the wasting flame,* fanned to fury by the wind ; Of the city, but the name — nothing more is left behind ! MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 287 Hall and palace, dome, and tower, lowly shed and soaring spire, Fell in that victorious hour which consigned the town to fire. All that rose at craftsman’s call — to its pristine dust had gone, For, inside the shattered wall, left we never stone on stone — For it burnt not till it gave all it had to yield of spoil ; Should not brave soldadoes have some rewarding for their toil? What the villain sons of trade, had amass’d by years of care, Prostrate at our bidding laid, by one moment won, was there. Then, within the burning town, ’mid the steaming heaps of dead, Cheered by sounds of hostile moan, did we the joyous banquet spread. Laughing loud and quaffing long, with our glorious labours o’er ; To the sky our jocund song, told the city was no morel SUMMER LONGINGS. BY D. F. M ( CARTHY. Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May — Waiting for the pleasant rambles, Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, With the woodbine alternating, Scent the dewy way. Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May — Longing to escape from study, To the young face fair and ruddy, And the thousand charms belonging To the summer’s day. Ah 1 my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May. Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. Sighing for the May — Sighing for their sure returning, When the summer beams are burning, 288 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Hopes and flowers that dead or dying All the winter lay. Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May. Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, Throbbing for the May — Throbbing for the sea-side billows, Or the water- wooing willows ; Where in laughing and in sobbing Glide the streams away. Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing, Throbbing for the May. Waiting sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May. Spring goes by with wasted warnings, Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings ; Summer comes, yet dark and dreary Life still ebbs away : Man is ever weary, weary, Waiting for the May ! LAMENT FOR ILEDALUS. BY JOHN STERLING. [The subject of this poem was a celebrated sculptor of Greece, wno lived, as we are told, three generations before the Trojan war. Manldnd is indebted to him, it appears, for the discovery of several or the mechanical powers. Daeda- lus was the most ingenious artist of his time, having made statues to which he communicated the power of motion, like animated beings. They were of two Kinds, one sort having a spring which stopped them when one pleased ; while the others, having no such contrivance, went along to the end of their line, and could not be stopped. Plato and Socrates used these different statues in illus- tration of some of their theories. With regard to opinion , they taught that so far as it was human, it was founded only on probabilities; but that when God enlightened men, that which was opinion before, now became science. They compared opinion to those statues which could not be stopped in consequence of its instability and constant change; but when it is restrained and fixed by reasoning drawn from sources which Divine Light discovers to us, then opinion becomes science, like those statues of Daedalus which had the governing spring added to them. — This lament is taken from an unassuming little volume of MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 289 44 Poems,” published by our author in 1840, and contains some genuine poetry. Most of the pieces appeared in Blackwood's Magazine , under the signature of M Arch8eus.”J Wail for Daedalus, all that is fairest I All that is tuneful in air or wave ! Shapes whose beauty is truest and rarest, Haunt with your lamps and spells his grave ! Statues, bend your heads in sorrow, Ye that glance ’mid ruins old, That know not a past, nor expect a morrow On many a moonlight Grecian wold 1 By sculptured cave and darken’d river Thee, Daedalus, oft the nymphs recall ; The leaves with a sound of winter quiver, Murmur thy name, and withering fall. Yet are thy visions in soul the grandest Of all that crowd on the tear-dimm’d eye, Though, Daedalus, thou no more commande-vSt New stars to that ever-widening sky. Ever thy phantoms arise before us, Our loftier brothers, but one in blood ; By bed and table they lord it o’er us With looks of beauty and words of good. They tell us and show us of man victorious O’er all that’s aimless, blind, and base ; Their presence has made our nature glorious, And given our night an illumined face. Thy toil has won them a godlike quiet ; Thou hast wrought their path to a lovely sphere ; Their eyes to calm rebuke our riot, And shape us a home of refuge here. For Daedalus breathed in them his spirit ; In them their sire his beauty sees : We too, a younger brood, inherit The gifta and blessing bestow’d on these. T 290 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. But, ah ! tlieir wise and bounteous seeming Kecalls the more that the sage is gone ; Weeping we wake from deceitful dreaming, And find our voiceless chamber lone. Daedalus, thou from the twilight fleest, Which thou with visions hast made so bright ; And when no more those shapes thou seest, Wanting thine eye they lose their light. Ev’n in the noblest of man’s creations, Those fresh worlds round those old of ours, When the seer is gone, the orphan’d nations Know but the tombs of perish’d Powers. Wail for Daedalus, Earth and Ocean ! Stars and Sun, lament for him ! Ages, quake in strange commotion 1 All ye realms of life, be dim 1 Wail for Daedalus, awful voices, From earth’s deep centre mankind appal , Seldom ye sound, and then Death rejoices, For he knows that then the mightiest fall. COLUMBUS. BY G. H. SUPPLE. Pale mariners, mute craftsmen, oh ! speed your strange task well, Fit your slender carvels for the shoreless western swell — Fit your slender carvels to follow yon stately stranger, To seek new worlds thro’ wilderness of waves and trackless danger, To brave unknown, sea-monsters’ wrath and sea-maids’ fatal wile, To seek Cathay, forsooth, and rich Cipango’s distant isle. And who this man, in speech and gesture simple as a child — But stern betimes as suits sea-roamer, planner of such day-dreams wild? The morning is breaking on Palos bay, On its town* and wharf, and ramparts grey, MISCELLANEOUS ballads. 291 On three barques at their moorings that gallantly ride, With the towers of Castile on their flags of pride ; But where are their crews, our lost kinsmen, who shall Embark before noon in each doomed caraval ? There’s wringing of hands and wailing and woe, As the gathering crowds to the churches go — As the seamen enter, and onward press Where the friars are standing to shrive and confess ; And as they come out, redoubles the rout Along the streets and shore — For maidens are there with dishevelled hair And matrons with sobbing sore ; But for Alonzo Pinzon’s hand, Never that day had they left the land. But hush I what deep stillness creeps over the crowd — What stranger is this striding stately and proud ? Erect is his figure — his grey hairs bare, And his bronzed cheek channelled by thought or care. They open before him, but as he passes One yell bursts forth from the spell-bound masses : One long, long yell of hate and rage, With curses from manhood, and childhood, and age. Ha ! how they curse him — his bronzed cheek flushes, And haughtiest scorn to his proud eye rushes — They curse him, but still that rabble yell Grew faint on each lip, where his stern glance fell. One moment only his passion grows, One moment only his broad brow glows ; One moment only they stand defied By his heart of flame and lip of pride ; Onward he passed, nor heard nor heeded The shouts that still each shout succeeded — Away, away, in thought he flies To far off regions and tropic skies, To realms more gorgeous in gems and gold Than Marco Polo ever told, To unbroken oceans and virgin isles — And musing his grev eye lights and smiles 292 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. A thousand trumpets ring within old Barcelona’s walls — A thousand gallant nobles throng in Barcelona’s halls, The old grandees of Arragon, the knights of proud Castile, Soft Andalusia’s beauty, and rough Biscay’s manhood leal, All met to gaze on him who wrought a pathway for mankind , Thro’ seas as broad, to worlds as rich as his triumphant mind ; And king and queen will grace, forsooth, the mariner’s array — The lonely seaman scoffed and scorned in Palos town that day. He comes, he comes, the gates swing wide, and through tho streets advance His cavalcade in proud parade, with plume and pennoned lance, And natives of those new-found worlds and treasures all untold — And in the midst the Admiral, his charger trapped with gold ; And all are wild with joy, and blithe the gladsome clarion’s swell, And dames and princes press to greet, and loud the myriads yell — They cheer — that mob — they wildly cheer — Columbus checks his rein, And bends him to the beauteous dames and Cavaliers of Spain, And bends him to the people too, but thoughtful is his smile, And mid their cheers, as calm his glance, as mid their rage ere- while. THE HOMEWARD BOUND. BY T. D. M‘GEE. Paler and thinner the morning moon grew, Colder and sterner the rising wind blew — The pole-star had set in a forest of cloud, £aid the icicles crackled on spar and on shroud, When a voice from below we heard feebly cry, “ Let me see — let me see — my own Land ere I die.’ 1 “ Ah, dear sailor, say, have we sighted Cape Clear? Can you see any sign ? Is the morning light near ? ^ou are young, my brave boy ; thanks, thanks, for your hand, Help me up, till I get a last glimpse of the land — Thank God, ’tis the sun that now reddens the sky, I shall see — I shall see — my own Land ere I die MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS* “ Let me lean on your strength, I am feeble and old, And one half of my heart is already stone cold — Forty years work a change ! when I first crossed this sea There were few on the deck that could grapple with me, But my youth and my prime in Ohio went by, And I’m come back to see the old spot ere I die.” ’Twas a feeble old man r and he stood on the deck, His arm round a kindly young mariner’s neck, His ghastly gaze fixed on the tints of the east, As a starveling might stare at the noise of a feast — The morn quickly rose and revealed to his eye The land he had prayed to behold, and then die ! Green, green was the shore, though the year was near done- High and haughty the capes the white surf dash’d upon — A grey ruined Convent was down by the strand, And the sheep fed afar, on the hills of the land ! “ God be with you, dear Ireland,” he gasped with a sigh, “ I have lived to behold you — I’m ready to die.” He sunk by the hour, and his pulse ’gan to fail, As we swept by the headland of storied Kinsale — )ff Ardigna bay, it came slower and slower, And his corpse was clay cold as we sighted Tramore. At Passage we waked him, and now he doth lie, In the lap of the land, he beheld but to die. MAN’S MISSION. BY SPERANZA (MRS. W. R. WILDE). Human lives are silent teaching — Be they earnest, mild, and true — Noble deeds are noblest preaching From the consecrated few. Poet-Priests their anthems singing, Hero-swords on corslet ringing, When Truth’s banner is unfurled ; Youthful preachers, genius-gifted, Pouring forth their souls uplifted, Till their preaching stirs the world. 294 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Each must work as God has given Hero hand or poet soul — Work is duty while we live in This weird world of sin and dole. Gentle spirits, lowly kneeling, Lift their white hands up appealing, To the Throne of Heaven’s King — Stronger natures, culminating, In great actions incarnating What another can but sing. Pure and meek-eyed as an angel, We must strive — must agonise ; We must preach the saint’s evangel Ere we claim the saintly prize — W ork for all — for work is holy — We fulfil our mission solely When, like Heaven’s arch above, Blend our souls in one emblazon, And the social diapason Sounds the perfect chord of love. Life is combat, life is striving, Such our destiny below — Like a scythed chariot driving Through an onward pressing foe. Deepest sorrow, scorn, and trial Will but teach us self-denial ; Like the Alchymists of old, Pass the ore through cleansing fire If our spirits would aspire To be God’s refined gold. We are struggling in the morning With the spirit of the night, But we trample on its scorning — Lo 1 the eastern sky is bright. We must watch. The day is breaking ; Soon, like Memnon’s statue waking With the sunrise into sound, We shall raise our voice to Heaven, Chant a hymn for conquest given, Seize the palm, nor heed the wound. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 295 We must bend our thoughts to earnest, Would we strike the Idols down ; With a purpose of the sternest Take the Cross, and wait the Crown, Sufferings human life can hallow, Sufferings lead to God’s Valhalla — Meekly bear, but nobly try, Like a man with soft tears flowing, Like a God with conquest glowing, So to love, and work, and die l SIR BANNERET OF THE TRICOLOR. BY JOHN CASHEL-HOEY. Whet my sabre, my cuirass bind, Sling my carabine fair behind, Loose my bannerol broad and free, For I am a knight of high degree — Of a famous Order, whose lists were old When Venice blazoned the Book of Gold; Whose Free Companions had won renown, Ere Brutus stabbed the Csesar down. A Banneret of the Tricolor ! Banneret knight of the Tricolor ! Lady’s graces and trophies in store To the Banneret of the Tricolor ! Not mine to be dubbed by a royal blade, Nor won my spurs in a baron’s raid — Oh ! I knelt for the knightly accolade At the back of a Paris barricade ; I kept the vigils our laws ordain While the bombs fell fast round the Madeleine, And swore my vows at Ventura’s knee To fight to the death for Libertie. Life and death for the Tricolor 1 Banneret true of the Tricolor ! Freedom’s vassal for evermore Is the Banneret of the Tricolor l 296 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. In Berlin streets there are broad platoons, Down Berlin streets ride the tierce dragoons, In Berlin streets there are dripping blades, And the cry is, “ Up with the barricades !” Who heads the charge through the Konigstrasse, Who points the grape where the Yagers pass, Whose gallop splashes the gutters of gore ? *ris the Banneret of the Tricolor ! The Eagles under the Tricolor ! Black and Red on the Tricolor ! Through showers of bullets and streams of gore, Rides the Banneret of the Tricolor ! The day that we charged by Guyon’s side 1 After the Ban the Serezans ride, And many a league we could track their trail, By smoking roof-tree and woman’s wail — Christ ! how we galloped their lances down, And battered their files in Mannswerth town, Till the Austrian bugles brayed retreat As I clove a Croat from crown to seat. Charging for Hungary’s Tricolor, The ancient Magyar Tricolor, ’Twill wave from the walls of Pesth once more; God guard Kossuth and the Tricolor ! Dear Di Lana I a day shall be For Freedom’s smile over Sicily ; From Etna’s top to Messina’s shore The tyrant’s frown shall be death no more. We’ll toss old Bomba, the crater down ; Thy statue ’ll stand in Palermo town, As when you sprang forth, sword in hand, Like Joan of Arc, for native land. O Ensign fair of the Tricolor ! The Lilies yield to the Tricolor ! We’ll trample their bloom on the Golden Shore, And spread the glorious Tricolor. And thou, old natal Isle 1 again I hear the tramp of thine armed men ; And see once more the day shall come For the bristling pike and the rolling drum r MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 297 See through the battle’s lurid haze The Orange and Green on thy banner blasts, And the Blue gleam high over files of steel, Where the scarlet squadrons backward reel ! On with the glorious Tricolor ! Fight to the grave for the Tricolor 1 Shroud in death and pennon before Sir Banneret of the Tricolor I SHADOWS FROM LIFE. BY GPERANZA (MRS. W. R. WILDE). Vain the love that looketh upward; we may worship, may adore — From the heart’s o’erflowing chalice all the tide of feeling pour — Dash our souls against the barriers that divide us from the shrine — Fling the incense — pour libations — ay, of Life’s own ruddy wine; But the angel we gaze up to, calm as form of pictured saint, From its golden mists of glory bendeth never to our plaint ; Heedeth not if crushed the temple where the altar incense burned, For the doom runs through the ages : — Love was never yet returned. Thus it was he loved a Lady : never priest in Ispahan So adored when mount and ocean morn’s flashing radiance span ; Never sun-god in its glory, marching stately from the East, Crimson-rob’d and cloud-attended, heeded less the praying priest Than the lady that pale lover, while her lonely path she took, O’er the spirit’s glittering summits, with her proud and queenly look; Like the Roman Sybil bearing in her hands the mystic scroll, And her large eyes looking onward where the future ages roll. So, in lone and lofty beauty, she stood high above the world, Never heeding, dashing neathward, how Life’s stormy billows curled ; As a pine upon the mountain, warring tempests raging round, As an island peak of ocean, with the starry midnight crowned. How could she who trod the pathway of the spirit’s dazzling zones, Stoop to listen, bending earthward, to a lover’s murmuring tones? — While her ear was gathering music from Creation’s golden chords, List the human tears low falling, with the pleading human words? 298 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. And could he who tracked the eagle, borne on thro’ cloud and light, With her glorious regnant beauty filling soul and sense and sight, Stoop to gaze on me, half-blasted by fierce Passion’s fiery skies, Only Love, the love of woman, burning strangely in my eyes ? Oh ! I’ve watched his glance dilating, as it rested where afar Rose her lofty brow, as riseth the pale glory of a star ; Heard the world’s praise hymning round her, saw his cheek of flushing pride, Whilst, writhing in heart-agony, I calmly sat beside No rays of genius crowning, such as brows like hers enrol, No flashing thoughts, like North-lights, rushing up my darkened soul ; Waking but his earnest feelings with perchance my graver words, While her spirit, like a tempest, swept the range of Passion’s chords. Oh, Woman 1 calmest sufferer! what deep agony oft lies In thy low, false-hearted laughter, glancing bright through tear- less eyes ! And how little deemed he truly that the calmest eyes he met Were but Joy’s funereal torches, on Life’s ruined altar set. How could I light up his nature, with no glory in my own ? Soul like his, that throbbed and glittered in the radiance of her throne. Bitter came the words of plaining: — Why should fate to me deny All the beauty of the mortal, all the soul to deify ? What had she done then for Heaven, so that Heaven should confer Every gift to make man prostrate at her feet as worshipper ? Raised her high enough to scorn him — ay, to trample in disdain On the heart flupg down before her — heart that I had died to gain! Trod his love down calmly, queenly, like a mantle ’neath her feet, While with lordly spirit-monarchs she moved proudly to her seat, Grand as eagle in the zenith, with the noonday radiance crowned — Lone and icy as an Alp-peak, with the circling glaciers round. But an echo of all beauty through her fine-toned spirit rang, As a golden harp re-echoes to each passing music clang, Till in thrilling, clear vibrations rang her poet-words in air, Summoning souls to lofty duties, as an Angelas to prayer. Oh ! she flung abroad her fancies free as waves dash off the foam, As the palm-tree flings its branches on the blue of Heaven’s dome, With a genius-shadow darkening in the stillness of her eyes — With her rainbow-spirit arching half the circle of the skies ; MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 299 Like a dark-browed Miriam chaunting songs of triumph on the foe, As the rushing waters bore them to the Hades halls below, Till up the startled ether, down the far horizon’s rim, The swords of men clashed music to her lofty prophet-hymn. But no beauty thrill’d my nature, noon or night or sunset skies ; For the only heaven I gazed on was the heaven of his eyes — I’d have bartered freedom, justice, people’s rights, or native land, All the island homes of ocean, for one pressure of his hand ; Trembling, weak, a coward spirit, only wishing low to lie, As a flower beneath his footstep, breathe my life out, and so die. Yet he liked me — ay, he liked me — ’twas the phrase, oh saintr above I Cold and cruel sounds this liking from the lips of one we love — — They said that he was dying; could I longer silence keeping, Only pour forth my deep passion in my chamber lonely weeping ! I reck’d not if ’twere womanly, cold convention little heeding, But in mine his hand enfolding, said, with tearful raised eyes pleading ; — “ She hath left you, left you lonely, sorrow’s harvest death may reap, I 6ay not — love me, let me only watch here by you — and weep!” Then he said, his pale brow raising, with a faint, unquiet smile, And with saddest eyes upgazing upon mine for all the while : “Sweetest friend, this sorrow-blighted, faded form, and seared heart, To death, I fear, are plighted, yet ’twere bitter now to part - For the chords of life are shaken by a sympathy so true, And they tremble in vibration with a pleasure strange and new ; Still, no love-dream may be cherished, ah, the time of love is o’er, Youthful heart, by passion blighted, can be kindled never more — But if sympathy thou darest with a heart so wrecked as mine, I will give thee back the rarest kindred souls can intertwine. And bending coldly, gently, on my brow he placed his lips, I, trembling in the shadow of that faint and brief eclipse, Said: — “Tell me, tell me, truly, do you love her then so well?” And the hot tears, all unruly, through my twined fingers fell — And down I sank unheeding so of maidenhood or wrong ; And told him, weeping, pleading, how I’d loved him, loved him long*, 300 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Seen my nopes all faded, perished, spread around in pale dismay Wept their pallid corses over — I alone, like Niobe 1 Thank God, no cruel scorn dimm’d his starry eyes divine, Softly tender, earnest gazing down the tearful depths of mine — But with warmest splendours resting on the paleness of his cheek, As the roseate tinted sunset on a snowy Alpine peak, He laid his head on my shoulder, murmuring lover-like and low, While his breathing softly trembled on my pale lips lying so : — “ Such deep and tender loving hath recall’d me from the grave — And this heart with soft approving bids you keep the life you gave; ‘ Woman’s soothing grief to lighten hath a mystic healing power, And their sympathy can brighten man’s darkest destined hour. Let the holy words be spoken that bind soul to soul for life— Let me place the symbol token on this hand — my wedded wife!” Oh 1 never yet did angel breathe forth such words of bliss, Never mortal heard evangel of a joy like unto this ; In my gladness smiling, weeping, lmelt I down before him there, ^Blessing God with wild words leaping from my full heart’s inward prayer. And a glory, ruddy, golden, streamed down on me from high — As with lifted hands enfolden gazed I up into the sky — Ever brighter, streaming downward, till my pained eyes ached with light, And I turned from gazing sunward back to earth’s more calm delight. But — was it spell, or was it charm ? — when I turned me to the room — Fading seem’d the loved one’s form, half in light and half in gloom; Throbb’d my brain in wild confusion, slowly died his words in air, All around me seemed illusion, save that streaming golden glare. On my fevered eyelids aching, madly press’d my hands I keep — Then arose, like one awaking from a strange and magic sleep, Round I gazed in wild amazement for the glorious light that shone, Was morn streaming through my casement, but it streamed on me alone ! The last cold words he had written lay there beside my bed, The last flowers he had given lay beside them, faded, aead ; Life’s lonely desolation was true for aye I deem, But, joy’s blessed revelation, that — that — was but a dream I MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 301 ARABY’S DAUGHTER BY THOMAS MOORE. Farewell — farewell to thee, Araby’s daughter ! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea,) No pearl ever lay, under Oman’s green water More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee. Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till Love’s witchery came, Like the wind of the South * o’er a summer lute blowing And hush’d all its music, and wither’d its frame ! But long, upon Araby’s green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With nought but the sea-star f to light up her tomb. And still, when the merry date-season is burning, J And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, The happiest there, from their pastime returning At sunset will weep when thy story is told. The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away. Nor shall Iran, belov’d of her Hero ! forget thee — Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she’ll set thee, Embalm’d in the innermost shrine of her heart. * u This wind (the Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while it lasts.” — Stephen's Persia. f “ One of the greatest curiosities found in the Persian Gulf is a fish which the English call Star-fish. It is circular, and at night very luminous, resem- bling the full moon surrounded by rays .” — Mirza Abu Taleb. J For a description of the merriment of the date-time, of their work, their dances, and their return home from the palm-groves at the end of, autumn with the fruits, see Kempfer Amoenitat. Exot J02 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Farewell — be it ours to embellish thy pillow With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep ; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;* With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. We’ll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; We’ll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling, j* And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell — farewell — until Pity’s sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They’ll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain, They’ll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave. THE DREAMER ON THE CLIFF. BY JOHN STERLING. [John Sterling was second son of Captain Edward Sterling — the “ Thun- derer” of the Times, bom in Waterford in 1773, and who died in 1847. The Captain was a pensioner of the English government to the extent of .£200 a-year, which he inherited from his father who had been Clerk of the Irish House of Commons. John was bora in 1806 and died in 1844. He gave pro- mise of great ability, and would probably have realized it had his life been prolonged. He has been fortunate enough to find two eminent biographers in Archdeacon Hare and Thomas Carlyle; the former of whom has also edited his writings.] Once more, thou darkly rolling main, I bid thy lonely strength adieu ; And sorrowing leave thee once again, Familiar long, yet ever new 1 * Some naturalists have imagined that an her is a concretion of the tears ol birds. — See Trevoux , Chambers. f “ The bay Kieselare, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay the sand thereof shines as fire ” — Struy. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 303 And while, thou changeless, boundless sea, I quit thy solitary shore, I sigh to turn away from thee, And think I ne’er may greet thee more. Thy many voices which are one, The varying garbs that robe thy might, Thy dazzling hues at set of sun, Thy deeper loveliness by night. The shades that flit with every breeze Along thy hoar and aged brow, — What has the universe like these ? Or what so strong, so fair as thou ? And when yon radiant friend of earth Has bridged the waters with her rays, Pure as those beams of heavenly birth, That round a seraph’s footsteps blaze. While lightest clouds at times o’ercast The splendour gushing from the spheres. Like softening thoughts of sorrow past, That fill the eyes of joy with tears. The soul, methinks, in hours like these, Might pant to flee its earthly doom, And freed from dust to mount the breeze, An eagle soaring from the tomb. Or mixed in stainless air to roam Where’er thy billows know the wind,— To make all climes my spirit’s home, And leave the woes of all behind. Or wandering into worlds that beam Like lamps of hope to human eyes, Wake ’mid delights we now but dream, And breathe the rapture of the skies. But vain the thought ; my feet are bound To this dim planet,— clay to clay, — Condemned to tread one thorny round, And chained with links that ne’er decay 304 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Yet while thy ceaseless current flows, Thou mighty main, and shrinks again, Methinks thy rolling floods disclose, A refuge safe, at least from men. Within thy gently heaving breast, That hides no passions dark and wild, My weary soul might sink to rest, As in its mother’s arms a child. Forget the world’s eternal jars, In murmurous caverns cool and dim, And long, o’ertoiled with angry wars, Hear but thy billows’ distant hymn ! THE FOUR TRAVELLERS. BY FRANCES BROWN. [Frances Brown was bom in Stranorlar, county Donegal, in 1816. She was afflicted with small-pox when about a year and a half old, by which she lost her sight. At the age of seven years she began to educate herself, by asking of all her friends about her the meanings of words and things. From hearing her brothers and sisters repeat their daily tasks in grammar and spelling, she learnt the same lessons, and invariably knew them before the others. Her memory was so retentive, that to induce her friends to read for her the more thoughtful books for which they had no taste, she used to relate stories of her own composition,— or do the household work which was allotted to them. The sight of tne visible world having been shut against her, her clear natural intel- lect devised a mode by which she learned to see into the world of thought The greater portion of her poems appeared in the “Athenaeum,” — from the editor of which she has experienced kindness and encouragement.] Four travellers sat one winter’s night At my father’s board so free ; And he asked them why they left their land, And why they crossed the sea ? One said for bread, and one for gold, And one for a cause of strife ; And one he came for a lost love’s sake, To lead a stranger’s life. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 304 They dwelt among our hamlets long, They learned each mountain way ; They shared our sports in the woodlands groan, And by the crags so gay — And they were brave by flood and fell, And they were blithe in hall ; But he that led the stranger’s life, Was blithest of them all. Some said the grief of his youth had passed, Some said his love grew cold ; But nought I know if this were so, For the tale was never told. His mates they found both homes and friends, Their heads and hearts to rest ; We saw their flocks and fields increase, But we loved him still the best. Now he that came to seek for bread, Is lord of my father’s land ; And he that fled so far from strife, Hath a goodly household band. And he that sought the gold alone Hath wedded my sister fair ; And the oaks are green and the pastures wida By their pleasant homesteads there. But when they meet by the winter fire, Or beneath the bright woodbine ; Their talk is yet of a whelming stream And a brave life given for mine ; For a grave by our mountain river side. Grows green this many a year — Where the flower of the four sleeps evermore, And I am a stranger here. n u 306 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. (FROM THE IRISH.) BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. [This ballad, which is of homely cast, was intended as a rebuke to the saucy pride of a woman in humble life, who assumed airs of consequence from being the possessor of three cows. Its author’s name is unknown, but its age can je determined, from the language, as belonging to the early part of the seven- teenth century. That it was formerly very popular in Munster, may be con- cluded from the fact, that the phrase, — Easy, oh, woman of the three cows ! has become a saying in that province, on any occasion upon which it is desirable to lower the pretensions of a boastful or consequential person.*] 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 catt'ie, 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; Movronel* 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, 0, Woman of Three Cows ! O, think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted — See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted ! My grief MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 307 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 cypress boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O, Woman of Three Cows! Th’ O’Carrolls 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, forsooth, 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 I 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 tho’ you were my spouse, I’d thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of three Cows! THE LOVER’S COMPLAINT. Oh ! don’t be beguilin’ my heart with your wilin’, You’ve tried that same thrick far too often before, And by this blest minnit an’ day that is in it, I’ll take right good care that you’ll try it no more ! You thought that so slily you walked with O’Reilly, By man and by mortal unheard and unseen, While your hand he kept squeezin’, and you looked so pleasin’, I^ast Saturday night in your father’s boreen. 308 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. His thricks and his schamin’ has set you a dhramin’ That any one blessed with their eyesight may see, You’re not the same crature you once war by nature, And they that are thraitors won’t do, faith, for me ! Tho’ it is most distressin’ to think that a blessin’ Was just about failin’ down plump on the scene, When a cunning culloger , as black as an ogre, Upsets all your hopes in a dirty horeen. And ’tis most ungrateful, unkind, and unfaithful, When you very well know how I gave the go-by, Both to pride and to pleasure, temptation and treasure, To dress all my looks by the light of your eye. Oh ! ’tis Mary Mullally, that lives in the valley — ’Tis she that would say how ill-used I Lave been, And she’s not the deludher to smile and to soother, And then walk away to her father’s horeen . I send you your garter, for now I’m a martyr, And keepsakes and jims are the least of my care, So when things are exchangin’, since you took to rangin I’ll trouble you, too, for the lock of my hair. I know by its shakin’, my heart is a-breakin’, You’ll make me a corpse when I’d make you a queen. But as sure as I’m livin’, it’s you I’ll be givin’ A terrible fright , when I haunt the horeen ! THE POET’S PROPHECY BY GERALD GRIFFIN. In the time of my boyhood I had a strange feeling That I was to die in the noon of my day ; Not quietly into the silent grave stealing, But torn, like a blasted oak, sudden away. That, even in the hour when enjoyment was keenest, My lamp should quench suddenly hissing in gloom, That even when mine honours were freshest and green set, A blight should rush over and scatter their bloom. . MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 309 It might be a fancy — it might be the glooming Of dark visions taking the semblance of truth, And it might be the shade of the storm that is coming, Cast thus in its morn through the sunshine of youth. But be it a dream or a mystic revealing, The bodement has haunted me year after year, And whenever my bosom with rapture was tilling, I paused for the footfall of fate at mine ear. With this feeling upon me all feverish and glowing, I rushed up the rugged way panting to Fame, I snatched at my laurels while yet they were growing, And won for my guerdon the half of a name. My triumphs I viewed from the least to the brightest, As gay flowers pluck’d from the fingers of Death. And whenever J oy ’s garments flowed richest and lightest, I looked for the skeleton lurking beneath. 0 friend of my heart ! ’f that doom should fall on me, And thou shouldst live on to remember my love — Come oft to the tomb when the turf lies upon me, And list to the even wind mourning above. Lie down by that bank where the river is creeping All fearfully under the still autumn tree, When each leaf in the sunset is silently weeping, And sigh for departed days — thinking of me. But when, o’er the minstrel, tliou’rt lonelily sighing, Forgive, if his failings should flash on thy brain, Remember the heart that beneath thee is lying Can never awake to offend thee again. Remember how freely that heart that to others, Was dark as the tempest-dawn frowning above, Burst open to thine with the zeal of a brother’s, And showed all Us hr os in the light of thy love. 310 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. THE SISTER OF MERCY. BY REV. DR. PATRICK MURRAY. We live in our lonely cells, We live in our cloisters gray, And the warning chime of the convent belli Tolls our silent life away. The loud world’s busy hum Murmuring evermore, Breaks on our dim old walls, As waves break on the shore. Like the voices we used to hear Long ago in childhood’s prime, Are the ties of a long dead world, The thoughts of a long past time. They tell of life’s sparkling sea, Of its dancing billows where The voyager’s laugh rings merrily, From a heart as light as air. But they tell not of the storms That swell its angry waves, The sunken rocks, the hideous forms That lie in the ocean caves ; The wrecks that toss in the gale, The lost that are buried beneath, The struggle, the gasp, the drowning wail y That follow so oft the sunbright sail, O’er the pitiless realms of death. They number us with the dead, With our hearts so cold and dry ; For us the sky is a roof of lead, And earth is like the sky. But the sinless soul hath wings to soar Above these prison bars To a glorious home of its own, Beyond the golden stars. The light of this seeming, dying life, Faded out from the eye of clay, Glows in the franchised spirit, Never to feel or fear decay. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 311 They speak of a mother’s delight, They tell of wedded bliss, They paint a world so warm and bright And say that world is this. But the true world we sometimes see, Life in its house of withering bones, Life on its couch of agony, As it heaves and weeps and groans ; The father’s broken heart, The mother’s about to break, The crushing blow, the stinging smart, Oh wedded love, we’ve seen what thou art, And not what dreamers make I We live in our lonely cells, We live in our cloisters gray, And sweet as the chime of the convent bella, Glides our life with God away. In the roar of a maddened world, In battling passions’ thrill, Martha’s work and Mary’s part Our endless portion still. Could you but a moment share The bliss, like that above, Of a life of silent prayer, A life of working love ; The glory of earth would seem Black as the trodden leaf, False as the dream of a dream, As the flash of the lightning brief. All must pass away, And wither and die and rot ; But the love of God abides and burns In the heart that deserts him not. Then leave us here to pray, Then leave us here to love, Our prayer will be that you may rfbO With us to God above l 312 JdLISCELLANEOCJS BALLADS. THE RETURNING JANISSARY. BY FRANCES BROWN. There came a youth at dawn of day From the Golden Gate of the proud Serai . — He came with no gifts of warrior pride But the gleam of the good sword by his side, And an arm that well could wield ; But he came with a form of matchless mould — Like that by the Delphian shrine of old — And an eye in whose depth of brightness shone The light by the Grecian sunset thrown On the dying Spartan’s shield ; — For the days of his boyhood’s bonds were o’er, And he stood as a free-born Greek once more ! They brought him robes of the richest dyes, And a shield like the moon in autumn skies, A steed that grew by the Prophet’s tomb, And a helmet crown’d with a heron’s plume, And the world’s strong tempter, Gold ; And they said — “ Since thou turnest from the towers Of honour’s path and pleasure’s bowers, Go forth in the Spahi’s conquering march — And gold and glory requite thy search, Till a warrior’s death unfold For thee the gates of Paradise, And thy welcome beam’d by the Houris’ eyes.”— u And where will the yearning memories sleep, That have fill’d mine exiled years With a voice of winds in the forest free, With the sound of the old iEgean sea, Through echoing grove and green defile, On the shores of that unforgotten Isle Which still the light of my mother’s smile To her wanderer’s memory wears — And the voices ever sounding back From my country’s old triumphal track ? The faith that clings with a deathless hold To the freedom and the fame of old. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 313 Will they rest in a stranger’s banner-shade, Though a conquering Sag it be? Will they joy with its myriad hosts to tread On a land that once was free ? Take back your gifts,” the wanderer said — “ And leave at last to me That far land’s love — for ye cannot part His country from the Exile’s heart 1 ” They said— “ Thine Isle is a land of slaves ; It gives no galley to the waves — No cry with the battle’s onset blent — No banner broad on its breezes sent — No name to the lists of fame ; Thy home still stands by its winding shore, But thy place by the hearth is known no more ; The evening fire on that hearth shines on, But the light of thy mother’s smile is gone — For a stranger bears her name — And, bright though her smile and glance may be, They’re not like those that grew dim for thee.” — u I know that my country’s fame hath found No rest by her storied streams — For cold is the chain for ages borne, And deep is the track its weight hath worn ! The serf hath stood, in his fetters bound, On hills that were Freedom’s battle-ground ; And my name is a long-forgotten sound In the home of my thousand dreams ; — For change hath passed o’er each household face, And my mother’s heart hath a resting place Where the years of her weary watch are past For the step that so vainly comes at last. But far there shines through the shadowy green Of the laurels bending there, One beckoning light — ’tis the glancing sheen Of a Grecian maiden’s hair ; Alas, for the clouds that rose between My gaze and one so fair I Alas ! for many a morning ray That passed from life’s misty hills away 1 ” 314 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. So spake the Greek, but the tempter said — “ Why seek’st thou the flowers of summer fled?— The years that have made thy kindred strange Have they not breathed with the breath of change On thine early chosen too ? They have bound the wealth of that flowing hair-~ They have crossed the brow with a shade of care ; For thy young and thy glad of heart hath grown A matron, saddened in glance and tone — From whose undreaming view Life’s early lights have fallen — and thou Art a long-forgotten vision now.” There rose a cloud in his clear dark eye, Like the mist of coming tears — Yet it passed in silence, and there came No after- voice from that perished dream : But he said — “ Is it so, my land 1 Thou hast No gift for thy wanderer but the past, And a dream of a gathering trumpet’s blast, And a charge of Grecian spears ! That bright dream’s promise ne’er may be — But the earth hath banners broad and free ; There are gallant barks on the western wave — And fields where a Greek may find a grave : With a fearless arm, with a stainless brand, With a young brow I depart To seek the hosts of some Christian land — But I go with an Exile’s heart. — Yet, oft when the stranger’s fight is done, And their shouts arise for the battle won, This heart will dream what its joy might be Were it won but for Greece and Liberty !” THE FISHERMAN’S WIFE. BY J. S. KNOWLES. She listens — “ ’Tis the wind !” she cries : The moon, that rose so full and bright, Is now o’ercast ; she looks — she sighs ; She fears ’twill be a stormy night. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 315 Not long was Anna wed ; her mate, A fisherman, was out at sea : The night is dark, the hour is late, The wind is high, and where is he ? “ Oh, who would love, oh, who would wed A wandering fisherman, to be A wretched lonely wife, and dread Each breath that blows when he’s at soa 1 " Not long was Anna wed ; one pledge Of tender love her bosom bore : — The storm comes down, the billows rage ; His father is not yet on shore. M Oh, who would think her portion blest, A wandering seaman’s wife to be, To hug the infant to her breast, Whose father’s on a stormy sea !” The thunder bursts ; the lightning falls ; The casement rattles with the rain ; And as the gusty tempest bawls, The little cottage quakes again. She does not speak, she does not sigh, She gazes on her infant dear ; A smile lights up the cherub’s eye, And dims the mother’s with a tear. u Oh, who would be a seaman’s wife ! Oh, who would bear a seaman’s child ! To tremble for her husband’s life ; To weep because her infant smiled ! ” Ne’er hadst thou borne a seaman’s boy, Ne’er had thy husband left the shore, Thou ne’er hadst felt the frantic joy To see thy Robin at the door ; To press his weather-beaten cheek, To kiss it dry and warm again — To weep the joy thou couldst not speak : A pleasure’s in the depth of pain ! 316 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Thy cheerful fire, thy plain repast, Thy little couch of love, I ween, Were ten times sweeter than the last — And not a cloud that night was seen. 0 happy pair ! the pains you know, Still hand in hand with pleasure come ; For often does the tempest blow, And Robin still is safe at home. THE SUIT OF THE MINSTREL. BY B. SIMMONS. What a dream of delight ! while young Victor was wooing Proud Constance, sole heiress of Bernard of Bonn — In that tenderest of times, when the vintage is viewing Its deep shadow’s glow, where the Rhine rushes on. Superb as a cloud in the sunset, that maiden With her eyes of broad blackness and luminous cheek — Heard the tale, low and sweet, like a breeze odour-laden, That fever’d the frail lip of Victor to speak. Fond haunter of moon-brightened hills ! — the sweet merit Of his country’s wild Magi — the minstrels of old — Had fill’d with an early enchantment his spirit, Till it master’d the Art they melodiously told. Long unheard in his heart lay the gift unawaking, Till Constance rose suddenly bright on his way ; Then the songs of his soul sounded out, like the shakmg Of those chords that salute, in the Desert, the day. And the lone poet’s praise, to that lady so peerless, Grew essential, as dew to the lily’s hot life — And she won him to mix with the festive, and fearless In the joust or the revel’s magnificent strife. The enthusiast yielded, and far from the mountains Whose blue shadows’ softness grew up in his soul, He came — ’mid the crowd thronging luxury’s fountains, The wealth of his wasted existence to roll. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 317 Of the gallants her steps’ fairy music attending, Was Victor for ever in fervency first ; With his harp’s inspiration immortally blending The visions his daring idolatry nurst. And her triumph to Constance fresh glory was bringing, From her eyes more victoriously darted the day, As Time, through her life’s cloudless atmosphere winging, At her feet saw that youth, with his lyre and his lay. She would linger — would listen — her full heart’s expressions To that slave in one glance’s dark volley convey’d ; And she loved him to sing of the lofty concessions That high-born maidens to minstrels have made. Yet, guarded in guile, from her lips ruby-burning, The one word so watch’d for by love never fell : Poor Minstrel, no passion thy passion returning, Shall ever the clouds closing o’er thee dispel 1 (Oh ! as bud in the blight be the lip of the woman, Who, to wing the dull moments in indolence past, Can foster with flattery cold and inhuman Some heart’s noble hopes but to break it at last !) ’Twas when Victor was loudest, by lance and lute vaunting His mistress unmatch’d from the Rhine to the Rhone — While his lode-star of life was her aspect enchanting — That she wedded her kinsman, Count Hugh of Cologne. Fly now to the haunts of thy boyhood — thou dreamer ! This truth like the hunter’s keen shaft in thy brain — That trampled and mock’d by one idolized schemer, Thou, at least, hast no fierier hell-cup to drain ! His darkness came down with no softening gradation. On the noon of his life it was instantly night — ’Twas the thunderbolt killing with swift desolation, In its greenness and glory, the pine of the height. Yet think not that Constance triumphantly wended In bliss as in beauty her heartless career — The voice of that wrong’d uncomplaining One, blended With the breeze, was at midnight a curse to her ear. 318 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. When proudly before her the banquet was blazing, And nobles pledged high to her beauty — her eyes Ever saw, as through clouds, by a lonely hearth gazing, A pale wither’d man, like a spectre, to rise. In Cologne’s banner’d aisles, Countess Constance is sleeping, And leagues far away, by a blue river’s side, Over Victor’s green turf silent Evening is weeping — May their souls, at the Judgment, not sever as wide ! THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. BY REV. C. WOLFE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, O’er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclos’d his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we bound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow We thought as we hollow’d his narrow bed, And smooth’d down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, And we far away on the billow 1 Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone, And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him, But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on — In the grave where a Briton has laid him. The Burial of Sir John Moore. — Vol. ii., p, 318, MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 319 But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard by the distant and random gun — That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone — But we left him alone with his glory ! THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A. Come, see the Dolphin’s anchor forged— ’tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased — tho’ on the forge’s brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare — Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe : It rises, roars, rends all outright — 0, Vulcan, what a glow ! Tis blinding white, ’tis blasting bright — the high sun shines not so ! