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COLLECTED WORKS OF 
 PADRAIC H. PEARSE 
 

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 COLLECTED WORKS OF 
 PADRAIC H. PEARSE 
 
 PLATS 
 
 STORIES 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BOSTON COLLEGE LIBRAE'S 
 CHESTNUT KILL, MASS, 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
Copyright 1917. Margaret Pears® 
 
 Printed by George Roberts, Dublin 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 THE SINGER ^ 
 
 PLAYS ' , 
 
 IX 
 
 - 
 
 A 1 
 
 THE KING 
 
 S 
 
 45 
 
 THE MASTER " 
 
 69 
 
 IOSAGAN 
 
 * 
 
 IOI 
 
 
 STORIES 
 
 1 
 
 THE MOTHER 
 
 
 125 
 
 > THE DEARG-DAOL 
 
 137 
 
 THE ROADS 
 
 
 *47 
 
 BRIGID OF THE 
 
 SONGS 
 
 169 
 
 THE THIEF 
 
 
 179 
 
 THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 193 
 
 IOSAGAN 
 
 
 '22 7 
 
 ‘ THE PRIEST 
 
 
 245 
 
 BARBARA 
 
 
 2 59 
 
 v EOINEEN OF THE 
 
 BIRDS 
 
 POEMS 
 
 287 
 
 LULLABY OF A 
 
 WOMAN OF THE 
 
 
 MOUNTAIN 
 
 
 3 1 1 
 
 V 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN 
 
 KEENS HER SON p . 3 I 2 
 
 O LITTLE BIRD 3 I 4 
 
 WHY DO YE TORTURE ME 3 I 5 
 
 LITTLE LAD OF THE TRICKS 3 1 6 
 
 0 LOVELY HEAD 3 I 8 
 
 LONG TO ME THY COMING 3 1 9 
 
 A RANN I MADE 3 20 
 
 TO A BELOVED CHILD 32 I 
 
 1 HAVE NOT GARNERED GOLD 322 
 
 I AM IRELAND 323 
 
 RENUNCIATION 324 
 
 THE RANN OF THE LITTLE PLAYMATE 326 
 A SONG FOR MARY MAGDALENE 327 
 
 Christ’s coming 328 
 
 ON THE STRAND OF HOWTH 329 
 
 THE DORD FEINNE 332 
 
 THE MOTHER 333 
 
 THE FOOL 334 
 
 THE REBEL 337 
 
 CHRISTMAS, I915 340 
 
 THE WAYFARER 34 1 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 vi 
 
PUBLISHER’S NOTE 
 
 This volume of the Collected Works of Padraic 
 Pearse contains his English Versions of Plays and 
 Poems, many of which have not been previously 
 published. The Author’s final copies of the 
 manuscripts of The Singer and The Master 
 were burnt in the Publisher’s office at Easter, 
 1916, but, fortunately, other copies of these 
 manuscripts, apparently containing the Author’s 
 corrections, were forthcoming. On page 35 of The 
 Singer, there was one page of manuscript missing 
 which evidently contained dialogue covering the 
 exit of MacDara and the entrance of Diarmaid, 
 and it seemed better to leave a blank here than 
 to have the missing speeches written by another 
 hand. Towards the end of this play there were 
 some pages of manuscript giving a slightly 
 different version, and it was difficult to say 
 whether this version was an earlier or later one 
 than the manuscript which has been followed. 
 This fragment has been printed as an Appendix. 
 
 The Translations of the Stories from the Irish 
 were made by Mr. Joseph Campbell. 
 
 In the Author’s Manuscript, the play The 
 Singer was dedicated “To My Mother.” 
 
 The Publisher wishes to thank An Clodhanna 
 Teoranta for the permission accorded to Mrs. 
 Pearse to publish translations of Iosagan , An 
 Sagarty Bairbre , Eogainin na nEan . 
 
 vii 
 

 
 
 
 
 - 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 It must be evident to all who read this 
 collection of plays, stories and poems in the 
 spirit which their author would have wished 
 for, that it would be utterly wrong to preface 
 them with remarks applying merely to their 
 literary qualities. 
 