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show ; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe. As, quivering thro’ his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow Sinks on the anvil — all about the faces fiery grow. “Hurrah!” they shout, “leap out — leap out;” bang, bang the sledges go : Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low — A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow, The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant “ ho ! ” Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load 1 > Let’s forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick and broad ; 320 MISOELLAMSOUS BALLADS. I* or a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road — The low reef roaring on her lee — the roll of ocean pour’d From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the mainmast by the board ; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains! But courage still, brave mariners — the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high Then moves his head, as tho’ he said, “ Fear nothing — here am I. Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time ; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple’s chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing — and let the burthen be The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we ! Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull their rustling red , Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, on an oozy couch of clay ; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o’, and the heave-away, and tho sighing sea- man’s cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go — far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o’er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last ; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e’er from cat was cast. 0 trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea O deep Sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou ? The hoary-monster’s palaces! methinks what joy ’twere now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churn’d sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails ! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ! To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn ; To leap down on the kraken’s back, where ’mid Norwegian isl es He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow’d miles ; Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply in a cove, Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine’s love ; MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 321 To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard-by icy land?, To wrestle with the Sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine ? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line ; And night by night, ’tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play— But shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave — A fisher’s joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. O lodger in the sea-kings’ halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend. Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride ; tliou’dst leap within the sea ! Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of Father-land — Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave, So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave — Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes among 1 1832. BOYHOOD’S YEARS. BY THE KEY. CHARLES MEEHAN. Ah ! why should I recall them — the gay, the joyous years, Ere hope was cross’d or pleasure dimm’d by sorrow and by tears? Or why should mem’ry love to trace yputh’s glad and sunlit way. When those who made its charms so sweet are gather’d to decay? The summer’s sun shall come again to brighten hill and bower— The teeming earth its fragrance bring beneath the balmy shower; But all in vain will mem’ry strive, in vain we shed our tears — They’re gone away and can’t return — the friends of boyhood’s years ! Ah ! why then wake my sorrow, and bid me now count o’er The vanished friends so dearly prized — the days to come no more — II. x 322 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. The happy days of infancy, when no guile our bosoms knew, Nor reck’d we of the pleasures that with each moment flew? ’Tis all in vain to weep for them — the past a dream appears ; And where are they — the lov’d, the young, the friends of boy- hood’s years ? Go seek them in the cold churchyard — they long have stol’n to rest ; But do not weep, for their young cheeks by woe were ne’er op- press’d ; Life’s sun for them in splendour set — no cloud came o’er the ray That lit them from this gloomy world upon their joyous way. No tears about their graves be shed — but sweetest flowers be flung, The fittest off’ring thou canst make to hearts that perish young — To hearts this world has never torn with racking hopes and fears ; For bless’d are they who pass away in boyhood’s happy years ! THE LABOURER. BY W. D. GALLAGHER. [This writer nas been for .many years engaged in literary pursuits in America, having edited in succession several Journals and Periodicals in that country. He now resides in Cincinnati, where he conducts a daily paper. It is gratify- ing to know that the Irish people who have chosen America as their home should have such lessons of manhood and self-denial taught them by one oi their own countrymen, and in such direct and vigorous language.] Stand up — erect ! Thou hast the form, And likeness of thy God 1 — who more ? A soul as dauntless mid the storm Of daily life — a heart as warm And pure, as breast e’er wore. What then ? Thou art as true a man As moves the human mass among ; As much a part of the great plan That with creation’s dawn began, As any of the throng. Who is thine enemy? the high In station, or in wealth the chief? MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 323 Trie great, who coldly pass thee by, With proud step and averted eye r Nay , nurse not such belief. If true unto thyself thou wast, What w r ere the proud one’s scorn to tjiee ? A feather, which thou mightest cast Aside as idly as the blast The light leaf from the tree. No : — uncurb’d passions, low desires, Absence of noble self-respect, — Death, in the breast’s consuming tires. To that high nature which aspires For ever, till thus check’d, — These are thine enemies — thy worst ; They chain thee to thy lowly lot ; Thy labour and thy life accurs’d. Oh, stand erect, and from them burst, And longer suffer not 1 Thou art thyself thine enemy 1 The great ! — what better they than thou ? As theirs, is not thy will as free ? Has God with equal favours thee Neglected to endow ? True ; wealth thou hast not — ’tis but dust l Nor place, — uncertain as the wind ! But that thou hast, which, with thy crust And water, may despise the lust Of both, — a noble mind ! With this, and passions under ban, True faith, and holy trust in God, Thou art the peer of any man. Look up, then ; that thy little span Of life may well be trod 1 324 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. THE LIFE OF THE SEA. BY B. SIMMONS. £ M A very intelligent young lady, born and bred in the Orkney islands, who lately came to spend a season in this neighbourhood, told me nothing in the mainland scenery had so much disappointed her as woods and trees. She found them so dead and lifeless, that she never could help pining after the eternal motion and variety of the ocean. And so back she has gone ; and I believe nothing will ever tempt her from the wind-swept Orcades again.” — Sir Wal- ter Scott. Lockhart's Life , Yol. ii. —Although it is of a female this striking anecdote is related, it has been thought more suitable to give the amplified expression of the sentiment in the stanzas a masculine application.") These grassy vales are warm and deep, Where apple-orchards wave and glow ; Upon soft uplands whitening sheep Drift in long wreaths. — Below, Sun-fronting beds of garden-thyme, alive With the small humming merchants of the hive, And cottage-homes in every shady nook Where willows dip and kiss the dimples of the brook. But all too close against my face My thick breath feels these crowding trees, They crush me in their green embrace — I miss the Life of Seas ; The wild free life that round the flinty shores Of my bleak isles expanded Ocean pours — So free, so far, that, in the lull of even, Naught but the rising moon stands on your path to heaven. I miss the madd’ning Life of Seas, When the red, angry sunset dies, And to the storm-lash’d Orcades Resound the seaman’s cries : Mid thick’ning night and fresh’ning gale, upon The stretch’d ear bursts Despair’s appealing gun, O’er the low Reef that on the lee-beam raves With its down-crashing hills of wild, devouring waves. These inland love-bowers sweetly bloom, White with the hawthorn’s summer snows ; Along soft turf a purple gloom The elm at sunset throws : MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 3 25 There tiie fond lover, listening for the sweet Half soundless coming of his Maiden’s feet, Thrills if the linnet’s rustling pinions pass, Or some light leaf is blown rippling along the grass. But Love his pain as sweetly tells Beneath some cavern beetling hoar, Where silver sands and rosy shells Pave the smooth glistening shore — When all the winds are low, and to thy tender Accents, the wavelets, stealing in, make slender And tinkling cadence, wafting, every one, A golden smile to thee from the fast-sinking sun. Calm through the heavenly sea on high Comes out each white and quiet star — So calm up ocean’s floating sky Come, one by one, afar ; White quiet sails from the grim icy coasts That hear the battles of the Whaling hosts, Whose homeward crews with feet and flutes in tune And spirits roughly blithe, make music to the moon. Or if (like some) thou’st loved in vain, Or madly wooed the already Won, Go when the Passion and the Pain Their havoc have begun, And dare the Thunder rolling up behind The Deep, to match that hurricane of mind : Or to the sea- winds, raging on thy pale Grief-wasted cheek, pour forth as bitter-keen a talo. For in that sleepless, tumbling tide — When most thy fever’d spirits reel, Sick with desires unsatisfied, — Dwell life and balm to heal, liaise thy free sail, and seek o’er ocean’s breast — It boots not what — those rose- clouds in the West, And deem that thus thy spirit freed shall be, Ploughing the stars through seas of blue Eternity. This mainland life I could not live, Nor die beneath a rookery’s leaves, — 326 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. But I my parting breath would give Where chainless Ocean heaves ; In some gray turret, where my fading sight Could see the Lighthouse flame into the night, Emblem of guidance and of hope, to save ; Type of the Rescuer bright who walked the howling wave. Nor, dead, amid the charnel’s breath Shall rise the tomb with lies befool’d, But, like the Greek who faced in death The sea in life he ruled, High on some peak, wave-girded, will I sleep, My dirge sung ever by the choral deep ; There, sullen mourner ! oft at midnight lone Shall my familiar friend, the Thunder, come to groan. Soft Yales and sunny Hills, farewell! Long shall the friendship of your bowers Be sweet to me as is the smell Of their strange lovely flowers ; And each kind face, like every pleasant star Be bright to me though ever bright afar : True as the sea-bird’s wing, I seek my home And its glad Life, once more, by boundless Ocean’s foam 1 THE SISTER OF CHARITY. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. Sister of Charity, gentle and dutiful, Loving as seraphim, tender, and mild, In humbleness strong and in purity beautiful, In spirit heroic, in manners a child. Ever thy love like an angel reposes, With hovering wings o’er the sufferer here, Till the arrows of death are half-hidden in roses, And hope-speaking prophecy smiles on the bier. When life, like a vapour, is slowly retiring, As clouds in the dawning to heav’n uprolled, Thy prayer, like a herald, precedes him expiring. And the cross on thy bosom his last looks behold; MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 327 And oh ! as the Spouse to thy words of love listens, What hundredfold blessings descend on thee then — Thus the flower-absorbed dew in the bright iris glistens, And returns to the lilies more richly again. Sister of Charity, child of the holiest, O, for thy living soul, ardent as pure — Mother of orphans and friend of the lowliest — Stay of the wretched, the guilty, the poor ; The embrace of the Godhead so plainly enfolds thee, Sanctity’s halo so shrines thee around, Daring the eye that unshrinking beholds thee, Nor droops in thy presence abashed to the ground. Dim is the fire of the sunniest blushes, Burning the breast of the maidenly rose To the exquisite bloom that thy pale beauty flushes, When the incense ascends and the sanctuary glows ; And the music, that seems heaven’s language, is pealing — Adoration has bowed him in silence and sighs, And man, intermingled with angels, is feeling The passionless rapture that comes from the skies. Oh, that this heart, whose unspeakable treasure Of love hath been wasted so vainly on clay, Like thine, unallured by the phantom of pleasure, Could rend every earthly affection away. And yet, in thy presence, the billows subsiding Obey the strong effort of reason and will, And my soul, in her pristine tranquillity gliding, Is calm as when God bade the ocean be still. Thy soothing, how gentle ! thy pity, how tender ! Choir-music thy voice is — thy step angel grace, And thy union with deity shrines in a splendour Subdued, but unearthly, thy spiritual face. When the frail chains are broken, a captive that bound thee Afar from thy home is the prison of clay, Bride of the Lamb, and earth’s shadows around thee Disperse in the blaze of eternity’s day. Still mindful, as now, of the sufferer’s story, Arresting the thunders of wrath ere they roll, 328 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Intervene, as a cloud between us and liis glory, And shield from His lightnings the shuddering souL As mild as the moonbeam in autumn descending That lightning, extinguished by mercy, shall fall, While he hears with the wail of a penitent blending Thy prayer, Holy Daughter of Vincent de Paul. HENRICH HUDSON. BY T. D. M ( GEE. [The narrative of the following stanzas is contained more briefly in two pages of Bancroft’s History of the “ Colonization of America,” vol. li. The main facts — the open boat, the seven sick seamen, and the fidelity of one of the crew named Phillip Staaffe, are literally as stated in the Poem.] The slayer Death is everywhere and many a mask hath he, Many and awful are the shapes in which he rules the sea ; Sometimes within a rocky aisle he lights his candle dim, And sits half-sheeted in the foam, chaunting a funeral hymn ; Full often ’mid the roar of winds we hear his awful cry Guiding the lightning to its prey through the beclouded sky ; Sometimes he hides ’neath tropic waves, and as the ship sails o’er He holds her fast to the fiery sun, till the crew can breathe no more. There is no land so far away but he meeteth mankind there — He liveth at the icy pole with the Berg and the shaggy Bear, He smileth from the Southron capes like a May-Queen in her flowers, He falleth o’er the Indian seas, dissolved in summer showers ; But of all the sea-shapes he hath worn, may mariners never know Such fate as Henrich Hudson found, in the labyrinths of snow — The North Seas’ great Columbus, whose bones lie far, interred Under those frigid waters where no song was ever heard. ’Twas when he sail’d from Amsterdam, in the adventurous quest Of an ice-shored strait, thro’ which to reach the far and fabled West ; His dastard crew — their thin blood chilled beneath the arctic sky — Combined against him in the night his hands and feet they tie, MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 329 And bind him in a helmless boat on that dread sea to sail — Ah, me ! an oarless shadowy skiff, as a schoolboy’s vessel frail. Seven sick- men and his only son, his comrades were to be, But ere they left the Crescent’s side, the chief spoke dauntlessly : — 1 Ho, Mutineers l I ask no act of kindness at your hands — My fate I feel must steer me now to Death’s ever-silent lands ; But there is one man in my ship who sailed with me of yore By many a bay and headland of the New- World’s eastern shore: From India’s heats to Greenland’s snows lie dared to follow me, And is he turned the traitor too, is he in league with ye ? ’ Uprose a voice from the mutineers, 1 Not I, my chief, not I — I’ll take my old place by your side tho’ all be sure to die.’ Before his chief could bid him back, he is standing at his side * The cable’s cut — away they drift, over the midnight tide. No word from any lip came forth, their strain’d eyes steadily glare At the vacant gloom, where late the ship had left them to despair. On the dark waters long was seen a line of foamy light — It passed, like the hem of an angel’s robe, away from their eager sight. Then each man grasped hi fellow’s hand, some sighed but nothing speak, While on thro’ pallid gloom their boat drifts moaningly and weak. Seven sick men, dying, in a skiff five hundred leagues from shore I Oh ! never was such a crew afloat on this world’s waves before ; Seven stricken forms, seven sinking hearts of seven short-breath- ing men, Drifting over the Sharks’ abodes, close to the fierce Bear’s den. Oh I ’twas not there they could be nurs’d in homeliness and ease, One short day heard seven bodies sink, whose souls God rest in peace ! The one who first expir’d had most to note the foam he made, And no one prayed to be the last, tho’ each the blow delay’d. Three still remain. 4 My son, my son, hold ijp your head, my son, Alas ! alas ! my constant friend, I fear his life is gone.’ So spoke the trembling father — two cold hands in his breast Breathing upon his dead boy’s face, all too soft to break his rest. The roar of battle could not wake that sleeper from his sleep : The trusty sailor softly lets him down to the yawning deep ; The fated father hid his face whilst this was being done, Still murmuring mournfully and low 1 my son* my only son.’ 330 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Another night ; uncheerily beneath that heartless sky, The iceberg sheds its livid light upon them passing by, And each beholds the other’s face all spectre-like and wan, And even in that dread solitude man feared the face of man J Afar they hear the beating surge echo from the banks of frost, Many a hoar cape round about looms like a giant ghost, And fast or slow as they float on, they hear the Bears on shore, Trooping down to the icy strand watching them evermore. The morning dawns, unto their eyes the light hath lost its cheer, Nor distant sail, nor drifting spar, within their ken appear. Embayed in ice the coffin-like boat sleeps on the waveless tide, Where rays of deathly cold, cold light converge from every side. Slow crept the blood into their hearts, each manly pulse stood still, Huge haggard Bears kept watch above on every dazzling hill. Anon the doomed men were entranced, by the potent frigid air, And they dream, as drowning men have dreamt, of fields far oft and fair. What phantoms filled each cheated brain, no mortal ever knew What ancient storms they weather’d o’er, what worlds explor’d anew: What great designs for future days — what home-hope, or what fear — There was no one ’mid the ice-lands to chronicle or hear. So still they sat, the weird-faced Seals bethought them they were dead, And each raised from the waters up his cautious wizard head Then circled round th’ arrested boat, like vampires round a grave. Till frighted — at their own resolve they plunged beneath the wave. Evening closed round the moveless boat, still sat entranc’d the twain, When lo ! the ice unlocks its arms, the tide pours in amain ! Away upon the streaming brine the feeble skiff is borne, The shaggy monsters howl behind their farewells all forlorn. The crashing ice, the current’s roar, broke Hudson’s fairy spell, But never more shall this world wake his comrade tried so well ! His brave heart’s blood is chill’d for aye, yet shall its truth be told, When the memories of kings are worn from marble and from gold. Onward, onward, the helpless chief — the dead man for his mate ! The Shark far down in ocean’s depth feels the passing of that freight MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 3151 And bounding from his dread abyss, he snuffs the upper air, Then follows on the path it took, like a lion from his lair. Oh ! God, it was a fearful voyage and fearful companie, Nor wonder that the stout sea-chief quivered from brow to knee. Oh I who would blame his manly heart, if e’en it quaked for fear, While whirled along on such a sea, with such attendant near I The Shark hath found a readier prey, and turn’d him from th8 chase ; The boat hath made another bay — a drearier pausing place, — O’er arching piles of blue- veined ice admitted to its still, White, fathomless waters, palsied like the doom’d man’s fetter’d will. Powerless he sat — that chief escaped so oft by sea and land — Death breathing o’er him — all so weak he could not lift a hand. Even his bloodless lips refused a last short prayer to speak, But angels listened at the heart when the voice of man is weak. His heart and eye were suppliant turned to the ocean’s Lord on high, The Borealis lustres were gathering in the sky ; From South and North, from East and West, they clustered o’et the spot Where breathed his last gallant chief whose grave man seeth not ; They marked him die with steadfast gaze, as tho’ in heaven there were A passion to behold how he the fearful fate would bear ; They watched him through the livelong night — these couriers of the sky, Then fled to tell the listening stars how ’twas they saw him die. He sleepeth where old winter’s realm no genial air invades, His spirit burneth bright in heaven among the glorious shades Whose God-like doom, on earth it was creation to unfold, Spanning this mighty orb of ours as through the sphere it rolled. His name is written on the deep* — the rivers f as they run Will bear it timeward o’er the world, telling what he hath done ; The story of his voyage to Death, amid the arctic frosts, Will be told by mourning Mariners on earth’s most distant coasts * Hudson’s Bay. f The River Hudson. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. S3* THE HUSBANDMAN. BY JOHN STERLING. Earth, of man the bounteous mother, Feeds him still with corn and wine ; He who best would aid a brother, Shares with him these gifts divine. Many a power within her bosom Noiseless, hidden, works beneath ; Hence are seed and leaf and blossom, Golden ear and clustered wreath. These to swell with strength and beauty, Is the royal task of man ; Man’s a king, his throne is Duty, Since his work on earth began. Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage, These like man, are fruits of earth ; Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage, All from dust receive their birth. Barn and mill and wine-vat’s treasures. Earthly goods for earthly lives, These are Nature’s ancient pleasures, These her child from her derives. What the dream, but vain rebelling, If from earth we sought to flee ? ’Tis our stored and ample dwelling, ’Tis from it the skies we see. Wind and frost, and hour and season, Land and water, sun and shade, Work with these as bids thy reason, For they work thy toil to aid. Sow thy seed and reap in gladness Man himself is all a seed ; Hope and hardship, joy and sadness Slow the plant to ripeness lead MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 333 KING JAMES THE SECOND. BY THE HON. G. S. SMYTHE. A storm at night upon the seas, it is a fearful sight, The roaring wind, the rolling surge, the lightning’s ghastly light, Now ye be daring mariners who trim yon slender bark, For never yet were waves so wild, or night so drear and dark. We joy the night is drear and dark; no mariners are we — We joy for storm and tempest, and the terrors of the sea. Our God, He is a jealous God — His wrath it should be shown, When Kings are of their birthright spoiled — His children of their own. Yet countless was the concourse, and mighty was the throng When last through London rode King James, her citizens among; And oft, and loud, and long they cheered, for their hearts were in each cheer, And soft it fell, His People’s praise, upon their Prince’s ear. Then outspaKe gallant Clavernou&e, and his soul thrilled wild and high, And he showed the King his subjects, and he prayed him not to fly. Oh never yet was Captain so dauntless as Dundee — He was sworn to chase the Hollander back to his Zuyder-Zee ! But the King has straightway answered him ; no blood it shall be shed, Enough, I ween, of blood has been upon an old man’s head : So power, and pomp, and man’s esteem, he left and Itost them all Rather than that, he better loved, one English life should fall ! Then, we the few who follow Him, we will His lesson take, And try to count all loss a gain, — when lost for .Mercy’s sake. Yet, who with Powis would not mourn, — that he no more shall know — His fair red castle on the hill, and the princely lands below. King James has gone to cheer him — upon the wave-washed stem, While to the last dim line of cliffs his own looks sadly turn. — Yet, though his heart be heavy, — it is stout and staunch as wher He earned in his bold boyhood the praises of Turenne. 334 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. A moment back, and here lie stood — but not a word we said, But we thought of ancient Lear, with the tempest overhead 1 Discrowned, betrayed, abandoned — but nought could break his will, Not Mary, his false Regan — nor Anne, his Goneril ! “ God help me, my own children, mine have forsaken me ” — That touching word it has been heard, and God his help shall be; Not here, for earth, he asks not that ; — 0 who would ask that boon Who knows men’s ways, their fleeting praise, and fame that fades as soon. What is it, Life i a little strife, where victories are vain, Where those who conquer do not win, nor those receive who gain. But He — 0 great shall be His glory, where Kings in glory are, The son of Charles the Martyr, the grandson of Navarre ! THE MOTHER’S HEART. BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond, My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. Faithful and fond, with sense beyond thy years, And natural piety, that lean’d to heaven ; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, Yet patient of rebuke when justly given : Obedient, — easy to be reconciled ; And meekly cheerful, — such wert thou, my child ! Not willing to be left ; still by my side Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying ; Nor leaving in thy turn : but pleased to glide Thro’ the dark room where I was sadly lying, Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 335 Oh ! boy, of such as thou are oftenest made Earth’s fragile idols ; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness, — prone to fade, — And bending weakly to the thunder-shower ; Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind 1 Then Thou, my merry love ; — bold in thy glee, Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, Didst come, as restless as a bird’s wing glancing, Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, Like a young sunbeam to the gladden’d earth ! Thine was the shout ! the song ! the burst of joy ! Which sweet from childhood’s rosy lip resoundeth ; Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy, And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth ; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply, Lurk’d in the laughter of thy dark blue eye ! And thine was many an art to win and bless, The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile ; — the frequent soft caress ; — The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming ! Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. At length Thou earnest ; thou, the last and least ; Nicknamed “ the Emperor,” by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swell’d thy breast, And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others ; Mingling with every playful infant wile- A mimic majesty that made us smile : — And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou ! An eye of resolute and successful scheming ; Fair shoulders — curling lip — and dauntless brow — Fit for the world’s strife, not fer Poet’s dreaming And proud the lifting of thy stately head, And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. Different from both ! Yet each succeeding claim. I, that all other love had been forswearing, 336 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; Nor injured either, by this love’s comparing ; Nor stole a fraction for the newer call, — But in the mother’s heart found room for All I LOUIS XV. BY JOHN STERLING. The King with all the kingly train had left his Pompadour behind, And forth he rode in Senart’s wood the royal beasts of chase to find. That day by chance the Monarch mused, and turning suddenly away, He struck alone into a path that far from crowds and courtiers lay. He saw the pale green shadows play upon the brown untrodden earth ; He saw the birds around him flit as if he were of peasant birth ; He saw the trees that know no king but him who bears a wood- land axe ; He thought not, but he looked about like one who still in think- ing lacks. Then close to him a footstep fell, and glad of human sound was he, For truth to say he found himself but melancholy companie ; But that which he would ne’er have guessed, before him now most plainly came ; The man upon his weary back a coffin bore of rudest frame. “ Why, who art thou ? ” exclaimed the King, “ and what is that I see thee bear?” “ I am a labourer in the wood, and ’tis a coffin for Pierre. Close by the royal hunting lodge you may have often seen him toil ; But he will never work again, and I for him must dig the soil,” The labourer ne’er had seen the King, and this he thought was but a man, Who made at first a moment’s pause and then anew his talk began: “ I think I do remember now, — he had a dark and glancing eye, And I have seen his sturdy arm with wondrous strokes the pick- axe ply. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 337 {i Pray tell me, friend, what accident can thus have killed our good Pierre ? ” “ 0 ! nothing more than usual, sir, he died of living upon air. ’Twas hunger killed the poor good man, who long on empty hopes relied ; He could not pay Gdbelle and tax and feed his children, so he died.’ The man stopped short, and then went on — “ It is, you know, a common story, Our children’s food is eaten up by courtiers, mistresses, and glory.” The king looked hard upon the man, and afterwards the coffin eyed, Then spurred to ask of Pompadour, how came it that the peasants died ? SPIRIT COMPANY. BY T. IRWIN. Up cheerful as the morn I rise, Though foreign airs around me blow, For well I deem that Spirit eyes Look into mine where’er I go : So, in the viny window nook, With southern sunlight round, I sit And read aloud, from some old book, Old music lines of poet wit, That those I love around may hear me, And melt in sweet mute laughter near me. ' With them I stroll all day along The fresh blue bay and sunny shore, And hear the brown old fisher’s song. Above his nets hummed o’er and o'er ; And wander up the evening cliffs, Askirted by the shadowy limes ; And as I watch the fading skiffs, I whisper oft of loved old times, That those I love around may hear me, And smile with gentle memories near me. And when the golden sunset dips Beneath the garden’s walnut trees, Y II. 338 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. In vintage gay I bathe my lips, Till the white star floats up the seas ; Then, as upon the hill o’erhead, The quiet shepherd pens his fold, I sit among the stilly Dead, And sing the songs they loved of old, And hftar their echoes, grown divine, Come oack through this waked heart of mine. But when o’er hill and ocean soon Falls the deep midnight blue and rare, And tolling bell and rounded moon Awake the tranced time of prayer — Through starry casement lone I gaze Up on the heavenly path they’ve trod, And murmur o’er their love and praise, With lowly knees before our God : And hear — as though beyond the sea, The loved Old Voices pray for me. THE MOTHER OF THE KINGS. BY B. SIMMONS. I immediately followed Mademoiselle Rose into the chamber and was introduced to the mother of Napoleon. Madam Laetitia was at trat time eighty-three years of age, and never did I see a person so advanced in Me with a brow and countenance so beaming with expression and un diminished intelli- gence; the quietness and brilliancy of her large sparkling eye was most remark- able. She was laid on a snow-white bed in cne corner of the room ; to which she told me she had been confined for three years, having as long as that ago had the misfortune to break her leg. _ The room was completely hung round with pictures, large, full-length portraits of her family, which covered every portion of the wall. All those of her sons who had attained to the regal dignity were represented in their royal robes; Napoleon, I believe, in the gorgeous apparel he wore at his coronation. . . . She then, seeing us looking earnestly at the magnificent picture of Napoleon, which was hung close to the side of her bed, asked, if we did not admire it, gazing herself at it proudly and fondly, and saying, in French, ‘ That resembles the Emperor much; yes, how like him it is V I could not help feeling that she must exist as it were in a world of dreams, in a world of her own, or rather of memory’s creation, with all these splendid shadows around her, that silently but eloquently spoke of the days departed.” — Lady Emeline Stuart Worthy's Visit to Madam Ixetitia , Smother qf Napoleon, in “ The Keepsake ” for 1837.] MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 339 It was tlie noon of a Roman day that lit with mellow gloom, Through marble-shafted windows deep, a grandly solemn room, Where, shadowed o’er with canopy and pillowed upon down, An aged woman lay unwatched — like perishing renown. No crowned one she ; though, in the pale and venerable grace Of her worn cheek and lofty brow, might observation trace — And in her dark eye’s flash — a fire and energy to give Life unto sons, whose sceptre-swords should vanquish all that live. Strange looked that lady old, reclined upon her lonely bed In that vast chamber, echoing not to page or maiden’s tread ; And stranger still the gorgeous forms, in portrait, that glanced round From the high walls, with cold bright looks more eloquent than sound. They were her children. Never yet, since, with the primal beam, Fair painting brought on rainbow wings its own immortal dream, Did one fond mother give such race beneath its smile to glow, As they who now back on her brow their pictured glories throw. Her daughters there — the beautiful! — look’d down in dazzling sheen : One lovelier than the Queen of Love — one crown’d an earthly queen ! Her sons — the proud — the Paladins ! with diadem and plume, Each leaning on his sceptred arm, made empire of that room 1 But right before her couch’s foot, one mightiest picture blazed — One august form, to which her eyes incessantly were raised ; — A monarch’s, too! — and, monarch -like, the artist’s hand had bound him With jewell’d belt, imperial sword, and ermin’d purple round him. One well might deem from the white flags that o’er him flashed and rolled, Where the puissant lily laughed and waved its bannered gold, And from the Lombard’s iron crown beneath his hand which lay, That Charlemagne had burst death’s reign and leaped again to day ! How gleamed that awful countenance, magnificently stern ! In its dark smile and smiting look, what destiny wc loarnl — 340 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. The laurel simply wreathes that brow, while nations watch its nod. As though he scoff’d all pomp below the thunderbolts of God. Such was the scene — the noontide hour — which, after many a year, Had swept above the memory of his meteor-like career — Saw the mother of the mightiest — Napoleon’s Mother — lie With the living dead around her, with the past before her eye 1 She saw her son — of whom the Seer in Patmos bare record — Who broke one seal — one vial poured — wild angel of the Lord ! She saw him shadow earth beneath the terrors of his face, And lived and knew that the hoarse sea-mew wailed o’er his burial-place. Vet was she not forgotten : — from every land and wave, The noble and free-hearted all, the graceful and the brave Passed not her halls unnoticed, but, lingering claimed to pay The tribute of their chastened hearts to glory in decay. And England’s gentle Daughter, in that deserted hour, Though greatness was thy handmaiden, and genius was thy dower, Thou didst not scorn to come in youth and beauty to assuage, Albeit for one bright moment brief, that woman’s lonely age. u 1 am alone I ” she still exclaimed — and haply thou didst say, How much our human sympathies were with her far away , How much one spirit mourn’d with hers, let this wild strain im- part, Offered in homage, Lady, to thy good and gifted heart. THE ANGLO-SAXON RACE. BY M. IIALPIN. Assyria ! first of all the lands That ruled with universal sway, Thy Babylon with mortal hands Was formed — thy pendant gardens gay — Thy squares and palaces of gold Were budded by a race of men Profound of thought, of heavenly mould, That ruled for ages; but what then? MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 341 They were not of the Saxon race — The parents grand of civilization ; What noble deeds doth history trace Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation? Th’ Assyrian fell— his empire pass’d Away in darkness evermore, Like noon without a cloud o’ercast, Whose eve is rent by thunder’s roar : The Persian conquered ; Cyrus reigned — From ruin beauty sprung again — He spread his laws and arts, and gained From all submission ; but what then ? He was not of the Saxon race — The parents grand of civilization } What noble deed doth history trace Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation? And lo ! the hardy, daring Greek, With art and science in his hand — Philip’s great son went forth to seek New conquests in the Persian’s land ; And triumphed o’er the then known earth — Ay, wept for more. Oh ! every pen Delights to trace the Grecian’s birth And life and genius ; but what then? He was not of the Saxon race — The parents grand of civilization ; What noble deed doth history trace Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation ? Greece fell 1 just like an o’er-ripe fruit ; And haughty Rome upsprung in placq And mightier grew ; and set her foot Upon the neck of every race. The earth has never, never seen In peace or war such matchless men — Yes, e’en in form, in height and mien, Seemed more than mortal; but what then? They were not of the Saxon race — The parents grand of civilization ; What noble deed doth history trace Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation? 342 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. The Goth and Vandal in their might, Poured down from Danube’s regal stream, And swept o’er Rome, like plague’s dark blight ; Her history since ? — a troubled dream. Then Charlemagne uprose ; his sword Submission gained from royal men, Till Europe’s fearful feudal horde Lay prostrate neath him ; but what then ? He was not of the Saxon race — The parents grand of civilization ; What noble deed doth history trace Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation? The Spaniard and the Portuguese — The ocean kings whose standards waved In haughty pride upon the seas, Despite of dangers nobly braved. The new world’s wealth was theirs alone, Whom unknown seas could never pen, Spain’s pride and glory then outshone All other nations, but what then ? They were not of the Saxon race — The parents grand of civilization ; What noble deed doth history trace Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation ? And Gaul — “the merry land” of Gaul — Hurled back united Europe’s horde, And played in frantic zeal with all The “ Rights of Kings.” Napoleon’s word Made monarchs ; potent was his sway, O’er angry, proud, discordant men, His mind was like a brilliant ray Of light, all scorching ; but what then ? He was not of the Saxon race — The parents grand of civilization ; What noble deed doth history trace Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation? Great men have sprung from every land — From every creed, and race, and clime : The earth brings forth her hero band Impartial as to place or time. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 343 Confucius and Columbus bold, George Washington* and Zenghis Kan; Brave Tell and Brian Boru of old, And many others ; but what then ? They were not of the Saxon race — The parents grand of civilization ; What noble deed doth history trace Outside the Anglo-Saxon nation ? MY VIOLON. BY T. IRWIN. Within my little lonely room Where many a crimson evening shines, I cheer away the falling gloom With songs beneath the casement vines : Sweet memories haunt the lingering day That hovers o’er each golden sun — Each time I play Brings back a ray — Sing to me, sing, old violon. Old friends, your homes in sunset shine, The trees around them softly sigh, While o’er the rolling distant brine You sail from home and poverty ; I see your faces sad and wan Turned where the day Sets wild and grey — Sing of them, sing, old violon. Old books, companions of my youth, And friends of age still brightening earth, How oft we’ve mused above your truth, How often smiled upon your mirth ! Your date recalls the happy years And all who blessed them past and gone — * In name and likeness Washington was a Norman. His tall, Hercmean frame, large hands, long face and nose, proclaim him to have been a Norman of the purest stamp. 344 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Their smile appears ’Mid falling tears — Sing to them, sing, old violon ! Companionless amid the days I wander in the autumn blast, Through fields and trees, and well-known ways, The silent scenery of the past. Like friends the distant mountains smile O’erflowed by the departing sun — A little while, A little while, Sing to them yet, old violon. A pale autumnal cloud of white Stands in the cold east all day long, And in the silent sky to-night Under the full moon hears my song. My fancy whispers mournfully ’Tis some dear spirit beloved and gone, Come back to see Old earth and me — Sing to her, sing, old violon. Ah ! soon, old friend, thy aged strings To stranger fingers shall resound ; But, when to thy rich murmurings The joyous dancers beat the ground, Through the gay window with the moon I’ll look ere mirth and dance be done, And list thy tune, Though soon, too soon Death wafts me from my violon. THE CATHOLIC CAVALIER. 1641. BY THE HON. G. S. SMYTHE. TnE Holy Church be praised ! The King at length hath raisbu The standard of his sires in all kinglihood, on high ! MISCELLANEOUS UALLADS. 345 Now shall this glorious day, for that one hope repay The sorrows which have dimmed the brightness of his eye. It was twelve years ago, when solemnly and slow, There passed down to the Houses the royal cavalcade. And the King therein did ride, with the great Duke at his side ; And loving words, like brothers, they to each other said. * It was but yesterday, — he rode down the array, — Midst pike, and axe, and partisan, and many a gleaming sword, And sad, and suffering, — He looked withal a King, — Like one who only lived to do His duty to the Lord. By God’s good help I ween, that wan and mournful mien, Shall harden heart, and strengthen arm, and steel us in the strife. Nor for that wan look alone, shall the Roundhead host atone, Cry Villiers — and strike home ! — we will have life for life 1 A hundred years of wrong shall make our vengeance strong ! A hundred years of outrage, and blasphemy, and broil ; Since the spirit of Unrest, sent forth on her behest The Apostate and the Puritan, to do their work of Spoil ! Since the Tyrant’s wanton bride trod the Truth down in her pride, And God, for England’s sins, gave power to a Lie, — And through the land the light of Falsehood burned all bright, As each churl thought to see the dayspring dawn on high. And furiously and fast, like the rushing of the blast, There rose the clang of voices midst strife, and storm, and din. Yet — through that angry tone the Church prayed on alone — As a mother pleads the more, for her children when they sin. She calls you round her son — her own anointed One — Her standard is the Cross, — oh ! lift it forth on high. Her wrongs shall be our might — Her blessing is our right — Her hopes our own best hope — Her saints our battle cry They are coming — they are here, each loyal Cavalier, Newcastle, Lindsay, Digby, the Hotspur of the cause ; They are coming with the sword, to rally round their Lord For the Treasons and the Plots ’gainst His kingdoms and his laws 34 G MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. They are coming, they are here, each loyal Cavalier — Great Strafford’s blood hath summoned them, — and Laud’s un- seemly chains ; Oh blessed be that thought, — that England would have brought Back to the mourning Churches where Unity remains ! They are coming, they are here, each loyal Cavalier, No Stanley ever shamed the George upon his breast ; Montrose shall rally forth the clansmen of the North, The Seymour and the Somerset, their liegemen in the West. Ho Roundheads, ye that pray, and cant like Pym and Say Of the sin of Sport and Maying — the crime of village games ! Now by the Holy Rood, but ye shall rue in blood The hatred that is borne by each hamlet to your names ] To the Traitors who betray, like Iscariot for pay, To every hireling member, who sits and votes for gain, Down, down with one and all, the men of blood and brawl, With Hazlerig and Cromw'ell — with Harrison and Vane ! Yon sun which shines to-day, upon our brave array, On scarf, and casque, and plume, and banners waving slow, — Shall see us charge in scorn, ’gainst the ranks of the forsworn, And every sword grow crimson, with slaughter of the foe ! This Autumn shall not wane, ere the King shall hold again High feasting in Whitehall, for the Armies and the Court ; And the Puritans shall hear, the tidings in their fear, As they cower lone and outcast, at Geneva or at Dort 1 THE POET’S GRIEF. BY J. FRAZER. My spirit o’er an early tomb, With ruffled wing sits drooping ; And real forms of blighted bloom Have in my heart left little room For forms of fancy’s grouping. The heart — the eye I loved to light With song, are dark and hollow ; MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 347 And if, when that young eye was bright, I took a haughty minstrel flight, It was to tempt the inborn might Of that young heart to follow ! No more — oh ! never more his gaze Shall be to me as glory I No more — oh ! never more my lays Shall sway him with a hope to raise His country, and her story ! And when the loved ones in the numb, Deaf trance of death ar% wreathed (Though sweet may be her song to some), The singer feels the hour is come For lyre and lyrist to be dumb — Her best o** song is breathed. ’Tis true, it w'as a joy to see The slave for freedom wrestle, Stirred by my random minstrelsy, But ’tis not in the lofty tree The sweetest song-birds nestle — They are a shy and chary race ; And tho’ they soar, and squander Rich music over nature’s face, To one deep, lonely dwelling-place No foot may find — no eye may trace, They still return the fonder. Oh, God ! — but prayers availed me not 1 The darkening angel enter’d, And made one universal blot — A world-wide desert — of the spot, Where all my hope was centred I The heart — the eye I loved to light With song, are dark and hollow — What marvel if my spirit slight The guerdon of the minstrel’s flight ; I cannot tempt the inborn might Of that young heart to follow ! MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. MS ARTIST’S SONG. BY T. IRWIN. Ours is an Arab life, they say, Sweet Saucy-friends, ’tis truth they tell 5 Yet, somehow, can we find each day A peaceful palm, and quiet well ; Our wants are few where beauties shine, And beauties shine o’er earth and sea ; Let fate give others gold and wine But leave us Art and Liberty ! We speed each sorrow Toward the morrow Where the golden clouds have birth, While, like the swallow, Still we follow Summer and freedom round the earth. ’Tis true, we smile at custom’s form ; Art looks for truth in everything, And birds that sing through sun and storm Would lose, if caged, both voice and wing: The bird that lives uncaged, unsought (Our neighbour in the ivy tree), And