 For they are something more than litera- 
 ture. On the pages as we read they seem 
 to grow into flesh and blood and spirit. 
 They are a record of the emotions of a life 
 which was devoured by one idea, the native 
 beauty of Ireland, its manners, its speech, 
 its people, its history. And we see how 
 that idea was coupled in the mind with a 
 poignant sense of the danger that threatened 
 the vitality of all those things. The writer 
 saw the thought of the Gall spreading like 
 a destructive growth through the body of 
 Irish nationality. He felt that an imported 
 politeness mocked at the Gaelic ways ; he 
 knew that the Irish language had been ex- 
 tinguished in the greater part of Ireland by 
 the sense of shame working on poverty, 
 
 ix 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 and that many of the people of the Irish- 
 speaking fringe were also growing ashamed 
 of the priceless treasure they possessed ; he 
 saw that the lessons of Irish history, which 
 the leaders of the past had taught by their 
 labours and often sealed with their blood, 
 were being ignored in the modern political 
 game. 
 
 Earnestness of purpose had always marked 
 him. He threw his heart and soul and 
 strength into the Gaelic movement ; he 
 learned the language so thoroughly as to 
 be able to use it with ease as his medium 
 of literary expression, to recapture the old 
 forms of poetry and story-telling, and to 
 infuse into them the modernity of his own 
 modes of thought. He fought the battles 
 of Irish with a vigour that we all remember. 
 He founded a school — against what diffi- 
 culties ! — where education was Irish, and 
 aimed at the free development of personality 
 in the Irish way. All that was hard and 
 earnest work, but its earnestness was nothing 
 to the terrible seriousness that grew upon 
 him when he came to realize the maladies 
 of the political movement that was supposed 
 to aim at Irish nationhood. The Volunteers, 
 
 x 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 at whose foundation he had assisted, were at 
 first negotiated with and then divided by the 
 constitutional Party ; the original founders, 
 who determined to adhere to their principles, 
 were left high and dry without any consti- 
 tutional support. The conviction gained on 
 him that only blood couM vivify what tame- 
 ness and corruption had weakened, and that 
 he and his comrades were destined to go 
 down the same dark road by which so many 
 brave and illustrious Irishmen had gone 
 before them. 
 
 It is in the light of this progress of 
 thought that we must read his writings. 
 We find the fresh notes of tenderness and 
 sweetness in the early stories, Iosagan, The 
 Priest, Barbara, and Eoineen of the Birds. 
 The psychology of children, their sorrows 
 and joys, are the theme. The older people 
 are merely foils to the children ; we learn 
 nothing of their inner story, except in the 
 case of Old Matthias — and even here we 
 have merely an account of a return to the 
 innocence of second childhood. Iosagan 
 coming to play with the little ones on the 
 green, while the old folks are at Sunday 
 Mass, Paraic wearing a surplice and saying 
 
 xi 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 D^minus Vobiscum , and Orate Fratres , in 
 anticipation of the priestly office, Brideen 
 holding converse grave and gay with her 
 doll, Eoineen watching with joy the return 
 of the swallows in spring, and broken- 
 hearted at their departure in late autumn, all 
 pass before our eyes as dwellers in a Tir-na- 
 n-og in lar-Connacht , where the waves sing 
 a careless song, and the sun shines only on 
 innocent faces. But in The Mother and 
 other stories we are on different ground, 
 and are told of “ the heavy and the weary 
 weight ” that lies on the hearts of the 
 Western poor. We see the tragic pride of 
 Gaelic culture that impels old Brigid of the 
 Songs to walk across Ireland to sing at the 
 Oireachta:^ in Dublin, only to die of hunger 
 and exhaustion at the end, the listless face 
 of the old tramp, who tells how through 
 the Dearg-Daol he had lost his luck, his 
 farm and his family, and had become “ a 
 walking man, and the roads of Connacht 
 before him, from that day to this”; and 
 even more significant is the story of the 
 death in prison of Coilin, with its under- 
 current of hatred for the foreign laws. The 
 manner of narration in these stories is brief 
 
 Xll 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 and severe ; there is scarcely a phrase too 
 many, and even purists would be hard set 
 to detect an alien note. The most perfect 
 instance seems to me to be the story of the 
 Dearg-Daol. 
 
 Of the little collection of poems, Suan- 
 traighe agus Goltraidhe (Songs of Sleep and 
 Sorrow), Mr. MacDonagh rightly said: 
 “ One need not ask if it be worth while 
 having books of such poetry. The pro- 
 duction of this is already a success for the 
 new literature.” The old forms, with their 
 full-sounding assonances and alliterations 
 are beautifully wrought, and the modern 
 thoughts, the latter-day enthusiasms and 
 dejections, when they come, never strike us 
 as intruders. To illustrate their beauty, 
 quotation in English would not serve my 
 purpose ; I will quote from the Irish 
 original a single verse from the poem, 
 A Chinn Aluinn : 
 
 A ghloir ionmhuin dob' is eal aoibhinn , 
 
 An fior go gcualas trem shuanaibh thu ? 
 
 No an fior an t-eolas ata dorn b he o-ghoin ? 
 
 Mo bhron , sa tuamba nil fuaim na guth! 
 
 Quite suddenly, in the second last of the 
 
 • • • 
 xm 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 collection, the image of Ireland stands out* 
 bowed beneath the weight of the ages, the 
 mother of Cuchulainn the valiant, but also 
 of shameful children who betrayed her, 
 lonely and imperious. And the last poem 
 is an exquisite farewell to the beauty that 
 is seen and heard and felt, before gathering 
 the pack and going the stern way whither 
 the service of Ireland pointed. 
 
 The plays, The Singer, The King* 
 The Master, and the last poems, The 
 Rebel, The Fool, The Mother, are 
 those of a man in whom meditation on 
 coming struggle, agony and death have 
 become one with life and art. They are 
 weighted with the concept of a nation 
 inheriting an original sin of slavery, for 
 whose salvation the death of one man is a 
 necessity. “ One man can free a nation 
 as one Man redeemed the world,” says 
 MacDara in The Singer. “ I will take 
 no pike, I will go into the battle with bare 
 hands, I will stand up before the Gall as 
 Christ hung naked before men on the tree ! ” 
 And the mother says : “ My son, MacDara, 
 is the Singer that has quickened the dead 
 years and all the quiet dust.” And the 
 
 xiv 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 sharp anguish of doubt is there too, the 
 ever-recurring thought of the apathy of the 
 nation, and the vision of those “ that cursed 
 me in their hearts for having brought death 
 into their houses,” of “the wise, sad faces of 
 the dead, and the keening of women.” But 
 the doubt comes from outside, it is not born 
 within the soul, and the stern resolution and 
 saeva indignatio conquer it and persist. The 
 mother is evoked in whose calendar of saints 
 the martyrs will be inscribed, who will 
 ponder at night in her heart in religious 
 quiet on “the little names that were familiar 
 once round her dead hearth.” And through 
 all, as if nature would have her revenge 
 for the over-strain, breaks in a flash the 
 love of the old-sought, fugitive beauty of 
 things, the 
 
 “ Little rabbits in a field at evening 
 Lit by a slanting sun, 
 
 Or some green hill where shadows drifted by. 
 Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath 
 sown 
 
 And soon would reap ; near to the gate of 
 Heaven ; 
 
 Or children with bare feet upon the sands 
 
 xv 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets 
 Of little towns in Connacht. ” 
 