sings his song each morn, is not More careless of the world than we ; We may grow rich And win our niche, And change our views, and change our mirth — Till then we follow Like the swallow, Fancy and freedom round the earth. Our mansions, they are baseless yet, The sunny fields our only pew, A faithful dog our household pet, Our “public” but a friend or two; Yet poverty has many modes Of doubling such sweet charms as come : We’ve rambles o’er the pleasant roads, We’ve moonlight songs returning home — MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 319 When we grow great In carriage state We yet may roll in gouty worth ; Till then we follow, Like the swallow, Summer and sunshine round the earth. "Within the little chamber there How many an hour we’ve won from fate 1 Oh, glorious refuge ten feet square From all the mockeries of the great ! There rise our pictures like the dream That soothes the poor man all the night, Our systems, wonderful as steam, Our poems, unknown as exquisite. Some day divine Abroad they'll shine, Till then we live in fortune’s dearth, And, like the swallow, Follow, follow Summer and fortune round the earth. There oft our chorused voices roll — ’Tis beer alone inspires our folk ; There theories of star and soul Grow clear amid tobacco smoke. No watch have we, but o’er the town Time tolls the hour in crimson light ; No princely company we own, ’Tis Shakspeare only cheers the night \ Our wit abounds, Each voice resounds, We yet may win a calmer hearth — Till then we follow, Like the swallow, Beauty and sunshine round the earth. Yet have we something dearer, friends, Than hearts that pulsate fearlessly ; Something diviner Heaven sends, Like stars that light a lonely sea. Oh ! we have hope for all who’ve flowu, O ! we have angels in the air, 350 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Beloved souls that, all unknown, Still follow us from year to year — In mute despairs, In silent prayers, We think o’er all who’ve blessed our hearth, And deem they follow, Like the poor swallow, All that they love around the earth. Then let us dwell in such delight As heart and soul can give alone, And with wild fancy’s charms to-night Revel, while time is yet our own, While yon rich autumn cloud unrolls, And fills with gold our casement nigh, While the great stars like poet souls Look in on Art and Liberty ! Where nature beams We’ll weave our dreams, Where folly struts we’ll have our mirth, And, like the swallow, Follow, still follow Freedom and light around the earth. THE DISINTERMENT OF NAPOLEON. BY B. SIMMONS. Lost Lord of Song ! who grandly gave Thy matchless timbrel for the spear — And, by old Hellas’ hallow’d wave Died at the feet of Freedom — hear ! Hear — from thy lone and lowly tomb, Where ’mid thy own “inviolate Isle,” Beneath no minster’s marble gloom, No banner’s golden smile. Far from the swarming city’s crowd, Thy glory round thee for a shroud, Thou sleep’st, — the pious rustic’s tread The only echo o’er thy bed ; Save, few and faint, when o’er the foam The Pilgrims of thy genius come, MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 351 From distant earth with tears of praise, The homage of their hearts to raise, And curse the country’s very name, Unworthy of thy sacred dust, That draws such lustre from thy fame That heaps such outrage on thy bust ! Wake from the Dead — and lift thy brow With the same scornful beauty now, As when beneath thy shafts of pride Envenom’d Cant — thy Python — died ! Prophet no less than Bard, behold Matured the eventful moment, told In those divine predictive words, Pour’d to thy lyre’s transcendent chords : — “ If e’er his awful ashes can grow cold But no, their embers soon shall burst their mcrjd — France shall feel the want, Of this last consolation, though but scant. Her honour, fame and faith demand his bones To pile above a pyramid of Thrones ! ” If, then, from thy neglected bier One humblest follower thou canst hear, 0 Mighty Master ! rise and flee, Swift as some meteor bold and bright, One fragile cloud attending thee, Across the dusky tracts of night, To where the sunset’s latest radiance shone O’er Afric’s sea interminably lone. Below that broad, unbroken sea Long since the sultry sun has dropp’d, And now in dread solemnity — As though its course Creation stopp’d One wondrous hour, to watch the birth Of deeds portentous unto earth — The moonless midnight far and wide Solidly black flings over all That giant waste of waveless tide Her melancholy pall, Whose folds in thickest gloom unfurl’d Each ray of heaven’s high face debar, Save, on the margin of the World Where leans yon solitary star, 352 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Large, radiant, restless, tinting with far The jagged cliffs of a grey barren Isle. Hark ! o’er the waves distinctly swell Twelve slow vibrations of a bell 1 And out upon the silent ear At once ring bold and sharply clear, With shock more startling than if thunder Had split the slumbering earth asunder, The iron sounds of crow and bar ; Ye scarce may know from whence they coma. Whether from Island or from Star, Both lie so hush’d and dumb ! On, swift and deep, those echoes sweep, Shaking long-buried Kings from sleep — Up, up 1 ye sceptred jailers — ho ! Your granite heaped his head in vain ; The very grave gives back your foe, Dead Caesar wakes again ! The Nations, with a voice as dread As that which, once in Bethany, Burst to the regions of the dead And set the Loved-one free, Have cried “ Come forth !” and lo ! again, To smite the hearts and eyes of men With the old awe he once instill’d By many an unforgotten field, Napoleon’s look shall startle day — That look that, where its anger fell, Scorch’d empires from the earth away As with the blasts of hell ! Up, from the dust ye sleepers, ho ! By the blue Danube’s stately wave — From Berlin’s towers — from Moscow’s snow, And Windsor’s gorgeous grave ! Come — summon’d by the omnific power, The spirit of this thrilling hour — And, stooping from yon craggy height, Girt by each perish’d satellite, Each cunning tool of kingly terror Who served your reigns of fraud and erior MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 363 Behold, where with relentless lock ¥e chained Prometheus * to his rock, And, when his tortured bosom ceased Your vulture’s savage beak to feast, Where fathom-deep ye dug his cell, And built and barr’d his coffin down Half doubting if even death could quell Such terrible renown ; Now ’mid the torch’s solemn glare, And bended knee and muttered prayer, Within that green sepulchral glen Uncover’d groups of warrior men Breathless perform the high behest Of winning back, in priceless trust. For the regenerated West, Your victim’s mighty dust. Hark ! how they burst your cramps and ring's — Ha, ha ! ye banded, baffled kings 1 Stout men ! delve on with axe and bar, Ye’re watched from yonder restless star : Hew the tough masonry away — Bid the tomb’s ponderous portals fly ! And firm your sounding lever’s sway, And loud your clanking hammers ply ; Nor falter though the work be slow, Ye something gain in every blow, While deep each heart in chorus sings, Ha, ha ! ye banded, baffled kings ! Brave men ! delve in with axe and bar, Ye’re watched from yonder glorious star. ’Tis morn — the marble floor is cleft, Aiid slight and short the labour left. ’Tis noon — they wind the windlass now To heave the granite from his brow : Back to each gazer’s waiting heart The life-blood leaps with anxious start — Down Bertrand’s cheek the tear-drop steals — Low in the dust Las Cases kneels; “ Hear, hear Prometheus from his rock appeal To air, earth, ocean, all who felt or feet” The Age of Bronze z II. 354 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. (Oh 1 tried and trusted — still, as long As the true heart’s fidelity Shall form the theme of harp and song, High Bards shall sing of ye !) One moment, — and thy beams, O sun I The bier of him shall look upon, Who, save the Heaven-expell’d alone Dared envy thee thy blazing throne ; Who haply oft, with gaze intent, And sick from victory’s vulgar war Panted to sweep the firmament, And dash thee from thy car, And cursed the clay that still confined His narrow conquests to mankind. ’Tis done — his chiefs are lifting now The shroud from that tremendous brow, That with the lightning’s rapid might Illumed Marengo’s awful night — Flash’d over Lodi’s murderous bridge, Swept Prussia from red Jena’s ridge, And broke once more the Austrian sword By Wagram’s memorable ford. And may Man’s puny race that shook Before the terrors of that look, Approach unshrinking now, and see How far corruption’s mastery Has tamed the tyrant tamer ! Raise That silken cloud, wdiat meets the gaze ? The scanty dust or whitening bones, Or fleshless jaws’ horrific mirth, Of him whose threshold rose on thrones, A mockery now to earth ? No — even as though his haughty clay Scoff’d at the contact of decay, And from his mind’s immortal flame Itself immortalised became, Tranquilly there Napoleon lies reveal’d Like a king sleeping on his own proud shield, Harness’d for conflict, and that eagle-star Whose fire-eyed Legion foremost waked the war. Still on his bosom, tarnish’d too and dim, As if hot battle’s cloud had lately circled him. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 365 Fast fades the vision — from that glen Wind slow those aching-hearted men, While every mountain echo floats, Fill’d with the bugle’s regal notes — And now the gun’s redoubled roar Fills the lone peak and mighty main, Beneath his glorious Tricolor Napoleon rests again 1 And France’s galley soon the sail Shall spread triumphant to the gale ; Till, lost upon the lingering eye, It melts and mingles in the sky. Let Paris, too, prepare a show, And deck her streets in gaudy woe ; And rear a more than kingly shrine, Whose taper’s blaze shall ne’er be dim, And bid the sculptor’s art divine Be lavish’d there for Him. And let him take his rest serene, (Even so he will’d it) by the Seine ; But ever to the poet’s heart, Or pilgrim musing o’er those pages (Replete with marvels) that impart His story unto Ages ; The spacious azure of yon sea Alone his minster floor shall be, Coped by the stars — red evening’s smile His epitaph ; and thou, rude Isle, Austerely-brow’d and thunder-rent Napoleon’s only monument ! IRISH CASTLES. “ Sweet Norah, come here, and look into the fire ; Maybe in its embers good luck we might see ; But don’t come too near, or your glances so shining, Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree ! 4 Just look ’twixt the sods, where so brightly they’re burning, There’s a sweet little valley, with rivers and trees,— 35Q MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. And a house on the bank, quite as big as the squire’s — Who knows but some day, we’ll have something like these ? " And now there’s a coach, and four galloping horses, A coachman to drive, and a footman behind ; That betokens some day we will keep a fine carriage, And dash through the streets with the speed of the wind.” As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the chimney, Soon quenched the turf-fire on the hollowed hearth-stone : While mansion and carriage, in smoke-wreaths evanished, And left the poor dreamers dejected and lone. Then Norali to Dermot, these words softly whisper’d, — “ ’Tis better to strive , than to vainly desire ; And our little hut by the roadside is better Than palace, and servants, and coach — in the fire I ” ’Tis years since poor Dermot his fortune was dreaming — Since Norah’s sweet counsel effected its cure ; For, ever since then hath he toiled night and morning, And now his snug mansion looks down on the Suir. THE SALLY FROM SALERNO. BY G. H. SUPPLE. The salty from Salerno was not property an event of the Crusades. Its date was IC16, while the first Crusade was not until 1096. Its connexion with those wars, however, the actors in it having been pilgrims returning from the Holy Land and their Saracen enemy, will, perhaps, justify it as a subject for a ballad under this title. The inducements to those wars were the Moslem’s op- pression of the Christian pilgrims, and the Moslem irruptions into Christendom, which made it necessary to bridle that power by a Christian kingdom in the East. The Princes of Salerno were of the Longobard race, which will account for Waimar’s Teutonic name and his daughter’s. Historians tell us he offered the Normans an honourable settlement in his country in gratitude for their heroism, which they declined, but promised to send some of their countrymen, who accordingly came and founded the Norman dynasties of South Italy.”] Christian Monk and Paynim Molla have the parchment clerkly scrolled, Fair Salerno’s safe from Saracen, for ransom weighed in gold. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 367 ' 1 God has sent us good King Waimar for a ruler mild and sage, T j protect his trembling people from the ruthless Moslem’s rage. Stranger guests, ho ! Norman pilgrims, what portends your strange array ; Why those shields, and casques, and corslets, as if bound for joust or fray ? Wherefore now, ye grim-browed strangers, spur your steeds with lance in rest ; Know ye not Salerno’s ransom’d at the Saracen’s behest?” “ Out upon ye, pallid cravens, ope your gates, ye hearts of hare, With our knightly swords and God’s good help, we’ll keep our honour fair.” Down they rode, those Norman pilgrims, on the Paynim straightly there. Careless seem they, lightly deem they those beleag’ring myriads bold, Of the band so scant that cometh, they must bear the promised gold. “ God is great, tho’ slave or maiden of the Giaour have we none, Well he wrought, Suleyman Aga, goodly ransom have we won. Featly ride those two-score riders, knights they seem, not slaves to kneel — Dogs of Nazareth, no gold they bear, but gleaming Norman steel.” Prayed a prayer each belted warrior, each a lady’s name did say, And the thunder-cloud burst, crashing thro’ the infidel array. Help, Mahomet! Damascus blades are dealing blows around in vain, Sternly plies each Christian’s labour, till their dripping sabres rain From a thousand cloven Paynim bloody ransom on the plain. ’Tis sweet evening; fading sunset sheds a gorgeous radiance down On that beauteous bay and bloody strand, and fair Salerno’s town. Thro’ Prince Waimar’s palace gardens and tall groves the sun beams rolled, Thro’ his windows rare, and chambers fair, and carvings quaint and old, Till they kissed his gentle daughter there, the dark-eyed Henegild, As so pensively she gazed abroad, her eyes with sadness filled ; Till they lit a gallant’s youthful face, who sat that maid beside, Lit his curling locks, his open brow, and beardless lip of pride— Sir Asclittin, bold Asclittin, he whose foremost lance and shield Broke to-day the Moslem leaguer and the heart of Henegild — Sir Asclittin. bold Asclittin, peerless he in bower and field. 358 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. follow too. The bending Hermit here a pray’r begun. “ Lord l as in heaven , on earth thy will he done:* Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, And pass’d a life of piety and peace.* THE SISTER OF CHARITY. BY JOHN FISHER MURRAY. Ncrc is that home I knew thee once adorning. That happy home where thou wert joy and light; Not in the promise of thy life’s gay morning, When thou wert as a vision of delight — Ere thou to an eternal love didst give, The vows earth was not worthy to receive ; Did a diviner lustre light thy brow, Or live within those gentle eyes — than now. Not in that hour, when lofty anthems pealing, A farewell to our hopes, and to thy fears, Weeping, we found thee at the altar kneeling, Beautiful seen amid fast-falling tears. • The fable of this elegant, but surely immorai, poem is not the invention of Dr. Parnell, who had it, in all probability, from More’s Dialogues. It is a production of the darker ages, and makes the eightieth chapter of the Gesta Itomanorum. 378 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Wert thou less lovely, putting far away All of the world thou hadst, its trappings gay ; And in their stead, Religion’s robe didst don, Over the lowlier heart, the lowly garb put on. The spring of life, the purple bloom of youth, The light of heavenly beauty lent to earth , The young heart’s joy, the tenderness, the truth — Days of delight and innocent household mirth. Friends, parents, home, thy hope of motherhood, All that the world holds dear, deserved, and good ; All that is loved at home, admired abroad, These thou didst not bequeath, but gaveat to thy God. The opening bud of life that early blew For our delight, doth presently expand, In a serener Heaven, and balmier dew, Too soon plucked from us by an angel hand ; Nor all withdrawn. No more for earth to live, Heaven takes not yet the life that thou dost give, Spares thee to charity, and us beneath — Too good for life — too beautiful for death. Forgive our tears ! Since not for thee they flow, For our own loss our eyes the tear disdains ; Worldlings, we miss thee to the world below. Grudging the loss that our Creator gains. For we would have thee many chequered years, Joy with our joys, and sorrow with our tears; Wanderers in sin, we weep thy happy rest, And mourners of the world, mourn thee blest. Handmaid of God 1 The early morn beholds Thee, with delight, thy Master’s work begin ; When from her ebon gate night slow unfolds Her sable pall, thou hastenest to win. To Him whose Cross shall bear the bale, and blame Some suffering child of sorrow and of shame ; The word in season, then, the friend in need — And thou dost raise the fallen, and bind the broken reed. Vice shrinks into itself when thou art by, And fallen virtue weeps her lost estate ; MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 379 Fallen virtue to thy bosom drawing nigh, Thou with kind words dost oft commiserate, And waterest with thy tears right plenteously, If haply these same seeds of grace may lie, That in due season heavenward may grow, And mercy, for thy sake, th’ Almighty Master shew. The widow is thy mother, and the child Motherless, thy dear daughter, and thou art, Of many a desolate man, the sister mild, Stricken in holes and corners by death’s dart. The children of the poor around thee stand, Gaze in thy ever-loving eyes, and kiss thy saving hand ; But Christ’s alone peculiarly thou art — His are thy life, thy prayers — He all thy heart. Thou the uncultured garden of the soul, When baleful weeds infest the immortal flower, With soft persuasion, with serene control, Dost timely tend, ere the untimely hour. The amaranthine flower, mortals share With angels’ virtue well rewards thy care, This thou redeemest from the grovelling clod, And bindest to the temple of thy God. Daughter of Heaven ' though never more to raise Thy gentle eyes to mine ; nor may I hear Thy soft, sweet accents, nor the heartfelt praise Of all thy goodness charm my listening ear. Thy presence is a blessing. Let me see Thee in my path, that I may better be ; Oh! for a life like thine. Go, gentle dove, While my heart follows thee on wings of love. SIR CAHIR ODOHERTY’S MESSAGE* BY T. D. M { GEE. Shall the children of Ulster despair ? Shall Aileach but echo to groans ? Shall the line of Conn tamely repair To the charnel, and leave it their bones? 380 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. Sleeps the soul of O’Neill in Tyrone '< Glance no axes around by Lough Erne ? Has Clan Rannall the heart of a stone ? Does O’Boyle hide his head in the fern ? Go, tell them O’ Doherty waits, — Waits harnessed and mounted and all, That his pike-staves are made of his gates — That his bed’s by the white waterfall ! Say, he turneth his back on the sea, Though the sail flaps to bear him afar 1 Say, he never will falter or flee, While ten men are found willing for war 1 Bid them mark his death-day in their books, And hide for the future the tale ; But insult not his corpse with cold looks, Nor remember him over then* ale. — If they come not in arms and in rage, Let them stay, he can battle alone, For, one flag, in this fetter-worn age Is still flying in free Innishowen I If the children of Chieftains you see, Oh, pause and repeat to them, then, That Cahir who lives by the sea, Bids them think of him, when they are men \ Bids them watch for new Chiefs to arise, And be ready to come at their call — Bids them mourn not for him if he dies, But like him live to conquer or fall 1 FATHER MATHEW. TO A PAINTER ABOUT TO COMMENCE A PICTURE ILLUSTRATING THE LABOURS OF FATHER MATHEW. Seize thy pencil, child of art ! Fame and fortune brighten o’er thee ; Great thy hand and great thy heart, H well thou dost the work before thee 1 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 381 *Tis not thine to round the shield, Or point the sabre, black or gory ; *Tis not thine to spread the field, Where crime is crown’d — where guilt is glory Child of art 1 to thee be given To paint, in colours all unclouded, Breakings of a radiant heaven O’er an isle in darkness shrouded I But, to paint them true and well, Every ray we see them shedding In its very light must tell What a gloom before was spreading Canst thou picture dried-up tears — Eyes that wept no longer weeping — Faithful woman’s wrongs and fears, Lonely, nightly vigils keeping — Listening ev’ry footfall nigh — Hoping him she loves returning ? Canst thou, then, depict her joy, That we may know the change from mourning? Paint in colours strong, but mild, Our Isle’s Redeemer and Director — Canst thou paint the man a child , Yet shadow forth the mighty victor? Let his path a rainbow span, Every hue and colour blending — Beaming “ peace and love” to man, And alike o’er all extending! Canst thou paint a land made free — From its sleep of bondage woken — Yet, withal, that we may see What ’twas before the chain was broken ! Seize thy pencil, child of art 1 Fame and fortune brighten o’er thee \ Great thy hand, and great thy heart, If well thou dost the work before thee ! 382 MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. MARY STUART’S LAST PRAYER. BY THE HON. G. S. SMYTHE> A lonely mourner kneels in prayer before the Virgin’s fane, With white hands crossed for Jesu’s sake, so her prayer may not be vain. Wan is her cheek, and very pale, — her voice is low and faint, — And tears are in her eyes, the while she makes her humble plaint. 0 little could you deem, from her, her sad and lowly mien, That she was once the Bride of France, and still was Scotland’s Queen 1 O, Mary Mother ! — Mary Mother ! — be my help and stay ! Be with me still, as thou hast been, and strengthen me to-day 1 For many a time, with heavy heart, all weary of its grief, 1 solace sought, in thy blest thought, and ever found relief : For thou, too, wert a Queen on earth, — and men were harsh to thee ! — And cruel things and rude, they said, — as they have said of me ! O, Gentlemen of Scotland ! 0, Cavaliers of France ! How each and all had grasped his sword, and seized his angry lance, If Ladye love, or Sister dear, or nearer dearer Bride, Had been, like me, your friendless Liege, insulted and belied 1— But these are sinful thoughts and sad, — I should not mind me now, Of faith forsworn, or broken pledge, or false or fruitless vow ! But rather pray — sweet Mary — my sins may be forgiven ! — And less severe than on the earth, my Judges prove in heaven. For stern and solemn men have said, — God’s vengeance will be shown, — And fearful will the penance be,— on the sins which I have done 1 And yet, albeit my sins be great — Oh Mary, Mary dear ! — Nor to Knox, nor to false Moray, the Judge will then give ear ! ^fes ! it was wrong and thoughtless, when first I came from France, To lead courante, or minuet, or lighter, gayer dance. Fes — it was wrong and thoughtless, — to while whole hours aws.y In dark and gloomy Holyrood, with some Italian lay. MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. #83 Dark men would scowl their hate at me, and I have heard them tell, How the Just Lord God of Israel, had stricken Jezebel 1 But thou — dear Mary — Mary mine ! hast ever looked the same, With pleasant mien, and smile serene, on her who bore thy name; Oh, grant that, when anon I go to death ! I may not see Nor axe, nor block, nor hetman, — but Thee, find only Thee! Then, ’twill be told, in coming times, how Mary ga.ve hoi grace To die, as Stuart, Guise, should die — of Charlemagne’s fearless race. SOUL AND COUNTRY. BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. Arise 1 my slumbering soul, arise 1 And learn what yet remains for thee To dree or do ! The signs are flaming in the skies ; A struggling world would yet be free, And live anew. The earthquake hath not yet been born, That soon shall rock the lands around, Beneath their base. Immortal freedom’s thunder horn, As yet, yields but a doleful sound To Europe’s race. Look round, my soul, and see and say If those about thee understand Their mission here ; The will to smite — the power to slay — Abound in every heart — and hand Afar, anear. But, God I must yet the conqueror’s sword Pierce mind , as heart, in this proud year ? Oh, dream it not ! It sounds a false, blaspheming word, Begot and born of moral fear— And ill-begot ! MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 3W To leave the world a name is nought, To leave a name for glorious deeds And works of love — A name to waken lightning thought, And fire the soul of him who reads* This tells above. Napoleon sinks to-day before The unguilded shrine, the single soul Of Washington ; Truth’s name, alone, shall man adore, Long as the waves of time shall roll Henceforward on ! My countrymen ! my words are weak, My health is gone, my soul is dark, My heart is chill — Yet would I fain and fondly seek To aee you borne in freedom’s bark O’er ocean still. Beseech your God, and bide your hour — He cannot, will not, long be dumb * Even now his tread Is heard o’er earth with coming power r And coming, trust me, it will come, Else were he dead 1 fenskirir $alk&s. MARY, QUEEN OF MERCY 1 FROM THE GERMAN OF 8I3IROCK. BY J. C. MANGAN. There lived a Knight long years ago, Proud, carnal, vain, devotionless. Of God above, or Hell below, He took no thought, but, undismayed, Pursued his course of wickedness. His heart was rock ; he never prayed To be forgiven for all his treasons ; He only said, at certain seasons, “ 0, Mary, Queen of Mercy 1” Years rolled, and found him still the same. Still draining Pleasure’s poison-bowl ; Yet felt he now and then some shame ; The torment of the Undying Worm At whiles woke in his trembling soul ; And then, though powerless to reform, Would he, in hope to appease that sternest Avenger, cry, and more in earnest, “ O, Mary, Queen of Mercy 1” At last Youth’s riotous time was gone, And loathing now came after Sin. With locks yet brown he felt as one Grown grey at heart ; and oft, with ? B 12 . 