 Taken in the order I have indicated, the 
 work of Padraic Pearse seems to me to 
 constitute a mystical book of the love of 
 Ireland. In losagan we have the tender 
 and satisfied love of the fervent novice, 
 delighting in the old-world, yet ever youth- 
 ful charm of the Gaelic race, untroubled by 
 the clouded day of maturity. We find in 
 An Matair , and in some of the poems 
 and plays the way of purgation by doubt 
 and suffering. In the last plays and poems 
 we reach unity and illumination, the glow 
 of the soul in the fire of martyrdom. And 
 all these states of love are interwoven, as 
 they should be, in the separate stages, though 
 a different one may have predominance in 
 each. I believe the generations of Irishmen 
 yet to be born into the national faith will 
 come to the reading of this book as to a kind 
 of Itinerarium Mentis ad Deum , a journey to 
 the realization of Ireland, past, present and 
 to come, a learning of all the love and 
 enthusiasm and resolve which that realiza- 
 tion implies: 
 
 xvi 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 “ Live in these conquering leaves ; live all 
 the same ; 
 
 And walk through all tongues one triumph- 
 ant flame. 
 
 Live here, great heart ; and love, and die, 
 and kill ; 
 
 And bleed and wound ; and yield and con- 
 quer still.” 
 
 Those who look in these pages for a 
 vision of Pagan Ireland, with its pre- 
 Christian gods and heroes, will be disap- 
 pointed. The old divinities and figures 
 of the sagas are there, and the remnants of 
 the old worship in the minds of the people 
 are delineated, but everything is over- 
 shadowed by the Christian concept, and 
 the religion that is found here centres in 
 Christ and Mary. The effect of fifteen 
 centuries of Christianity is not ignored or 
 despised. The ideas of sacrifice and atone- 
 ment, of the blood of martyrs that makes 
 fruitful the seed of the faith, are to be found 
 all through these writings ; nay, they have 
 here even more than their religious signifi- 
 cance, and become vitalizing factors in the 
 struggle for Irish nationality. The doubts 
 
 xvii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 and weaknesses which are described arc not 
 those of people who are inclined to return 
 to the former beliefs, but of men whose 
 souls are grown faint on account of the 
 lethargy which they see around them. For 
 years they have preached and laboured and 
 sung ; but the masses remain unmoved. 
 What wonder if they feel unable to repeat 
 with conviction : “ Think you not that I 
 can ask the Father, and He will give me 
 presently twelve legions of angels ? ” 
 
 No, the Ireland about which Pearse writes 
 is not the land of the early heroes, but of 
 people deeply imbued with the Christian 
 idea and will. And yet we feel that the 
 ancient and mediaeval and modern Gaelic 
 currents meet in him. By his life and death 
 he has become one with Cuchulainn and 
 Fionn and Oisin, with the early teachers, 
 terrible or gentle, of Christianity, with 
 Hugh of Dungannon and Owen Roe and 
 all the chieftains who fought against the 
 growing power of the Sassenach, with 
 Wolfe Tone and the United Irishmen, with 
 Rossa, O’Leary, and the Fenians. He will 
 appeal to the imagination of times to come 
 more than any of the rebels of the last 
 
 xviii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 hundred and thirty years, because in him all 
 the tendencies of Irish thought, culture and 
 nationality were more fully developed. His 
 name and deeds will be taught by mothers 
 to their children long before the time when 
 they will be learned in school histories. To 
 older people he will be a watchword in the 
 national fight, a symbol of the unbroken 
 continuity and permanence of the Gaelic 
 tradition. And they will think of him for- 
 ever in different ways, as a poet who sang 
 the songs of his country, as a soldier who 
 died for it, as a martyr who bore witness 
 wi th h is blood to the truth of his faith, as 
 a hero, a second Cuchulainn, who battled 
 with a divine frenzy to stem the waves of 
 the invading tide. 
 
 P. BROWNE. 
 
 Maynooth , 21st May , 1917. 
 
 x\x 
 
THE SINGER 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 MacDara, the Singer 
 Colm, his Brother 
 
 Maire ni Fhiannachta, Mother of 
 MacDara 
 Sighle 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn, a Schoolmaster 
 CUIMIN EANNA 
 Diarmaid of the Bridge 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 The wide , clean kitchen of a country house . 
 To the left a door , which when open , shows a 
 wild country with a background of lonely 
 hills ; to the right a fireplace, beside which 
 another door leads to a room . A candle 
 burns on the table . 
 
 Maire ni Fhiannachta , a sad , grey-haired 
 woman , £r spinning wool near the fire . Sigh/e, 
 a young girl , crouches in the ingle nook , 
 carding . *S/fo is bare-footed. 
 
 Maire. Mend the fire, Sighle, jewel. 
 Sighle. Are you cold ? 
 
 Maire. The feet of me are cold. 
 
 Sighle rises and mends the fire , putting on 
 more turf ; then she sits down again and 
 resumes her carding . 
 
 Sighle. You had a right to go to bed. 
 Maire. I couldn’t have slept, child. I 
 had a feeling that something was drawing 
 near to us. That something or somebody 
 was coming here. All day yesterday I 
 heard footsteps abroad on the street. 
 
 3 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Sighle. ’Twas the dry leaves. The 
 quicken trees in the gap were losing their 
 leaves in the high wind. 
 
 Maire. Maybe so. Did you think that 
 Colm looked anxious in himself last night 
 when he was going out? 
 
 Sighle. I may as well quench that candle. 
 The dawn has whitened. 
 
 She rises and quenches the candle ; then 
 resumes her place. 
 
 Maire. Did you think, daughter, that 
 Colm looked anxious and sorrowful in him- 
 self when he was going out ? 
 
 Sighle. I did. 
 
 Maire. Was he saying anything to you? 
 
 Sighle. He was. ( They work silently 
 for a few minutes ; then Sighle stops and 
 speaks .) Maire ni Fhiannachta, I think 
 
 I ought to tell you what your son said to 
 me. I have been going over and over it 
 in my mind all the long hours of the night. 
 It is not right for the two of us to be 
 sitting at this fire with a secret like that 
 coming between us. Will I tell you what 
 Colm said to me ? 
 
 Maire. You may tell me if you like* 
 Sighle girl. 
 
 4 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Sighle. He said to me that he was very- 
 fond of me. 
 
 Maire (who has stopped spinning ). Yes, 
 daughter ? 
 
 Sighle. And . . . and he asked me if 
 he came safe out of the trouble, would I 
 marry him. 
 
 Maire. What did you say to him ? 
 
 Sighle. I told him that I could not give 
 him any answer. 
 
 Maire. Did he ask you why you could 
 not give him an answer ? 
 
 Sighle. He did ; and I didn’t know what 
 to tell him. 
 
 Maire. Can you tell me ? 
 
 Sighle. Do you remember the day I first 
 came to your house, Maire ? 
 
 Maire. I do well. 
 
 Sighle. D oyou rememberhowlonely I was? 
 
 Maire. I do, you creature. Didn’t I 
 cry myself when the priest brought you in 
 to me ? And you caught hold of my skirt 
 and wouldn’t let it go, but cried till I 
 thought your heart would break. “ They’ve 
 put my mammie in the ground,” you kept 
 saying. “ She was asleep, and they put 
 her in the ground.” 
 
 5 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Sighle. And you went down on your 
 knees beside me and put your two arms 
 around me, and put your cheek against my 
 cheek and said nothing but “ God comfort 
 you ; God comfort you.” And when I 
 stopped crying a little, you brought me over 
 to the fire. Your two sons were at the fire, 
 Maire. Colm was in the ingle where I am 
 now; MacDara was sitting where you are. 
 MacDara stooped down and lifted me on 
 to his knee — I was only a weeshy child. 
 He stroked my hair. Then he began 
 singing a little song to me, a little song 
 that had sad words in it, but that had joy 
 in the heart of it, and in the beat of it ; 
 and the words and the music grew very 
 caressing and soothing like, . . . like 
 
 my mother’s hand when it was on my 
 cheek, or my mother’s kiss on my mouth 
 when I’d be half asleep — 
 
 Maire. Yes, daughter ? 
 