886 TRANSLATED BALLADS. He tried, but all in vain, to wm From the dark desert of his years One dower of hope ; yet, morn and evening, He still cried, but with deeper meaning, “ 0 , Mary, Queen of Mercy 1 :f A happier mind, a holier mood, A purer spirit ruled him now : No more in thrall to flesh and blood, lie took a pilgrim-staff in hand, And, under a religious vow, Travailed his way to Pommerland ; There entered he an humble cloister, Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister, “ O, Mary, Queen of Mercy !” Here, shorn and cowled, he laid his cares Aside, and wrought for God alone. Albeit he sang no choral prayers, Nor matin hymn nor laud could learn, He mortified his flesh to stone ; For him no penance was too stern ; And often prayed he on his lonely Cell-couch at night, but still said only, “ 0 , Mary, Queen oi Mercy ! They buried him with mass and song Aneath a little knoll so green ; But, lo ! a wonder-sight ! — Ere long Rose, blooming, from that verdant mound, The fairest lily ever seen ; And, on its petal-edges round Relieving theL’ translucent whiteness, Did shine these words in gold-hued brightness, “ O, Mary, Queen of Mercy!” And, would God’s angels give thee power Thou, dearest reader, mightst behold The fibres of this holy flower Upspringing from the dead man’s heart In tremulous threads of light and gold ; Then wouldst thou choose the better part ! A_nd thenceforth flee Sin’s foul suggestions Thy sole response to mocking questions, “ O, Mary, Queen of Mercy 1” TRANSLATED BALLADE. 387 ADDRESS TO THE VANGUARD OF THE FRENCH, UNDER THE DUKE D’ALENCON, 1521. Ef Y KEY. FRANK MAHONY. Soldiers ! at length their gathered strength our might is doom’d to feel Spain and Brabant comilitant — Bavaria and Castile. Idiots 1 they think that France will shrink from a foe that rushes on And terror damp the gallant camp of the bold Duke d’Alencon 1 But wail and woe betide the foe that waits for our assault ! Back to his lair our pikes shall scare it*; wild boar of Hainault. La Meuse shall flood her banks with blood, ere the sons of France resign Their glorious fields — the land that yields the Olive and the Vine! Then draw the blade ! — be our ranks array’d to the sound of the martial fife ; In the foeman’s ear let the trumpeter blow a blast of deadly strife And let each knight collect his might as if there hung this day The fate of France on his single lance in the hour of the coming fray ! As melts the snow in sunshine’s glow, so may our helmets’ glare Consume their host ; so folly’s boast doth vanish in empty air. Fools, to believe the sword could give to the children of the Rhine Our Gallic fields — the land that yields the Olive and the Vine ! Can Germans face our Norman race in the conflict’s awful shock— Brave the war-cry of “ Brittany !” — the shout of “ Languedoc !” Dare they confront the battle’s brunt — the fell encounter try When dread Bayard leads on his guard of stout gendarmerie ? Strength be the test — then breast to breast, ay, grapple man with man; « Strength in the ranks — strength on both flanks — and valour in the van ; Let war efface each softer grace ; — on stern Bellona’s shrine We vow to shield the plains that yield the Olive and the Vine I Methinks I see bright Victory, in robe of Glory drest, Joyful appear on the French frontier to the 'diieftain she loves best ; 388 TRANSLATED BALLADS. While grim Defeat, in contrast meet, scowls o’er the foeman’s tent, She, on our Duke, smiles down with look of blithe encouragement. E’en now, I ween, our foes have seen their hopes of conquest fail; Glad to regain their homes again, and quaff their Saxon ale. So may it be while chivalry and loyal hearts combine A sword to wield, for the plains that yield the Olive and the Vine I THE TIME OF THE BARMECIDES. (FROM THE ARABIC.) BY J. C. MANGAN. My eyes are filmed, my beard is gray, I am bowed with the weight of years ; I would I were stretched in my bed of clay, With my long-lost youth’s compeers ! For back to the Past, though the thought brings wo^ My memory ever glides — To the old, old time, long, long ago, The time of the Barmecides ! To the old, old time, long, long ago, The time of the Barmecides. Then Youth was mine, and a fierce wild will. And an iron arm in war, And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar’s hill, When the watch-lights glimmered afar, And a barb as fiery as any I know That Khoord or Beddaween rides, Ere my friends lay low — long, long ago, In tne time of the Barmecides, Ere my friends lay low — long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides. One golden goblet illumed my board, One silver dish was there ; At hand my tried Karamanian sword Lay always bright and bare, For those were the days when the angry blow Supplanted the word that chide* — TRANSLATED BALLADS. S89 When hearts could glow — long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides, When hearts could glow — long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides. Through city and desert my mates and I Were free to rove and roam, Our diapered canopy the deep of the sky, Or the roof of the palace-dome — Oh ! ours was that vivid life to and fro Which only sloth derides : — Men spent Life so, long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides, Men spent Life so, long, long ago, In the time of the Barmecides. I see rich Bagdad once again, With its turrets of Moorish mould, And the Khalifs twice five hundred men Whose binishes flamed with gold ; I call up many a gorgeous ?Jhow Which the Pall of Oblivion hides — All passed like snow, long, long ago, With the time of the Barmecides ; All passed like snow, long, long ago, With the Time of the Barmecides 1 But mine eye is dim, and my beard is gray, And I bend with the weight of years — May I soon go down to the House of Clay Where slumber my Youth’s compeers ! For with them and the Past, though the thought wake* woa, My memory ever abides, And I mourn for the Times gone long ago, For the Times of the Barmecides ! I mourn for the Times gone long ago, For th* Timas of the Barmecides 1 390 TKAiN SLATED BALLADS. UNDINE. (FROM TUK DANISH.) BY SPERANZA (MRS. W. R. WILDB), Undine by the lonely shore In lonely grief is pacing, The vows her perjured lover swore No more with hope retracing. Yet none in beauty could compare With ocean’s bright-haired daughter, Her cheek is like the lotus fair, That lieth on the water. Her eye is like the azure sky, The azure deep reflecteth, Her smile, the glittering lights on high. The glittering wave collecteth, Her robe of green with many a gem, And pearl of ocean shineth, And round her brow a diadem Of rosy coral twineth. Like diamonds scattered here and there, The crystal drops are glistening, Amid her flowing golden hair, As thus she paceth listening — Listening through the silver light, The light that lover loveth, Listening through the dark midnight, But still no lover cometh. An earthly love her heart enthralls. She loves with earth’s emotion, For him she left her crystal halls, Beneath the crystal ocean. Abjured them since he placed that day The gold ring on her finger, Though still the sparkling diamond spray Around her robe would linger. TRANSLATED BALLADS. 391 And she hath gained a human soul, The soul of trusting woman ; But love hath only taught her dole, Through tears she knows the human. So from her sisters far apart, Her lonely path she taketh, With human sorrow in the heart, That human love forsaketh. She weaves a crown of dripping reeds, On which the moon shines ghastly, “ A wedding crown my lover needs, My pale hands weave it fastly.” She treads a strange and solemn dance, The waves around her groaning, And mingles with prophetic sense, Her singing with their moaning. “ My bridegroom ! nought can save thee now Since plighted troth is broken, The fatal crown awaits thy brow, The fatal spell is spoken. Thou’rt standing by another bride, Before the holy altar — A shadowy form at thy side, Will make thy strong heart falter. u To her within the holy church, Thy perjured vows art giving, But never shalt thou cross the porch Again amidst the living. I wait thee ’neath the chill cold waves, While marriage bells are tolling, Our bridal chant ’neath ocean’s caves, Be ocean’s billows rolling.” The bridegroom in his pride of youth, Beside the fair bride standeth — u Now take her hand to plight thy troth,* The solemn priest commandeth. But lo ! a shadowy form is seen Betwixt the briclal greeting, A shadowy hand is placed between, To hinder theirs from meeting. 862 TRANSLATED BALLADS. The priest is mute, the bridegroom pale, He knows the sea-nymph’s warning — The fair bride trembles ’neath her veil, The bridal’s turned to mourning. No more within the holy church, Love’s holy vows are giving, They bear the bridegroom from the porch, The dead amidst the living 1 THE KARAMANIAN EXILE. (FROM THE OTTOMAN.) BY J. C. MANGAN. I see thee ever in my dreams Karaman ! Thy hundred hills, thy thousand stream#*, Karaman ! 0, Karaman ! As when thy gold-bright morning gleams, As when the deepening sunset seams With lines of light thy hills and streams Karaman ! So thou loomest on my dreams, Karaman ! O, Karaman ! The hot bright plains, the sun, the skies, Karaman ! Seem death-black marble to mine eyes, Karaman ! 0, Karaman ! 1 turn from summer’s blooms and dyes ; Yet in my dreams thou dost arise In welcome glory to my eyes, Karaman I In thee my life of life yet lies, Karaman ! Thou still art holy in mine eyes, Karaman ! O, Karaman i Ere my fighting years were coma, Karaman ! Troops were few in Erzerome, Karaman ! O, Karaman f TRANSLATED BALLADS. 393 Their fiercest came from Erzerome, They came from Uklibar’s palace dome, They dragged me forth from thee, my home. Karaman 1 Thee, my own, my mountain home, Karaman ! In life and death, my spirit’s home, Karaman ! O, Karaman Oh, none of all my sisters ten, Karaman 1 Loved like me my fellow-men, Karaman I O, Karaman I was mild as milk till then, I was soft as silk till then, Now my breast is as a den, Karaman ! Foul with blood and bones of men, Karaman 1 With blood and bones of slaughtered men. Karaman ! 0, Karaman 1 My boyhood’s feelings newly born, Karaman ! Withered like young flowers uptom, Karaman 1 O, Karaman ! And in their stead sprang weed and thorn. What once I loved now moves my scorn ; My burning eyes are dried to horn, Karaman 1 I hate the blessed light of morn, Karaman ! It maddens me the face of morn, Karaman ! O, Karaman l The Spahi wears a tyrant’s chains, Karaman 1 But bondage worse than this remains, Karaman ! O, Karaman His heart is black with million stains : Thereon, as on Kaf’s blasted plains, Shall never more fall dews and rains, Karaman I 394 TRANSLATED BALLADS. Save poison-dews and bloody rains. Karaman ! Hell’s poison -dews and bloody rains, Karaman I O, Karaman i But life at worst must end ere long, Karaman ! Azreel* avengeth every wrong, Karaman ! O, Karaman ! Of late my thoughts rove more among Thy fields ; o’ershadowing fancies throng My mind, and texts of bodeful song, Kalman 1 Azreel is terrible and strong, Karaman ! His lightning sword smites all ere long, Karaman I O, Karaman 1 There’s care to-night in Ukhbar’s halls, Karaman ! There’s hope, too, for his trodden thralla Karaman ! 0, Karaman ! What lights flash red along yon walls ? Hark I hark ! — the muster-trumpet calls ! — I see the sheen of spears and shawls, Karaman ! The foe ! the foe 1 — they scale the walls, Karaman ! To-night MurM or Ukhbar falls, Karaman I O. Karaman t THE BEATEN BEGGARMAN. (FROM THE GREEK.) BY DR WILLIAM MAGINN. There came the public beggarman, who all throughout the town Of Ithaca, upon his quest for alms, begged up and down ; Huge was his stomach, without cease for meat and drink craved he; No strength, no foroe his body had, tho’ vast it was to see. The anjjel of death. TRANSLATED BALLADS. 395 He got as name from parent dame, Arnams, a* his birth, But Irus was the nickname given bv gallants in tneir mirth ; For he, where’er they chose to sencf, their speedy errands bore. And now he thought to drive away Odysseus from his door. 4< Depart, old man! and quit the porch,” he cried, with insult coarse, il Else quickly by the foot thou shalt be dragged away by force : Dost thou not see, how here on me, their eyes are turned by all, In sign to bid me stay no more, but drag me from the hall ? ’Tis only shame that holds me back ; so get thee up and go ! Or ready stand with hostile hand to combat blow for blow.” Odysseus said, as stern he looked, with angry glance, “ My friend Nothing of wrong in deed or tongue do I to thee intend. I grudge not whatsoe’er is given, how great may be the dole The threshold is full large for both ; be not of envious souL It seems ’tis thine, as well as mine, a wanderer’s life to live, And to the gods alone belongs a store of wealth to give. But do not dare me to the blow, nor rouse my angry mood Old as I am, thy breast and lips might stain my hands with blood To-morrow free I then from thee the day in peace would spend. For never more to gain these walls thy beaten limbs would bend.” “ Heavens ! how this glutton glibly talks,” the vagrant Irus cried ; u Just as an old wife loves to prate, smoked at the chimney side. If I should smite him, from his mouth the shattered teeth were torn, As from the jaws of plundering swine, caught rooting up the corn. Come, gird thee for the fight, that they our contest may behold, If thou’lt expose to younger arms thy body frail and old.” So in debate engaged they sate upon the threshold stone, Before the palace’ lofty gate wrangling in angry tone. Antinous marked, and with a laugh the suitors he addressed “ Never, I ween, our gates have seen so gay cause of jest ; Some god, intent on sport, has sent this stranger to our hall, And he and Irus mean to fight : so set we on the brawl.” Gay laughed the guests and straight arose, on frolic errand bound About the ragged beggarman a ring they made around. Antinous cries, “ A fitting prize for the combat I require, Paunches of goat you see are here now lying on the fire ; 396 TRANSLATED BALLADS. 14 This dainty food all full of blood, and fat of savoury taste, Intended for our evening’s meal there to be cooked we placed. Which ever of these champions bold may chance to win the day, Be he allowed which paunch he will to choose and bear away, And he shall at our board henceforth partake our genial cheer, No other beggarman allowed the table to come near.” They all agreed, and then upspoke the chief of many a wile : “ Hard is it when ye match with youth age overrun with toil ; The belly, counsellor of ill, constrains me now to go, Sure to be beaten in the light with many a heavy blow. “ But plight your troth with solemn oath, that none 'will raise hia hand My foe to help with aid unfair, while I before him stand.” They took the covenant it had pleased Odysseus to propose ; And his word to plight the sacred might of Telemachus arose. “ If,” he exclaimed, “ thy spirit bold, and thy courageous heart Should urge thee from the palace gate to force this man to part, Thou needst not fear that any here will strike a fraudful blow ; Who thus would dare his hand to rear must fight with many a foe. Upon me falls within these halls the stranger’s help to be ; Antinous and Eurymachus, both wise, will join with me.” All gave assent, and round his loins his rags Odysseus tied : Then was displayed each shoulder-blade of ample form and wide His shapely thighs of massive size were all to sight confessed, So were his arms of muscle strong, so was his brawny breast ; Athene close at hand each limb to nobler stature swelled ; In much amaze did the suitors gaze, when they his form beheld. “Iras un-Irused now,” they said, “will catch his sought-for woe; Judge by the hip3 which from his rags this old man stripped can shew.” And Irus trembled in his soul ; but soon the servants came, Girt him by force, and to the fight dragged on his quivering frame. There as he shook in every limb, Antinous spoke in scorn : “ Twere better, bullying Doaster, far, that thou hadst ne’er been bom, If thus thou quake and trembling shake, o’ercome with coward fear, Of meeting with this aged man worn down with toil sevem. TRANSLATED BALLADS. 397 " I warn thee thus, and shall perform full surely what I say, If conqueror in the fight, his arm shall chance to win the day, Epirus-ward thou hence shalt sail, in sable bark consigned To charge of Echetus the king, terror of all mankind. M He’ll soon deface all manly trace with unrelenting steel, And make thy sliced-off nose and ears for hungry dogs a meal.” He spoke, and with those threatening words filled Irus with fresh dread ; And trembling more in every limb, he to the midst was led. Both raised their hands, and then a doubt passed thro’ Odysseus brain m Should he strike him so, that a single blow would lay him with the slain, Or stretch him with a gentler touch prostrate upon the ground ; On pondering well this latter course the wiser one he found. For if his strength was fully shewn, he knew that all men’s eyes The powerful hero would detect, despite his mean disguise. Irus the king’s right shoulder hit, then he with smashing stroke Returned a blow beneath the ear, and every bone was broke. Burst from his mouth the gushing blood; down to the dust ha dashed, With bellowing howl, and in the fall his teeth to pieces crashed. There lay he, kicking on the earth ; meanwhile the suitors proud, Lifting their hands as fit to die, shouted in laughter loud. Odysseus seized him by the foot, and dragged him thro’ the hall, To porch and gate, and left him laid against the boundary wall. He placed a wand within his hand, and said, “The task is thine, There seated with this staff to drive away the dogs and swine ; But on the stranger and the poor never again presume To act as lord, else, villain base, thine may be heavier doom.” So saying, o’er his back he flung his c *oak to tatters rent, Then bound it with a twisted rope, and back to his seat he went. Back to the threshold, while within uprose the laughter gay. And with kind words was hailed the man who conquered in the fray. “ May Zeus and all the other gods, 0 stranger I grant thee still Whate’er to thee most choice mav be, whatever suits thy will. 398 TRANSLATED BALLADS. Thy hand has checked the beggar bold, ne’er to return again To Ithaca, for straight shall lie be sped across the main, Epirus-ward, to Echetus, the teTror of all mankind,” So spoke they, and the king received the omen, glad of mind* THE WHITE LADY. (from the german of freiligrath.) BY J. C. MANGAN. * Once more the Phantom Countess, attired in white appears, With mourning and with wailing, with tremors and with tears, Once more appears a-gliding forth from pictures and from walls, In Prussia’s gorgeous palaces and old baronial halls — And the guards that pace the ramparts and the terrace-walks by night, Are stricken with a speechlessness and swooning at the sight. 0 pray for Lady Agnes ! Pray for the soul of Lady Agnes ! What bodes this resurrection upon our illumined stage ? Comes she perchance to warn and wake a ghostless, godless age ? Announces she the death of Kings and Kaisers as of yore — A funeral and a crowning — a pageant, and no more ? I know not — but men whisper thro’ the land, from south to north, That a deeper grief, a wider woe, to-day has called her forth. O pray for Lady Agnes ! Pray for the hapless Lady Agnes 1 She nightly weeps — they say so !— o’er the beds of young and old, O’er the infant’s crimson cradle — o’er the couch of silk and gold. For hours she stands, with clasped hands, lamenting by the side Of the sleeping Prince and Princess — of the Landgrave and his bride ; And at whiles along the corridors is heard her thrilling cry— Awake, awake, my kindred ! — the Time of Times is nigh!” 0 pray for Lady Agnes ! Pray for the suffering Lady Agnes 1 u Awake, awake, my kindred I O saw ye what 1 see, Sleep never more would seal your eyes this side eternity 1 TRANSLATED BALLADS. 899 Thro’ the hundred-vaulted cavern-crypts where I and mine abide, Boom the thunders of the rising storm, the surgings of the tide — You note them not : you blindly face the hosts of Hate and Fatel Alas 1 your eyes will open soon — too soon, yet all too late!” O pray for Lady Agnes ! Pray for the soul of Lady Agnes ! u Oh, God ! Oh, God ! the coming hour arouses even the Dead Yet the Living thus can slumber on, like things of stone or lead The dry bones rattle in their shrouds, but you, you make no sign ! I dare not hope to pierce your souls by those -weak words of mine, Else would I warn from night to morn, else cry, ‘ O Kings, be just ! Be just, be bold! Loose where you may : bind only where you must!”’ 0 pray for Lady Agnes ! Pray for the wretched Lady Agnes ! “I, sinful one, in Orlamund I slew my children fair: Thence evermore, till time be o’er, my dole and my despair, Of that one crime in olden time was born my endless woe ; For that one crime I wander now in darkness to and fro. Think ye of me, and what I dree, you whom no law controls, Who slay your people’s holiest hopes, their liberties, their souls ! ” O pray for Lady Agnes ! Pray for the hapless Lady Agnes ! w Enough ! I must not say Good night, or bid the doomed fare- well I Down to mine own dark home I go — my Hades’ dungeon-cell. Above my head lie brightly spread the flowers that Summer giveu Free waters flow, fresh breezes blow, all nature laughs and lives ; But where you tread the flowers drop dead, the grass grows pale and sere, And round you floats in clotted waves Hell’s lurid atmosphere ! ” O pray for Lady Agnes ! Pray for the wandering Lady Agnes l She lifts on high her pallid arms — she rises from the floor, Turns round and round without a sound, then passes through tb* door. But through the open trellices the warden often sees Her moon -pale drapery floating down the long dim galleries 400 TRANSLATED BALLADS. And the guards that pace the ramparts and the terrace-walks by night Are stricken with a speechlessness and swooning at the sight, 0 pray for Lady Agnes ! And myriads more with Lady Agnes I THE SONG OF TI1F COSSACK. (FROM THE FRENCH OF BER ANGER.) BY REV. F. MAHONY. Come, arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and bear thy rider on ! The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow, of the dweller on M the Don.” Pillage and death have spread their wings ! — ’tis the hour to hie thee forth, And with thy hoofs an echo make to the trumpets of the North ! Nor guns, nor gold, do men behold upon thy saddle-tree ; But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy master and for thee ; Then fiercely neigh, my charger grey ! — oh, thy chest is proud and ample ; And thy hoofs shall prance o’er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample. Europe is weak — she hath grown old ; her bulwarks are laid low; She is loath to hear the blast of war — she shrinketh from a foe ! Come, in our turn, let us sojourn, in her goodly haunts of joy — In the pillar’d porch to wave the torch, and her palaces destroy l Proud as when first thou slak’dst thy thirst in the flow of cor quer’d Seine, Aye, shalt thou lave, within that wave, thy blood-red flanks again. Then fiercely neigh, my gallant grey ! — oh, thy chest is strong and ample ; And thy hoofs shall prance o’er the fields of France, and, the pride of her heroes trample. Kings are beleaguer’d on their thrones by their own vassal crew And in their den quake noblemen, and priests are bearded too ; And loud they yelp for the Cossacks’ help to keep their bonds- men down, * And they think it meet, while they kiss our feet, to wear a tyrant’s crown ! TRANSLATED BALLADS. 