 Sighle. And it soothed me, and soothed 
 me; and I began to think that I was at home 
 again, and I fell asleep in MacDara’s arms 
 — oh, the strong, strong arms of him, with 
 his soft voice soothing me — when I woke 
 up long after that I was still in his arms 
 
 6 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 with my head on his shoulder. I opened 
 my eyes and looked up at him. He smiled 
 at me and said, “ That was a good, long 
 sleep.” I put up my face to him 
 
 to be kissed, and he bent down his head 
 and kissed me. He was so gentle, so 
 gentle. ( Maire cries silently .) I had no right 
 to tell you all this. God forgive me for 
 bringing those tears to you, Maire ni 
 Fhiannachta. 
 
 Maire. Whist, girl. You had a right 
 to tell me. Go on, jewel . . . my 
 
 boy, my poor boy ! 
 
 Sighle. I was only a weeshy child — 
 
 Maire. Eight years you were, no more, 
 the day the priest brought you into the house. 
 
 Sighle. How old was MacDara ? 
 
 Maire. He was turned fifteen. Fifteen 
 he was on St. MacDara’s day, the year 
 your mother died. > 
 
 Sighle. This house was as dear to me 
 nearly as my mother’s house from that day. 
 You were good to me, Maire ni Fhiannachta, 
 and your two boys were good to me, but — 
 
 Maire. Yes, daughter? 
 
 Sighle. MacDara was like sun and moon 
 to me, like dew and rain to me, like strength 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 and sweetness to me. I don’t know did 
 he know I was so fond of him. I think 
 he did, because — 
 
 Maire. He did know, child. 
 
 Sighle. How do you know that he knew ? 
 Did he tell you ? Did you know ? 
 
 Maire. 1 am his mother. Don’t I know 
 every fibre of his body ? Don’t I know 
 every thought of his mind ? He never told 
 me ; but well I knew. 
 
 Sighle. He put me into his songs. That 
 is what made me think he knew. My 
 name was in many a song that he made. 
 Often when I was at the fosaidheacht he 
 would come up into the green mam to me, 
 with a little song that he had made. It was 
 happy for us in the green mam that time. 
 
 Maire. It was happy for us all when 
 MacDara was here. 
 
 Sighle. The heart in the breast of me 
 nearly broke when they banished him 
 from us. 
 
 Maire. I knew it well. 
 
 Sighle. I used to lie awake in the night 
 with his songs going through my brain, and 
 the music of his voice. I used to call his 
 name up in the green mam . At Mass his 
 
 8 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 face used to come between me and the 
 white Host. 
 
 Maire. We have both been lonely for 
 him. The house has been lonely for him. 
 
 Sighle. Colm never knew I was so fond 
 of MacDara. When MacDara went away 
 Colm was kinder to me than ever, — but, 
 indeed, he was always kind. 
 
 Maire. Colm is a kind bov. 
 
 j 
 
 Sighle. It was not till yesterday he 
 told me he was fond of me ; I never 
 thought it, I liked him well, but I never 
 thought there would be word of marriage 
 between us. I don’t think he would have 
 spoken if it was not for the trouble coming. 
 He says it will be soon now. 
 
 Maire. It will be very soon. 
 
 Sighle. I shiver when I think of them 
 all going out to fight. They will go out 
 laughing : I see them with their cheeks 
 flushed and their red lips apart. And then 
 they will lie very still on the hillside, — so 
 still and white, with no red in their cheeks, 
 but maybe a red wound in their white 
 breasts, or on their white foreheads. Colm’s 
 hair will be dabbled with blood. 
 
 Maire. Whist, daughter. That is no 
 
 9 
 
 U 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 talk for one that was reared in this house. 
 
 I am his mother, and I do not grudge 
 him. 
 
 Sighle. Forgive me, you have known 
 more sorrow than I, and I think only of my 
 own sorrow. [She rises and kisses Maire.) I 
 am proud other times to think of so many 
 young men, young men with straight, strong 
 limbs, and smooth, white flesh, going out 
 into great peril because a voice has called 
 to them to right the wrong of the people. 
 Oh, I would like to see the man that has 
 set their hearts on fire with the breath of x 
 his voice ! They say that he is very 
 young. They say that he is one of our- 
 selves, — a mountainy man that speaks our 
 speech, and has known hunger and sorrow. 
 
 Maire. The strength and the sweetness 
 he has come, maybe, out of his sorrow. 
 
 Sighle. I heard Diarmaid of the Bridge 
 say that he was at the fair of Uachtar Ard 
 yesterday. There were hundreds in the 
 streets striving to see him. 
 
 Maire. I wonder would he be coming 
 here into Cois-Fhairrge, or is it into the 
 Joyce country he would go? I don’t know 
 but it’s his coming I felt all day yesterday, 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 and all night. I thought, maybe, it might 
 be — 
 
 Sighle. Who did you think it might be? 
 
 Maire. I thought it might be my son 
 was coming to me. 
 
 Sighle. Is it MacDara ? 
 
 Maire. Yes, MacDara. 
 
 Sighle. Do you think would he come 
 back to be with the boys in the trouble? 
 
 Maire. He would. 
 
 Sighle. Would he be left back now? 
 
 Maire. Who would let or stay him and 
 he homing like a homing bird ? Death 
 only; God between us and harm! 
 
 Sighle. Amen. 
 
 M aire. There is Colm in to us. 
 
 Sighle ( looking out of the window). Aye, 
 he’s on the street. 
 
 Maire. Poor Colm ! 
 
 The door opens and Colm comes in. He 
 is a lad of twenty. 
 
 Colm. Did you not go to bed, mother? 
 
 Maire. I did not, Colm. I was too 
 uneasy to sleep. Sighle kept me company 
 all night. 
 
 Colm. It’s a pity of the two of you to be 
 up like this. 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Maire. We would be more lonesome in 
 bed than here chatting. Had you many 
 boys at the drill to-night ? 
 
 Colm. We had, then. There were ten 
 and three score. 
 
 Maire. When will the trouble be, Colm ? 
 
 Colm. It will be to-morrow, or after to- 
 morrow ; or maybe sooner. There’s a man 
 expected from Galway with the word. 
 
 Maire. Is it the mountains you’ll take 
 to, or to march to Uachtar Ard or to 
 Galway ? 
 
 Colm. It’s to march we’ll do, I’m think- 
 ing. Diarmaid of the Bridge and Cuimin 
 Eanna and the master will be into us shortly. 
 We have some plans to make and the master 
 wants to write some orders. 
 
 Maire. Is it you will be their captain ? 
 
 Colm. It is, unless a better man comes in 
 my place. 
 
 Maire. What better man would come? 
 
 Colm. There is talk of the Singer coming. 
 He was at the fair of Uachtar Ard yesterday. 
 
 Maire. Let you put on the kettle, Sighle, 
 and ready the room. The master will be 
 asking a cup of tea. Will you lie down for 
 an hour, Colm ? 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Colm. I will not. They will be in on 
 us now. 
 
 Maire. Let you make haste, Sighle. 
 Ready the room. Here, give me the 
 kettle. 
 
 Sighle , who has brought a kettle full of 
 
 water , gives it to Maire , who hangs it over 
 
 the fire ; Sighle goes into the room . 
 
 Colm ( after a pause). Was Sighle talking 
 to you, mother ? 
 
 Maire. She was, son. 
 
 Colm. What did she say ? 
 
 Maire. She told me what you said to 
 her last night. You must be patient, Colm. 
 Don’t press her to give you an answer too 
 soon. She has strange thoughts in her 
 heart, and strange memories. 
 
 Colm. What memories has she ? 
 
 Maire. Many a woman has memories. 
 
 Colm. Sighle has no memories but of this 
 house and of her mother. What is she but 
 a child ? 
 
 Maire. And what are you but a child ? 
 Can’t you have patience ? Children have 
 memories, but the memories sometimes die. 
 Sighle’s memories have not died yet. 
 
 *3 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Colm. This is queer talk. What does 
 she remember ? 
 
 Maire. Whist, there’s someone on the 
 street. 
 
 Colm ( looking out of the window ). It’s 
 Cuimin and the master. 
 
 Maire. Be patient, son. Don’t vex vour 
 head. What are you both but children 
 yet ? 
 