401 The sceptre now to my lance shall bow, and the crozier and the cross, All shall bend alike, when I lift my pike, and aloft that Sceptre toss 1 Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey ! — oh, thy chest is broad and ample ; And thy hoofs shall prance o’er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample 1 In a night of storm I have seen a form ! — and the figure was a GIANT, And his eye was bent on the Cossack’s tent, and his look was all defiant ; "Kingly his crest — and towards the West with his battle-axe he pointed, And the “form” I saw was Attila ! of this earth the scourge anointed. From the Cossacks’ camp let the horseman’s tramp the coming crash announce ; Let the vulture whet his beak sharp-set, on the carrion field to pounce ! — Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey ! — oh, thy chest is broad and ample ; And thy hoofs shall prance o’er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample ! What boots old Europe’s boasted fame, on which she builds reliance, When the North shall launch its avalanche on her works of art and science ? Hath she not wept her cities swept by our hordes of trampling stallions ? And tower and arch crush’d in the march of our barbarous batta* lions ? Can we not wield our fathers’ shield ? the same war-hatchet handled Do our blades want length, or the reapers’ strength, for the har- vest of the Vandal? Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey ! — oh, thy chest is strong and ample ; And thy hoofs shall prance o’er the fields of France, and th^ pride of her heroes trample ! 2 c IL 402 TRANSLATED BALLADS. THE WAIL AND WARNING OF THE THREE KHALENDEERS. (from thb ottoman.) BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. La’ laha, il Allah!* Here we meet, we three, at length, Am rah, Osman, Perizad : Shorn of all our grace and strength, Poor, and old, and very sad ! We have lived, but live no more; Life has lost its gloss for us, Since the days we spent of yore Boating down the Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah ! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! Old Time brought home no loss for u^. We felt full of health and heart Upon the foamy Bosphorus ! La’ laha, il Allah ! Days indeed ! A shepherd’s tent Served us then for house and fold ; All to whom we gave or lent, Paid us back a thousand fold. Troublous years by myriads wailed, Rarely had a cross for us, Never when we gaily sailed, Singing down the Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah ! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! There never came a cross for us, While we daily, gaily sailed, Adown the meadowy Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah ! Blithe as birds we flew along, Laughed and quaffed and stared about ; Wine and roses, mirth and song, Were what most we cared about. * God alone is all -merciful 1 TRANSLATED BALLADS. # 403 Fame we left for quacks to seek, Gold was dust and dross for us, While we lived from week to week, Boating down the Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah ! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! And* gold was dust and dross for us, While we lived from week to week, Aboating down the Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah ! Friends we were, and would have shared Purses, had we twenty full. If we spent, or if we spared, Still our funds were plentiful. Save the hours we past apart Time brought home no loss for us ; We felt full of hope and heart While we clove the Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah 1 The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus i For life has lost its gloss for us, Since the days we spent of yor© Upon the pleasant Bosphorus 1 La’ laha, il Allah ! Ah ! for youth’s delirious hours Man pays well in after days, When quench’d hopes and palsied powors Mock his love-and-laughter days. Thorns and thistles on our path Took the place of moss for us, Till false fortune’s tempest wrath Drove us from the Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah ! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus 1 When thorns took place of moss for u&. Gone was all ! Our hearts were graves Deep, deeper than the Bosphorus ! La’ laha, il Allah ! Gone is all 1 In one abyss Lie Health, Youth, and Merriment 1 Ail we’ve learned amounts to this — TJfe'* c sad experiment. 404 . TRANSLATED BALLADS. What it is we trebly feel Pondering what it was for us, When our shallop’s bounding keel Clove the joyous Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah ! The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! We wail for what life was for us * When our shallop’s bounding keel Clove the joyous Bosphorus 1 THE WARNING. La’ laha, il Allah, Pleasure tempts, yet man has none Save himself t’ accuse, if her Temptings prove, when all is done, Lures hung out by Lucifer. Guard your Are in youth, 0 Friends 1 Manhood’s is but Phosphorus, And bad luck attends and ends Boatings down the Bosphorus. La’ laha, il Allah 1 The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! Youth’s fire soon w^anes to Phosphorus. And slight luck or grace attends Your boaters down the Bosphorus I THE WAIWODE. (FROM THE RUSSIAN OF PUSCHKXN.) BY MRS. W. R. WILDE. Secretly by night returning, Jealous fears within him burning, The Waiwode seeks his young wife’s bed, And with trembling hand, uncertain — Backward draws the silken curtain — Death and vengeance — she has fled I With a frown like tempest weather. Fierce he knits his brows together, Tears his beard in wrathful mood — TRANSLATED BALLADS. 405 Roars in thunder through the castle Summoning each trembling vassal, “ Ho there I slaves — ye devil’s brood Who left the castle gate unguarded ? The hound is slain — some hand unbarr’d it, Quick ! prepare ye sack and cord ; My arms here, fellows — loaded, ready, Now slave, your pistols, follow — steady — Ha, traitress 1 thou shalt feel this sword t% Close in the murky shadows hiding, Slave and master onward gliding, Reach the garden. There indeed, Listening to the soft appealing Of a youth before her kneeling, Stands she in her white NaridcL Thro’ the marble fountain’s playing, Passion’s words they hear him saying — “ How I love thee ! yet thou’st sold All thy beauty’s glowing treasures, All this soft hand’s tender pressures For the Waiwode’s cursed gold. How I loved, as none can love thee, Waited, wept — if tears could move thee— Ah ! and is it thus we meet ? He ne’er strove thro’ tears and troubles, Only changed his silver roubles And — thou fellest at his feet. Yet once more thro’ night and storm, I ride to gaze upon thy form, Touch again that thrilling hand ; Pray that peace may rest upon thee In the home that now has won thee, Then for ever fly this land.” Low she bendeth o’er him weeping, Heeds not stealthy footsteps creeping, Sees not jealous eye-balls glare. “ Now, slave, steady. Fool, thou tremblest, V engeance if thy heart dissemblest — Kill her as she stardeth there.” 406 TUAN SLATED BALLADS* tl Oh, my lord and master, hear me — - Patience yet, or much I fear me I shall never aim aright. See, the bitter night wind’s blowing Numbs my hand, and brings these flowing Icy tears to dim my sight.” “ Silence ! thou accursed Russian, Hold— I’ll guide the pistol’s motion ; Seest thou not her gleaming brow ? So — steady, straight before thee— highei, When I give the signal, fire — Darker doom awaits him — Now !” A shot, a groan, and all is over — Still she standeth by her lover, ’Tis the Waiwode falleth dead ! Was ever known such sad disaster ? The bungling slave hath shot his master Straight and steady thro’ the head. THE MARINER’S BRIDE. (FROM THE SPANISH.) BY J. C. MANGAN. Look, mother ! the mariner’s rowing, His galley adown the jtide ; I’ll go where the mariner’s going, And be the mariner’s bride I i saw him one day through the wicket. I opened the gate and we met, As a bird in the fowler’s net, Was I caught in my own green thicket. Oh ! mother, my tears are flowing, I’ve lost my maidenly pride — I’ll go if the mariner’s going, And be the mariner’s bride * This Love, the tyrant evinces, Alas ! an omnipotent might. He darkens the mind like Night fie treads on the necks of Princes I TRANSLATED BALLADS. Oh ! mother, my bosom is glowing, I’ll go whatever betide, I’ll go where the mariner’s going, And be the mariner’s bride ! Yes, mother 1 the spoiler has reft me Of reason and self-control ; Gone, gone is my wretched soul, And only my body is left jne ! The winds, oh ! mother, are blowing, The ocean is bright and wide ; I’ll go where the mariner’s going, And be the mariner’s bride. THE POET’S PREACHING. (FR03I THE GERMAN OF SALIS SEfinVIS.) BY J. C. MANGAN, See how the day beameth brightly before us ! Blue is the firmament — green is the earth — Grief hath no voice in the universe-chorus — Nature is ringing with music and mirth. Lift up the looks that are sinking in sadness — Gaze 1 and if Beauty can capture thy soul, Virtue herself will allure thee to gladness — Gladness, Philosophy’s guerdon and goal. Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses — List ! how she thrills in the nightingale’s lay ! Breathe 1 she is wafting thee sweets from the rosea Feel ! she is cool in the rivulet’s play ; Taste 1 from the grape and the nectarine gushing Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun — Green in the hills, in the flower groves blushing, Look l she is always and everywhere one. Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are trickling Over the cheeks that should rosily bloom ; VVhy should a man, like a girl or a sickling, Suffer his lamp to be quenched in the tomb ? Still may we battle for Goodness and Beauty ; Still hath Philanthropy much to essay : TRANSLATED BALLADS. 4v)tf Glory rewards the fulfilment of Duty ; Rest will pavilion the end of our way. What, though corroding and multiplied sorrows, Legion-like, darken this planet of ours, Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows Ever when Anguish hath palsied its powers ; Wherefore, though Fate play the part of a traitor, Soar o’er the stars on the pinions of Hope, Fearlessly certain that sooner or later Over the stars thy desires shall have scope. Look round about on the face of Creation 1 Still is God’s Earth undistorted and bright , Comfort the captives to long tribulation, Thus shalt thou reap the more perfect delight. Love ! — but if Love be a hallowed emotion, Purity only its rapture should share ; Love, then, with willing and deathless emotion, All that is just and exalted and fail*. Act 1 — for in Action are Wisdom and Glory. Fame, Immortality — these are its crown : Wo uldst thou illumine the tablets of story; Build on achievements thy Dome of Renown. Honour and Feeling were given thee to cherish, Cherish them, then, though all else should decay Landmarks be these that are never to perish, Stars that will shine on thy duskiest day. Courage ! — Disaster and Peril once over, Freshen the spirit as showers the grove : O’er the dim graves that the cypresses cover Soon the Forget-me-not rises in love. Courage, then, friends 1 Though the universe crumble, Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath, Patient and trustful and joyous and humble, Smiles through the ruin on Darkness and Death. GENERAL INDEX Anonymous. Vol P The Old Castle, . • (Mary,) . L 6 My Own Sweet Lee, . • »» • • i. 10 The Parting, . . • »* • • i. 305 The Loyal Subject, • • w • • ii. 13 Connor the Fisherman, • • i) • • ii. 34 My Owen, . • « • • ii. 42 Talk by the Blackwater, . • » • • ii. 48 Welcome Home to you, n • • ii. 56 A Dream of other x ears, >» • • ii. 6G Conal and Eva, • • ii. 74 Vlorence, • • ii. 88 The Banshee, ii. 123 Glashen-Glora, i. 13 The Boatmen of Kerry, . (Heremon,) i. 15 Lough lna, i. 21 The Mountain Fern, <>1. of K.,) ! • • i. 25 The Battle of Knocktuagh, i. 87 Battle of Lough Swilly, • • i. 100 The Battle of Ardnocher, i. 106 Battle of Tyrrell’s Pass, » • • i. 133 The Red Hand for Ever, >1 • • i. 183 The Shannon, (Conaciensis,) i. 30 The Holy Well, . (Sulmalla,) i. 43 The Vision of King Brian, i. 78 Lament of Eileen O’Brin, (Miro,) i. 118 The Capture of Red Hugh O’Donnell, (Finola,) i. 140 The O’Neill, i. 142 Rory O’Moore, * • • i. 173 Battle of Benburb, i. 180 The Boyne Water, (Wilde’s “ Boyne,” < &c.) i. 196 The Treaty Stone of Limerick, (M.,) . i. 200 The Penal Times, (O’H.,) . i. 201 Dear Land, The Old Story, • • i. 279 ii. 4 4:10 INDEX. Vol Irish Emigrants, (Carroll Malone,)* i. Arthur M‘Coy, (Pontiac,)* i. Croppy Boy, (Carroll Malone,) i. The Orangeman’s Wife, . . i» i. The Coulin, . n • ii. The Volunteers, . (M. O’B.,) i. Emmett's Death, (S. F. C.,) i. The Celtic Tongue, i. Battle of the Diamond, • . . i. A Right Orange Ballad. . . i. The Memory of the Dead, (j. i.,) i. The Wearing of the Green, i. The Longing, (A. S. M.,) ! i. The Woods of Kylinoe, (LN. F.,)f i. The Wanderer, i. The Dawn of the Parting Day, (Thomasine,) J i. The Keen, i. Lament of the Irish Mother, (Tiny,) . i. The Olden Time. ii. The Peasant Girls, (Una,) . i. Lament of Morian Shehone, i. Love Dreams, • . • ii. I would that I were dead, (Eire,) . ii. My Own Love, . • ii. Una, , (D. F. B.,) : ii. The Peasant’s Bride, ii. The Claddagh Boatman, • ii. The Fairy Well, . ii. The Banshee’s Summons, • • • ii. M‘Carthy More and the Banshee, (O.,) ii. Earl Desmond and the Banshee, ii. The Enchanted Island, • . . ii. A Fairy Legend of Knock-Ma, . (MacDuach,) ii. The Dream of Eithne, . . ii. The Death of Leury, . . • • . ii. King Cormac’s Crown, . . • . , ii. Cathal the Hunter, . . (Mylo,) . ii. Shane Dymas’ Daughter, • . ii. Fineen Dhuv, . . • (St. Senanus,) ii. Sir Doinnal, . . * (Feardana,) ii. A Legend of Lough Erne, . • • • ii. A Legend of the Shannon, • (B. C.,) . ii. Day Dreams, • • • (R. D. W.?) ii. Molly Muldoon, . . . . ii. The Lover’s Complaint, . . . ii. • The writer of the Ballads nnder this signature, and that of “Pontiac," is a iPBumey, at present connected with the American press. f This Ballad was written by Mrs. Ellen Fitzsimmons, the daughter of the Daniel O’Connell X The writer of this I tall ad is Miss Olivia Knight, of Dublin. 1. P. 221 234 237 341 2 223 238 251 267 269 269 271 280 298 301 302 326 328 162 330 338 35 53 70 76 84 91 101 113 119 143 146 147 178 169 172 174 186 190 192 214 219 224 264 307 Mr. late ENDBX 4LI Irish Castles, . • The Irish Mother’s Dream, Father Mathew, Anster, Dr. John. The Fairy Child, • Banim, John. The Reconciliation, • Soggarth Aroon, • Ailleen, . • • Barry, M. J. The Wexford Massacre, • Beamish, Florence. Sleep on, . • Blacker, Colonel. Oliver’s Advice, . • The Battle of the Boyne, Brown, Francis. The Four Travellers, . The Returning Janissary, Callanan, J. J. Gougaune Barra, • Dirge of O’Sullivan Beare, The Convict of Clonmell, Virgin Mary’s Bank, Carlrton, William. Sir Turlough, or the Churchyard Bride, Charlotte, Elizabeth. The Maiden City, . _ . The Orangeman’s Submission, Clarke, J. B. Eman-ac-Knuck tc Era, * Vol. P ii. 355 ii. 3G9 ii. 380 ii. 161 i. 345 ii. 18 ii. 38 i. 188 ii. 77 L 190 i. 194 ii. 304 ii. 312 i. 8 L 103 i. 347 ii. 192 ii. 94 L 271 l 274 £L 29 Croker, Thomas Crofton. The Lord of Dunkerron, Cor mac and Mary, Croly, Rev. George. The Island of Atlantis, Leonidas, Davis, Thomas. The Fate of King Dathi, ii. 117 iL 156 n. 115 fl. 240 L 64 412 INDEX, The True Irish King, O’Brien of Arra, The Sack of Baltimore, Lament for Owen Roe O’Neill, The Penal Days, Battle of Fontenoy, Song of the Volunteers, • Tone’s Grave, . • The Burial, . • The Geraldines, • My Grave, • • Maire Bhan Astor, . The Boatman of Kinsale. Love’s Longings, • Oh ! The Marriage, • The Bride of Mallow, • The Girl of Dunbwy, . The Welcome, . • Davis, Francis. My Betrothed, . • Nanny, . . « My Kallagh dhu Asthore, Kathleen Ban Adair, • De Vere, Sir Aubrey. The Battle of Busaco, * Dowling, Bartholomew. The Brigade at Fontenoy, Downing, Mrs. The Grave of Mac Caura, Drennan, William. Beal-an-ath Buidhe, • Drennan, Dr. Wake of William Orr, • Erin, Dufferin, Lady. Lament of the Irish Emigrant, Duffy, Charles Gavan. The Song of Innishowen, The Muster of the North, The Irish Rapparees, The Irish Chiefs, The Voice of Labour, The Patriot’s Bride, • • • • Vol. V. i. 112 i. 169 i. 171 i. 186 i. 204 i. 218 i. 225 i. 233 i. 240 i. 245 i. 323 iL 6 ii. 23 ii. 31 ii. 38 ii. 49 ii. 60 ii. 92 i. 284 ii. 42 ii. 79 ii. 85 ii. 271 i. 216 ii. 253 i. 153 i. 226 i. 273 i. 299 I 33 i. 177 i. 206 i. 243 i. 265 ii. 32 T TOJfiX. 413 Sweet Sybil, . • A Lay Sermon, • Ferguson, Samuel. The Fair Hills of Ireland, Lament for Timoleagne, Una Phelimy, Pastheen Fion, • The Parting from Slemish, The Fairy Thorn, • The Welshmen of Tirawley, The Pretty Girl of Loch Dan, Willy Gilliland, The Forging of the Anchor, Forrest, J. L. The Cluricaune, • The Banshee, . • VoL P. n. 39 ii. 222 . i. I? . I 174 . ii. 8 . ii. 24 . ii. 121 . ii. 200 . ii. 249 . ii. 261 . ii. 319 ii. 105 ii. 150 Fox, George. The County of Mayo, • Frazer, John. The Holy Wells, The Poet’s Home, • Clondallagb, . • Brosna’s Banks, . Edward Mo.ioy, • The Knight of the Shamrock" Lament for Thomas Davis, My Connor, . • Aileen O’Moore, • The Poet and His Son, • The Poet’s Grief, • Gallagher, W. D. May, . . . The Labourer, Goldsmith, Oliver. The Hermit, . • Gritfin, Gerald. Aare, . . • The Bridal of Malahide, Orange and Green, • The Mother’s Lament, • Gille Machree, . • Hy-Brasail, . . The Sister of Charity, • The Poet’s Prophecy, i. 307 i. 7 i. 42 L 45 i. 49 i. 231 i. 258 i. 324 ii. 59 ii. 188 ii. 240 ii. 34G ii. 269 ii. 322 ii. 275 i. 52 L ne i. 275 i. 341 ii. 9 ii. 103 ii. 247 ii. 308 414 INDEX. Halpin, M. The Anglo-Saxon Race, • Hill, Rev. George. Lough Neagh, • » Mary’s Grave, . * Hohy, John Cashel. Sir Banneret of the Tricolor, Irwin T The Fairies’ Child, • The Poet and his Verses, The Troubadour’s Pilgrimage, Spirit Company, My Violon, • • Artist’s Song, The Mountain Forge, • War, Keegan, John. Caoch the Piper, • The Holly and Ivy Girl, The Dying Mother’s Lament. Bouchelleen Bawn, The Dark Girl at the Holy Well, Kelly, Mary Eva. Tipperary, . • Sir Cahir O’Doherty, • The People’s Chief, , The Irish Minstrel, • A Caoine, lament for Thomas Davis, My Own, , My Nial Bawn, , lx>ve’s Greeting, Murmurs of Love, . • A Dream of a Dream, • Kknealy, Edward. Fionn, . • • Love’s Warning, . Kknealy, William. King Brian before the Battle, The Last Request, Kennedy, Willlam. The Lonely Poet, . • Past Pleasure, . • The Poet’s Heart, • VoL F. il 34V l 50 i. 304 ii. 295 ii. 112 ii. 234 ii. 238 ii. 337 ii. 343 ii. 348 ii. 358 ii. 367 i. 331 i. 345 i. 354 ii. 126 ii. 210 i. 3 L 165 i 263 i. 291 L 340 i. 355 ii. 40 il .43 ii. (71 ii. 72 ii. 83 il 164 ii. 260 i. 81 L 301 U. 51 h. 60 ii. 73 Knowles, James Sheridan. The Fisherman’s Wife, INDEX. Lane, Denny. Lament of the Irish Maiden, • Kate of Arraglen, Lover, Samuel. The Land of the West, • Carolan and Bridget Cruise, • The Angel’s Whisper, . « The Fairy Boy, . . . The Pilgrim Harper, . • Molly Carew, . . • Lynch, T. J. Time and the Virgin, * Madden, Dr. R. R. United Brothers, « • Maginn, Dr. William. The Soldier Boy, » » The Sack of Magdeburgh, • The Beaten Beggarman, Maiiony, Rev. Frank. The Bells of Shandon, Address to the Vanguard of the French, The Song of the Cossack, A Jang an, James Clarence. Duhallow, . • The Fair Hills of Eird 0, Rury and Darvorgilla, Expedition and Death of King Dathi, Prince Aldfrid’s Itinerary, Kinkora, .... Cahal Mor, . . The Siege of Maynooth, Panegyric of Black Thomas Butler, Lament for the Two Princes, The Ruins of Donegal Castle, . O’Hussey’s Ode to the Maguire, • Kathaleen Ny Houlalian, • Welcome to the Prince, • • Lament for Banba, . . Irish National Hymn, . • The Warning Voice, . • Freedom’s Highway, • • Dark Rosaleen, Ellen Bawn, 415 VoL P. • • • ii. 314 • • ii. 46 • ii. 62 ♦ ii. 20 • ii. 27 # ii. 121 • % ii. 155 . ii. 167 • • • ii. 362 • • • ii. 230 • • • i. 228 • • ii. 244 • • ii. 286 • • • ii. 392 i. 11 # , ii. 387 • • • ii. 400 i. 19 . . i. 31 . i. 60 , i. 67 • . i. 70 i. 84 . i. 95 # i. 120 * i. 12 b . . i. 146 . i. 156 i. 167 , i. 218 . , i. 219 . i. 249 # i. 255 i. 260 L 295 ii. 11 • • ii. 5* 416 INDEX. Love Ballad, . . • • Vol. F. ii. 81 The Last Reproach, • • • • ii. 89 The Woman of Three Cows, • • ii. 306 Soul and Country, • • • H. 383 Mary, Queen of Mercy, • • • n. 381 The Time of the Barmecides, • • • • ii. 388 The Karamanian Exile, # * • ii. 399 The White Lady, . • ii. 398 Wail and Warning of the Three Khalendera, • ii. 402 The Mariner’s Bride, • , * • • ii. 406 The Poet’s Preaching, • • • ii. 407 ‘Carthy, Denis Florence. The Pillar Towers of Ireland, • * • • L 4 The Vale of Shanganah, • # • • L 26 The Clan of Mac Caura, • • • • i. 208 The Irish Emigrant’s Mother, • # • • i. 312 Kate of Kenmare, • • • • ii. 47 Alice and Una, • • • • ii. 133 The Bridal of the Year, • • • • ii. 254 Summer Longings, • • • • ii. 287 ‘Dermott, Martin. The Irish Exiles, • • ♦ • • i. 31 The Coolun, . • • • • # i. 353 A Wooing, . • • • • • ii. 37 Mary, « # • * ii. 54 ‘Devitt, Neil. The Battle of Dundalk, . • • • • L 76 eehan. Rev. Charles. Boyhood’s Years, • • • • ii. 321 ‘Gee, Thomas Darcy. River Boyne, . • . 1 i. 35 The Celts, # # i. 5* The Wisdom Sellers before Charlemagne, i. 72 De Courcy’s Pilgrimage, . . i. 93 The Death of Art Mac Murrogh, . • • i. 109 The Last O’Sullivan Beare, # • • i. 161 “ In Felix Felix,” • m i. 189 The Death of O’Carolan, • # i. 211 The Imprisoned Chief, • • i. 247 The Celtic Cross, . . i. 252 Life and Land, . • # • • * i. 257 A Salutation, . • • • • # i. 268 The Living and the Dead, • • . • # i. 282 The Parting from Ireland, • • • i. 286 The Ancient Race, • Salutation to the Celts, • • • • • i. 292 • • • L 297 INDEX. 417 VoL P. The Connaught Chiefs Farewell, . , . i. 305 The Exile’s Request, ..... i. 309 Home Thoughts, • . • • i. 312 Memories, ...... i. 313 The Exile’s Devotion, . • • . • i. 318 The Irish Wife, . • • . ii. 1 The Man of the North Countrie, . . . ii. 41 Sebastian Cabot to his Lady, • • . . ii. 44 The Voyage of Eman Oge, • • • . ii. 157 The Gobban Saer, . • • • . If. 168 A Legend of St. Patrick, • • . . ii. 176 A Legend of Antrim, . • . . . ii. 181 The Haunted Castle, .... . ii. 212 Feagh M‘Hugh, ...... ii. 230 Sir Constantine, . • . . . ii. 237 The Heart’s Resting Place, . . . . ii. 245 The War Note, ...... ii. 274 The Homeward Bound, • . • • ii. 292 Henrich Hudson, ..... ii. 328 Sir Cahir O’Doherty’s Message, . . ii. 379 Moore, Thomas. The Green Isle, ...... i. 2 Innisfallen, .... . i. 54 Song of Innisfail, • . • . . i. 59 Brian the Brave, . . , . , i. 80 The Return of O’Ruark, . . . . i. 86 The Desmond, . . . . . . i. 114 Oh 1 Blame not the Bard, . . . . i. 160 The Parallel, ...... i. 205 Lament for Grattan, ..... i. 239 The Irish Peasant to his Mistress, . . . i. 249 She is Far from the Land, . . . . i. 335 Arranmore, . . • • • . ii. 114 Puck the Fairy, . . . . . ii. 143 The Stranger, ...... ii. 22(1 The High Bom Ladye, ... . ii. 236 Oh 1 the Sight Entrancing, . • . . ii. 274 Araby’s Daughter, . . . . . ii. 301 Mulchinock, William Pembroke. Life and Death* of Art Mac Murrogh, . . . i. 107 Murray, Rey. Dr. Glandore, • . • • • • L 14 The Rock of Cashel, . • • • • L 37 The Sister of Mercy, . • • • iL 311 Murray, John Fisher. To the Memory of Thomas Davia, ir. 2 o t. m 418 INDEX, Dark Margaret, The Sister of Charity, . Norton, Hon. Mrs. The Blind Man’s Bride, Sir Eustace. The Banner of the Covenanters, The Mother’s Heart, O’Connell, Maurice. Recruiting Song, Parnell, Dr. The Hermit, . • Ryan, Dr. The Siege of Hensburgh, Simmons, B. Funcheon Woods, • The Returned Exile, • Holycross Abbey, • The Departure, The Peak of Darra, . The Last Adieu, The Lost Madonna, The Doom of the Mirror, The Flight to Cyprus, The Forsaken Goblet, The Suit of the Minstrel, The Life of the Sea, The Mother of the Kings, l'he Disinterment of Napoleon, Napoleon’s Last Look, Smythe, Hon. G. S. King James the Second The Catholic Cavalier, Mary Stuart’s Last Prayer, Starkey, D. P. The Death of Schomberg, The Emigrants, The Bridal in Paradise, Sterling, John. The Dearest, . . Lament for Daedalus, The Dreamer on the Cliff, The Husbandman, Louis Fifteenth, YoL P. t ii. 87 • • • ii. 873 . • *> • • ii. 28 • • • ii. 231 • ii. 261 • • * • ii. 834 • • i. 264 • • • • H. 371 • • • A ii. 280 • • i. 22 , * i. 28 . # i. 40 , • i. 310 f , # • ii. 14 * • ii. 64 * . ii. 71 * ' , ii. 127 ii. 227 » . ii. 284 * i . ii. 316 , . # ii. 324 . , • ii. 338 , # ii. 350 4 4 ii. 364 • ii. 333 ii. 344 4 * ii. 382 * 1, i. 192 4 4 i. 308 t • • ii. 242 4 ♦ . ii. 75 1 A • « ii. 288 4 * « ii. 302 » • fi. 832 4 A • ii 336 INDEX. 418 Supple, G. H. Sir Morrough’s Ride, • The Raid of Fitzmaurioe, Columbus, . . The Sally from Salerno, . Waller, Dr. J. F. Cushla-mo-chree, • Kitty Neil, . • The Spinning Wheel Song, Walsh, Edward. Battle of Credran, • Margread ni Chealleadh, • A Munster Keen, O’Donovan’s Daughter, . Brighidin Ban Mo Stor, Mo Craoibhin Cno, Aileen the Huntress, Wilde, Mrs. W. R. The Brothers, Courage, Ruins, The Young Patriot Leader, The Voice of the Poor, Past and Present, . Man’s Mission, Shadows from Life, Undine, The Waiwode, . . Williams, Richard Dalton. Ben-Heder, The Munster War Song, The Rath of Mullaghmast, The Pass of Plumes, Lament for Clarence Mangan, The Dying Girl, Kathleen, The Poet’s Passion, The Fairies of Knockshegowna, St. Kevin and Kathleen, St. Kevin to his Sister, The Sister of Charity, Wolfe, Rev. Charles. The Death of Mary, • The Burial of Sir John Moore, VoL P. i. 125 i. 128 ii. 290 ii. 356 ii. 52 ii. 285 ii. 361 i. 97 i. 336 i. 352 ii. 22 ii. 26 ii. 80 ii. 183 i. 229 i. 283 i. 287 i. 293 i. 349 ii. 78 ii. 293 ii. 297 ii. 390 ii. 404 i 47 i. 92 i. 131 i. 138 i. 320 i. 334 ii. 57 ii. 67 ii. 131 ii. 217 ii. 282 ii. 326 ii. 21 U 818 JAMES DUFFY & CO.’S Catalogue of Standard Works OF PHstorg, Amusement, artti Instruction. At Jd. Each. Duffy’s Tales for the Young, etc. Royal 321110, fancy wrapper. Anger; or, Alice Mordaunt. Beatrice Alfieri; or, the Festival of the Rosary. Eulalia St. Aubert. Hugh Morton; or, the Broken Vow. The Little Culprit; or, the Golden Necklace. Walter and Emily; or, the Fatal Effects of Disobedience. At Id. Each. Brother James’s Tales. Illustrated. Printed Wrapper. Square i6mo. Catherine Hall ; or, the Deserted Child. Clare Costello; a True Story. Eva O’Beirne ; or, the Little Lace Maker. Gerald O’Reilly; or, the Triumph of Principle. Little Mary ; or, the Child of Providence. Miles O’Donnell ; or, a Story of a Life. O’Hara Blake; or, the Lost Heir. Rody O’Leary; or, the Outlaw. The Bequest ; or, All is not Gold that Glitters. The Cousins; or, the Test of Friendship. The Rose and the Lily; or, the Twin Sisters. The Two Friends; or, the Reward of Industry. 2 James Duffy & Co.’s Catalogue of At id. Each — continued . Duffy’s Juvenile Library. Busy Peter. Cathleen. Fidelity Rewarded. Little Alice. Michael and his Dog. Simple Sarah. Paper Covers. i8mo. The Two Friends. The Young Musicians. The Little Adventurer. The Little Drummer. The Two Boys. White Lies. Moore’s Irish Melodies. People’s Edition. Sewed. The'Emmet Song Book. Sewed. The Story of William Orr. Sewed. At 2d. Each. City Man (The), and Cousin in the Third Degree. Sq. i6mo. Little St. Agnes, and Frost Land. „ Rosary of Pearl (The); or, the Ordeal by Touch. ,, True to the Last, and other Tales. ,, Life and Poems of Charles J. Kickham. Sewed. At 6d. Each. Schmid (Canon), Works by — Post 8vo, cloth. The Inundation of the Rhine, and Clara. Lewis, the Little Emigrant. The Easter Eggs, and Forget-me-not. The Cakes, and the Old Castle. The Hop Blossoms. Christmas Eve. The Carrier Pigeon, the Bird’s Nest, etc. The Jewels, and the Redbreast. The Copper Coins and Gold Coins, etc. The Cray-Fish, the Melon, the Nightingale. The Fire, and the Best Inheritance. Henry of Eichenfels ; or, the Kidnapped Boy. Standard Works, History, Amusement, etc. 3 At 6d. Each — continued. Schmid (Canon), Works by — Post 8vo, cloth — continued. Godfrey, the Little Hermit. The Water Pitcher, and the Wooden Cross. The Rose Bush, and the Forest Chapel. The Lamb. The Madonna, the Cherries, and Anselmo. The Canary Bird, the Firefly, the Chapel of Wolfsbuhl, and Titus and his Family. Gerald Griffin, Works by— i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. The Kelp Gatherer, a Tale. The Day of Trial. The Voluptuary Cured. The Young Milesian. The Beautiful Queen of Leix. The Story of Psyche. The Knight without Reproach. Altar at Woodbank; a Tale of Holy Eucharist. By Mrs. Agnew. Royal i6mo, cloth, limp. Art MacMurrogh, Memoir and Life. 181110, wrapper. Art Maguire; or, the Broken Pledge. ,, Captive Mother; a Tale of Confirmation. By Mrs. Agnew. Royal i6mo, cloth, limp. Davis’s Literary and Historical Essays. i8mo, wrapper. Emily Sunderland; a Tale of Matrimony. Ryl. i6mo, cl. limp. Emmet, Robert : his Birthplace and Burial. Sewed. Eve of St. Michael; a Tale of Penance. By Mrs. Agnew. Royal, i6mo, cloth, limp. Faversham Grange; or, the Daughter of the Piscatori. Post 8vo, cloth. From Sunrise to Sunrise; or, Christmas in the Olden Time. Post 8vo, cloth. Fun — Humour — Laughter — to while away an hour on a Journey. Gerald Griffin. His Life and Poems. By John Power. Hail Mary; or, the Beauties of the Angelical Salutation. i6mo, cloth, gilt. 4 James Duffy <& Co.’s Catalogue of At 6d. Each — continued. Heir of Rochdale; a Tale of Baptism. By Mrs. Agnew. Royal i6mo, cloth, limp. Historical Notes on the Services of the Irish Officers in the French Army. Paper. History of the Irish Volunteers, 1782. i8mo, wrapper. History of the “ Protestant ” Reformation. By Cobbett. Post 8vo, wrapper. Holy and Blessed Children, Legends for Children. Paper. Into the Sunlight. Post 8vo, cloth. Knight of Clyfife Abbey; a Tale of Extreme Unction. By Mrs. Agnew. Life and Times of Hugh O’Neill. By John Mitchel. i8mo, wrapper. Life of O’Connell. By Canon O’Rourke. i8mo, wrapper. Life of the Venerable Joan of Arc. Imp. 32mo, cloth, limp. Mangan’s Essays, in Prose and Verse. l8mo, wrapper. ,, German Anthology. 2 vols., wrapper, each 6d. May Eve; or, the Lost Sheep restored to the Fold. i6mo, cloth, gilt. Mary Anne O’Halloran. i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. Memoir of Cardinal M‘Cabe, Archbishop of Dublin. Moore’s Irish Melodies. Royal 32mo, gilt edges. National Ballads, Songs, and Poems. By Thomas Davis. i8mo, wrapper. O’Connell’s Memoir on Ireland, Native and Saxon. i8mo, wpr. On the Snow Clad Heights. Post 8vo, cloth. Paddy Blake’s Sojourn among the Soupers. Wrapper. Paddy Go Easy and His Wife Nancy. i8mo, wrapper. Penalty of a Crime. Post 8vo, cloth. Priest of Northumbria; a Tale of Holy Orders. Mrs. Agnew. Royal i6mo, cloth, limp. Redmond Count O’Hanlon. i8mo, wrapper. Rody the Rover. i8mo, wrapper. Tales for the Young. Cloth. The Ballad Poetry of Ireland. By C. G. Duffy. 42nd Edition. i8mo, wrapper. Standard Works, History, Amusement, etc. 5 At 6d. Each — continued. The Book of Irish Ballads. By Denis Florence MacCarthy. i8mo wrapper. The Poor Scholar, and other Tales. By William Carleton. i8mo, wrapper. The Queen of Italy. i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. The Golden Pheasant. ,, The Dying Woodcutter ,, The Danger of Ignorance. ,, The Red Well, and other Tales. 181110, wrapper. The Songs of Ireland. By Michael J. Barry. i8mo, wpr. The Spirit of the Nation. New and Revised Ed. i8mo, wpr. The White Hen; an Irish Fairy Tale. i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. Thomasine’s Poems. i8mo, wrapper. Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. By W. Carleton. i8mo, wrapper. Valentine Redmond; or, the Cross of the Forest. i6mo, cloth. Voyage autour de ma Chambre. By Count X. de Maestre. i8mo, wrapper. Wonderful Doctor (The). An Easter Tale. Post 8vo, cloth. At Is. Each. Adventures of Mr. Moses Finegan, an Irish Pervert. l8mo, cl. All for Prince Charlie. By Miss E. M. Stewart. Square i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. A Memoir on Ireland. By the late Daniel O’Connell, M.P l8mo, cloth. Antonio; or, the Orphan of Florence. Cloth, gilt edges. Art MacMurrogh. By Thomas D’Arcy M‘Gee. i8mo, cloth. Ballad Poetry of Ireland. By Sir Charles Gavan Duffy. i8mo, cloth. Bird’s Eye View of Irish History. By Sir Charles G. Duffy. Wrapper. Book of Irish Ballads. By Denis F. M'Carthy, M.R.I.A. i8mo, cloth. 6 James Duffy & Co.’s Catalogue of At is. Each — continued. Carleton, Works by— i8mo, cloth. Paddy Go Easy and his Wife Nancy. Redmond Count O’Hanlon. Art Maguire ; or, the Broken Pledge. Rody the Rover; or, the Ribbonman. The Poor Scholar, and other Tales. The Red Well. Party Fight. Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. Cobbett’s History of the “ Protestant” Reformation. PosF8vo, cloth. Colleen Bawn: A Tale of Garryowen. Paper. Daughter of Tyrconnell ^The). By Mrs. Sadlier. Square i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. Dillon’s Historical Notes on Irish Officers in the French Army. i8mo, cloth. Erin Quintiana; or, Dublin Castle and the Irish Parliament, 1 767- 1 772. Paper. Essay on the Antiquity and Constitution of Parliaments in Ireland. By H. J. Monck Mason. i8mo, cloth. Extraordinary Adventures of a Watch. Square i6mo, cloth. Fairy Minstrel of Glenmalure. By E. Leamy. Boards. Fate of Father Sheehy (The). Cap. 3 v 0 , cloth. Ferdinand ; or, the Triumph of Filial Love. By Fr. Charles. Sq. i6mo, cloth. Florestine ; or, Unexpected Joy. Square i6mo, cloth, gilt. Franciscan Monasteries. By Rev. C. P. Meehan. Ptd. Cover. Frederic ; or, the Hermit of Mount Atlas. Cloth, gilt edges. Fridolin and Dietrich. By Canon Schmid. Cap. 8vo, cloth. Genevieve of Brabant. By Canon Schmid. Sq. i6mo, cl., gilt. Geraldines (The). By Rev. C. P. Meehan. i8mo, cloth. Gerald Marsdale ; or, the Out-Quarters of St. Andrew. 8vo, cl. Golden Pheasant, and other Tales. Sq. i6mo, cloth, gilt. Great Day (The); or, Means of Perseverance after First Com- munion. By Mrs. J. Sadlier. Cap. 8vo, cloth. Griffin (Gerald). Life and Works. 10 vols., pictorial cover. (See List in 2s. Series). Standard Works, History, Amusement, etc. 7 At is. Each — continued. History of Ireland. By J. O’Neill Daunt, Esq. i8mo, cloth. Ireland Since the Union. By J. O’Neill Daunt. i8mo, cloth. Irish Songs (Ten), Set to Music by Professor Glover. 4to, wpr. Kelp Gatherer, Day of Trial, Voluptuary Cured. Cloth, gilt edges. Leo; or, the Choice of a Friend. Sq. i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. Life and Letters of John Martin. By the Author of the Life of John Mitchel. i8mo, cloth. Life and Scenery in Missouri. By a Missionary Priest. i8mo, cloth. Life of Hugh O’Neill. By John Mitchel. i8mo, cloth. Life of John Mitchel. By P. A. S. i8mo, cloth. Life of Robert Emmet. Illustrated, boards. Life of Thomas Moore. By James Burke, Esq. i8mo, cloth. Lights and Leaders of Irish Life. Boards. Literary and Historical Essays. By Thomas Davis. i8mo, cl. Little Wanderers. By Miss E. M. Stewart. Post 8vo, cloth, limp. Lost Genevieve. By Cecilia Mary Caddell. Sq. i6mo, cloth. MacNevin — The History of the Irish Volunteers of 1782. i8mo, cloth. Madden (Dr.), Literary Remains of the United Irishmen, 1798. i8mo, cloth. Mangan (J. C.) Essays in Prose and Verse. i8mo, cloth. Mangan (J. C.) German Anthology. 2 vols., is. each. i8mo, cloth. Martha ; or, the Hospital Sister. Sq. i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. Mary Anne O’Halloran, White Hen, etc. Cloth, gilt edges. Square l6mo. Mellifont Abbey: Its Ruins and Associations. Illustrated. Paper. Memories of the Irish Franciscans. By J. F. O’Donnell. i8mo, cloth. Moore’s Irish Melodies and National Airs. i8mo, cloth. National Ballads. By Thomas Davis, M.R.I.A. i8mo, cloth. 8 James Duffy & Co.’s Catalogue of At is. Each — continued. Nettlethorpe; or, the London Miser. By Brother James. Sq. i6mo, cloth. Old Marquise (An). By Vin. Vincent. l8mo, cloth. Rise and Fall of the Irish Nation. By Sir Jonah Barrington. 8vo, boards. Rory of the Hills, a Tale of Irish Life. Post 8vo, boards. Rosary (The) of Pearl, and Six other Tales. By Miss E. M. Stewart. Sq. i6mo, cloth. School and Home Song Book, Tonic Sol-Fa Edition. By P. Goodman. Cloth. Songs of Ireland. By Michael J. Barry, Esq., B. L. i8mo, cl. Speeches of The Rt. Hon. Edmund Burke. Cr. 8vo, ptd. cover. „ ,, John P. Curran. ,, ,, ,, „ Henry Grattan. ,, ,, ,, Daniel O’Connell, 2 vols. ,, ,, ,, The Rt. Hon. Lord Plunket. ,, ,, ,, ,, Richard Lalor Sheil ,, ,, Spirit of the Nation. New and Revised Edition. i8mo, cloth. The False Friend. By Brother James. Sq. i6mo, gilt edges. The Hamiltons ; or, Sunshine and Storm. Sq. i6mo, cloth. The Life of O’Connell. By V. Rev. John Canon O’Rourke, l8mo, cloth. The Orange Girl. By Lady C. Thynne. Sq. i6mo, cloth. The Partners; or, Fair and Easy goes Far in the Day. By Brother James. Cloth. The Shipwreck; or, the Deserted Island. Sq. i6mo, cloth. The Solitary of Mount Carmel. Sq. i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. The Young Crusader; a Catholic Tale. Sq. i6mo, cloth. “ Thomasine’s ” Poems — Wild Flowers from the Wayside. With an Introduction by Sir Charles Gavan Duffy. i8mo, cloth. Valentine Redmond, and other Tales. Sq. i6mo, cl., gilt edges. Watch and Hope. By Miss O’Neill Daunt. Sq. i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. Young Milesian, Beautiful Queen of Leix, and Story of Psyche. Square i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. Standard Works, History, Amusement, etc. 9 At is. Each — continued . Foolscap 8vo Series. Cloth. Coaina, the Rose of the Algonquins. By Mrs. Anna H. Dorsey. Father Rowland, a North American Tale. Flower Basket. By Canon Schmid. Geoffrey of Killingworth ; or, the Grey Friar’s Legacy. Life of St. Columba, or Columbkille. By Saint Adamnan. Old Grey Rosary. The Refuge of Sinners. By Mrs. A. H. Dorsey. Oriental Pearl ; or, the Catholic Emigrants. Pearl among the Virtues (The); or, Words of Advice to Christian Youth. Simon Kerrigan ; or, Confessions of an Apostate. At Is. 6d. Each. All for Prince Charlie. By E. M. Stewart. i6mo, cloth, gilt. Bird’s Eye View of Irish History. By Sir C. G. Duffy. Square i6mo, cloth. Caddell (Miss), Works by— i6mo, fancy cloth, gilt. Blind Agnese. Flowers and Fruit. Miner’s Daughter. The Virgin Mother and the Child Divine. Carleton’s, The Evil Eye. Post 8vo. Illustrated, fancy cover. Duffy^s Juvenile Library. i8mo, fancy cloth, gilt edges. Exiled from Erin, a Story of Irish Peasant Life. By M. E. T. Crown 8vo, cloth. Franciscan Monasteries (The Irish). By Rev. C. P. Meehan. i8mo, cloth. Fridolin and Dietrich. By Canon Schmid. Cap. 8vo, cloth, gilt edges. Holly and Ivy for Christmas Holidays. By Anthony Evergreen. l6mo, cloth. Juvenile Library (The). By Brother James. i6mo, cloth, gilt. King and the Cloister. By E. M. Stewart. i6mo, cloth, gilt. 10 James Duffy & Co.’s Catalogue of At is. 6d. Each — continued. Legends of the Cloister. By Miss E. M. Stewart. Post 8vo, cl. Life of O’Connell. By Canon O’Rourke. Cl., extra, gilt edges. Light and Shade. By Rev. T. J. Potter. Cap. 8vo, cloth, gilt. Loretto; or, the Choice. By George H. Miles, Esq. Cap. 8vo. cloth, gilt. Popular Tales; or, Deeds of Genius. By J. M. Piercy. i6mo. cloth, gilt. Recreative Reading. By the Rambler from Clare. Sewed. Rosary of Pearl (The); and Six other Tales. By E.‘M. Stewart. Square i6mo, cloth, gilt edges. Rose of Tannenbourg. A Moral Tale. Cap. 8vo, cloth. The Two Victories, a Catholic Tale. By Rev. T. J. Potter. Square i6mo, cloth. Victims of the Penal Laws. By E. M. Stewart. i8mo, cl., gilt. Williams (Richard D’ Alton), Complete Poetical Works of. Edited by P. A. S. i8mo, cloth. Willy Burke; or, the Irish Orphan in America. By Mrs. J. S. Sadlier. i6mo, cloth, gilt. At 2s. Each. Carleton, Works by — Post 8vo, fancy cover. Valentine M‘Clutchy, the Irish Agent. Willy Reilly and his Dear Colleen BaWn. Black Baronet. The Evil Eye. Cloth, -plain. - Colleen Bawn: A Tale of Garryowen. Cloth. Confederation of Kilkenny. By Rev. C. P. Meehan. Imp. 32mo, cloth. Cross and Shamrock. By a Missionary Priest. Post 8vo, cloth. D’Altons of Crag QThe). By Dean O’Brien. Cap. 8vo, cloth. Fethard: Its Abbey, etc. By Rev. J. A. Knowles. Illustrated, cloth. Gerald Marsdale; or, the Out-Quarters of Saint Andrew’s Priory. By Mrs. Stanley Carey. Post 8vo, cloth, gilt edges. German Anthology and Miscellaneous Poems. By James Clarence Mangan. 2 vols., cloth. Standard Works, History, Amusement, etc. 11 At 2S. Each — continued . Griffin (Gerald) Works by— Cap. 8vo, cloth. The Collegians. Card Drawing, etc. Hoilandtide. The Rivals; and Tracy’s Ambition. Tales of the Juryroom. The Duke of Monmouth. Poetical Works. = Life of. By his Brother. Tales of the Five Senses, etc. The Invasion. Historical Sketches of Monaghan. Cloth. Holly and Ivy for Christmas Holidays. Cloth, gilt. Ireland Before the Union, including Lord Chief Justice Clonmell’s unpublished Diary. By W. J. Fitzpatrick, LL.D. Sixth Edition, with Illustrations. Crown 8vo, fancy cover. Jabez Murdock, Poetaster and “Adjint.” By Banna Borka. Post 8 vo, cloth. Jack Hazlitt. By Dean O’Brien. Post 8vo, cloth. Life and Death of the Most Rev. Francis Kirwan, Bishop of Killala. By Rev. C. P. Meehan. Square 8vo, fancy cloth. Life Of Robert Emmet. By D. J. O’Donoghue. Illustrated. Cloth. Little Wanderers. By Miss E. M. Stewart. Post 8vo, cloth, gilt. Orphan of Moscow (The). By Mrs. J. Sadlier. People’s Martyr (The). By Miss E. M. Stewart. Post 8vo, cloth, gilt. Prophet o'f the Ruined Abbey (The). Post 8vo, cloth. Recreative Reading for the Million. By the Rambler from Clare. Post 8vo, cloth. Rise and Fall of the Irish Nation, with Black List. 8vo, cloth. Robber Chieftain (The). An Historical Tale, of Dublin Castle. Boards. Rory of the Hills, a Tale of Irish Life. Post 8vo, cloth. Sally Cavanagh; or, the Untenanted Graves. By C. J. Kickham. cloth. 12 James Duffy & Co.’s Catalogue of At 2 s. Each — continued . Shemus Dhu ; or, the Black Pedlar of Galway. By the late Rev. M. Kavanagh, P.P. Post 8vo, cloth. Speeches of The Rt. Hon. Philpot Curran. Cr. 8vo, cloth. ,, ,, Henry Grattan. ,, ,, D. O’Connell, M.P. (Select.) 2 vols. ,, ,, The Rt. Hon. Lord Plunket. ,, ,, ,, Richard Lalor Sheil. ,, ,, ,, Edmund Burke. ,, ,, Daniel O’Connell. Centenary Edition. 2 vols., paper boards. St. Patrick’s Purgatory, Lough Derg. By Rev. D. Canon O’Connor, P.P. Illustrated. Boards. What Will the World Say ? An American Tale of Real Life. Boards. At 2s. 6d. Each. Ailey Moore. By R. P. O’Brien, D.D. 3rd Ed. Cap. 8vo, cl. Banim’s Boyne Water. Cloth. Banim’s The Peep o’ Day, or John Doe; and Crohoore of the Bill-hook. Cloth, plain. Banim’s The Croppy; a Tale of the Irish Rebellion 1798. Cloth, plain. Black Baronet. By William Carleton. Cloth, plain. Brother James’ Tales, with Illustrations. Cloth, gilt edges. Earl Nugent’s Daughter ; or, the Last Days of the Penal Laws. 8vo, cloth. Erin Quintiana ; or, Dublin Castle and the Irish Parliament. 1767-1772. Cloth. Evil Eye. By William Carleton. Cloth, gilt edges. Father Charles’ Flowers from Foreign Fields. 2 vols. (each). Square i6mo, cloth, gilt. Gift of Friendship. By Brother James. Sq. i6mo, fancy cloth, gilt edges. Grace Wardwood. A Tale of the County Down. Cloth. Grey Friar’s Legacy, and other Tales. Cap. 8vo, art linen, gilt top. Standard Works, History, Amusement, etc. 13 At 2S. 6d. Each — continued. History of the Irish Insurrection of 1798. By Edward Hay. New Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth. O’Connell’s Speeches. Centenary Edition. 2 vols. Crown 8vo, fancy cover. On the Snow Clad Heights, and other Tales. Cap. 8vo, art linen, gilt top. Rector’s Daughter (The). By Rev. T. J. Potter. New Edition. Cap. 8vo, cloth. Tales and Stories for Youth. By Gerald Griffin. Cloth, gilt. Trial and Trust. By Canon Schmid. Post 8vo, cloth, extra. Trust in God. By Canon Schmid. Post 8vo, cloth, extra. Two Roads of Life. By Canon Schmid. Post 8vo, cloth, extra. Valentine M‘Clutchy. By William Carleton. Cloth, plain. What Will the World Say ? By Rhoda E. White. Cloth. Willy Reilly. By W. Carleton. Cloth, plain. At 3s. Each. Blakes and Flanagans (The). By Mrs. J. Sadlier. Cloth. Carleton’s Black Baronet ; or, the Chronicles of Ballytrain. Cloth, gilt. Carleton’s Valentine M'Clutchy, the Irish Agent. Post 8vo, cloth, gilt. Carleton’s Willy Reilly, and his dear Colleen Bawn. Post 8vo, cloth, gilt. Catholic Souvenir (The); or, Tales Explanatory of the Sacra- ments. By Mrs. Agnew. Sq. 8vo, cl., bevelled, gilt edges. D’Altons of Crag (The). By Dean O’Brien. Cap. 8vo, cloth, gilt edges. Governments in Ireland. By Wm. Field, M.P. Cloth. Griffin’s (Gerald) Works, per Two Shilling List. Cloth, gilt edges. 10 vols. Jack Hazlitt. By Dean O’Brien. Post 8vo, cloth, gilt edges. Lough Derg, Its History, Antiquities, and Surroundings. Cloth. Reminiscences of Rome. By Rev. E. M‘Cartan, P.P. 8vo, cl. Sister Mary’s Annual. Cloth, gilt edges. The Poets and Poetry of Munster, with Original Music. By the late James Clarence Mangan. Sq. i6mo, fancy cloth. 14 James Duffy & Co.’s Catalogue of At 3s. 6d. Each. Ailey Moore. Cap. 8vo, fancy cloth, bevelled, gilt edges. Beauties of Nature (The), and other Lectures, etc. By J. J. O’Dea, B.A. Post 8vo, cloth. Carroll O’Donoghue, a Tale of the Irish Struggles of 1866, and of Recent Times. Post 8vo, cloth. Catholic Keepsake. By Canon Schmid. Cloth, extra gilt. Post 8vo. Catholic Tales. By Canon Schmid. In one large vol. Cloth, gilt. Centenary Edition — O’Connell’s Select Speeches. 2 vols. in one, cloth. Haverty’s History of Ireland. Abridged. New Edition. i2mo, half-bound. Knocknagow: or, the Homes of Tipperary. By C. T. Kickham. Post 8vo, cloth. Mangan — The Poets and Poetry of Munster, with Original Music. By James Clarence Mangan. Cloth, extra gilt. St. Martha’s Home. By Miss Emily Bowles. Post 8vo, cl., gilt. At 5s. Each. Ancient History, from the Creation to Fall of Western Empire in a.d. 476. With Maps and Plans. By A. J. B. Vuibert. Post 8vo, cloth. Burke’s Lingard — History of England, abridged, 60th edition. 672 pp. i2mo, embossed leather. Fate and Fortunes of the Earls of Tyrone and Tyrconnell. By the late Rev. C. P. Meehan. Third Ed., demy 8vo, cloth. History of Ireland from the Siege of Limerick to the Present Time. By John Mitchel. 2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth. Ireland under English Rule. Translated from the French of the Most Rev. Adolphe Perraud. 8vo, cloth. Lady Morgan : her Career, Literary and Personal. Cloth. O’Hanlon, The Poetical Works of “ Lageniensis.” Cr. 8vo, cl. Speeches of Thomas Francis Meagher. Cloth. At 6s. Each. Ballads of Ireland. By Edward Hayes. 2 vols., cr. 8vo, cloth. Haverty’s History of Ireland. New edition. Royal 8vo, cloth. Standard Works, History, Amusement, etc. 15 At 7s. 6d. Each. Battle of the Faith in Ireland. By Very Rev. Canon O’Rourke, P.P. Demy 8vo, cloth. Dissertations on Irish Church History. By Rev. Matthew Kelly, S.J. Ecclesiastical History of Ireland. By Rev. M. J. Brenan, O.S.F. 8vo, cloth, extra. History of the Catholic Archbishops of Dublin since the Re- formation. By His Eminence Cardinal Moran. Vol. I. (all published). 8vo, cloth. Life, Times, and Correspondence of the Right Rev. Dr. Doyle (J.K.L.j, Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin. By W. J. Fitz- patrick, M.R.I.A. New edition, 2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth. Moore’s Melodies. Edited by Professor Glover. 4to, with Music. Cloth. At 10s. Each. Griffin’s (Gerald) Works. 10 vols., is. each. History of Sligo. By Very Rev. T. O’Rorke, D.D. 2 vols., demy 8vo, cloth. Malone. — Church History of Ireland. By Sylvester Malone, P.P., M.R.I.A. Third edition, 2 vols., crown 8vo, cloth. O’Reilly and O’Donovan’s Irish-English Dictionary. 4to. Songs of our Land, the Spirit of the Nation, with Music. New edition. Cloth, gilt edges. MISCELLANEOUS LIST. Butler’s Lives of the Saints. 12 vols. Crown 8vo, cloth, 30s.; Half calf, 36s. History of the Great Irish Famine, 1847. By Rev. John O’Rourke, M.R.I.A. Cloth, 4s. Irish Landed Gentry when Cromwell came to Ireland. By John O’Hart. Demy 8vo, cloth, 12s. 6d. Irish Pedigrees; Origin and Stem of the Irish Nation. By J. O’Hart. 2 vols., 25s. Madden (Dr.), Easter Offering. i6mo, gilt edges, 8d. M‘Hale’s First Eight Books of Homer’s Iliad translated into Irish. 8vo, 20s. Moore’s Irish Melodies, with Symphonies and Accompaniments, by Sir John Stevenson. Edited by Prof. Glover. Music size, morocco, extra gilt, 21s. Orators of Ireland. 7 vols. Half morocco, gilt, 42s. ,, ,, Half calf, 3 is. 6d. Songs of our Land, the Spirit of the Nation. 4to. With Music. New Edition, morocco, 21s. Janies Duffy & Co., Ltd., 15 Wellington Quay, Dublin. CATHOLIC ART REPOSITORY. i A VARIED ASSORTMENT OF STATUARY, HOLY WATER FONTS, VASES, CRUETS ORATORY LAMPS, WICKS, TAPERS, FLOATS, CHURCH CANDLES, BRASS WORK. STATIONS OF THE HOLY WAY OF THE CROSS, framed and unframed, at prices from 10s. to £100. ENGRAVINGS, OLEOGRAPHS, AND CHROMOS, Chiefly of Sacred Subjects. CRUCIFIXES, SCAPULARS, MEDALS, LACE PRINTS ROSARIES, Plain and Silver Mounted. ALTAR CHARTS, in Sheets, Mounted and Framed. XMAS. ^ xjS, BIRTHDAY AND FEAST CARDS. IN MEMORIAM AND MORTUARY CARDS, Newest styles in great variety. Patterns sent Post Free. FRAGRANT INCENSE FOR THE USE OF THE ALTAR, And Prepared Charcoal. s. d. No. 4. Fine Quality, in Tin Packages of 1 lb. ... 2 6 ,, 3. Superior Quality, do. 1 lb. ... 4 0 „ 2. Do. do. 1 lb. ... 5 0 „ 1. Do. do. 1 lb. ... 7 6 Prepared Charcoal, Is. per lb. JAMES DUFFY AND CO., Ltd., 15 WELLINGTON QUAY, DUBLIN. Date Due ■t—H r f If' r\ w 20 19 $) 'J I. 903 254680 2 0 o 1 0 8 f Boston College The Library Chestnut Hill 67, Mass. Books may be kept for two weeks unless a short- er time is specified. Two cents a day is charged for each 2 -week book kept overtime; 25 cents a day for each overnight book. Jf you cannot find what you want, inquire at the delivery desk for assisstance.