 The door opens and Cuimin Ioanna and 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn come in. Cuimin is middle 
 
 aged ; Maoilsheachlainn past middle age , 
 
 turning grey , and a little stooped. 
 
 Cuimin and Maoilsheachlainn (entering). 
 God save all here. 
 
 Maire. God save you men. Will you 
 sit ? The kettle is on the boil. Give the 
 master the big chair, Colm. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn ( sitting down near the 
 fire on the chair which Colm places for him). 
 You’re early stirring, Maire. 
 
 Maire. I didn’t lie down at all, master. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Is it to sit up all 
 night you did ? 
 
 Maire. It is, then. Sighle kept me 
 company. 
 
 H 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Tis a pity of the 
 women of the world. Too good they are- 
 for us, and too full of care. I’m afraid that 
 there was many a woman on this mountain 
 that sat up last night. Aye, and many a~ 
 woman in Ireland. ’Tis women that keep 
 all the great vigils. 
 
 Maire ( wetting the tea). Why wouldn’t 
 we sit up to have a cup of tea ready for 
 you ? Won’t you go west into the room? 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. We’d as lief drink 
 it here beside the fire. 
 
 Maire. Sighle is readying the room. 
 You’ll want the table to write on, maybe. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. We’ll go west so. 
 
 Maire. Wait till Sighle has the table 
 laid. The tea will be drawn in a minute. 
 
 Colm ( to Maoilsheachlainn ) . Was there any 
 word of the messenger at the forge, master ? 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. There was not. 
 
 Cuimin. When we were coming up the 
 boreen I saw a man breasting Cnoc an 
 Teachta that I thought might be him. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. I don’t think it was 
 him. He was walking slowly, and sure the 
 messenger that brings that great story will 
 come on the wings of the wind. 
 
 *5 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Colm. Perhaps it was one of the boys 
 you saw going home from the drill. 
 
 Cuimin. No, it was a stranger. He 
 looked like a mountainy man that would 
 be coming from a distance. He might be 
 someone that was at the fair of Uachtar 
 Ard yesterday, and that stayed the evening 
 after selling. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Aye, there did a lot 
 stay, I’m told, talking about the word that’s 
 expected. 
 
 Cuimin. The Singer was there, I believe. 
 Diarmaid of the Bridge said that he spoke 
 to them all at the fair, and that there did a 
 lot stay in the town after the fair thinking 
 he’d speak to them again. They say he^ 
 has the talk of an angel. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. What sort is he to 
 look at ? 
 
 Cuimin. A poor man of the mountains. 
 Young they say he is, and pale like a man 
 that lived in cities, but with the dress 
 and the speech of a mountainy man ; shy x 
 in himself and very silent, till he stands up 
 to talk to the people. And then he has 
 the voice of a silver trumpet, and words so 
 beautiful that they make the people cry. 
 
 16 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 And there is terrible anger in him, for all 
 that he is shrinking and gentle. Diarmaid 
 said that in the Joyce country they think it 
 is some great hero that has come back 
 again to lead the people against the Gall, 
 or maybe an angel, or the Son of Mary 
 Himself that has come down on the earth. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn ( looking towards the 
 door). There’s a footstep abroad. 
 
 Maire ( who has been sitting very straight 
 in her chair listening intently). That is my 
 son’s step. 
 
 Colm. Sure, amn’t I here, mother ? 
 Maire. That is MacDara’s step. 
 
 All start and look first towards Maire , 
 then towards the door , the latch of which 
 has been touched. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. I wish it was Mac- 
 Dara, Maire. ’Tis maybe Diarmaid or the 
 mountainy man we saw on the road. 
 
 Maire. It is not Diarmaid. It is Mac- 
 Dara. 
 
 The door opens slowly and MacDara , a 
 young man of perhaps twenty five , dressed 
 like a man of the mountains , stands on the 
 threshold. 
 
 l 7 
 
 c 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 MacDara. God save all here. 
 
 All. And you, likewise. 
 
 Maire ( who has risen and is stretching out 
 her hands) . I felt you coming to me, little 
 son ! 
 
 MacDara ( springing to her and folding 
 her in his arms). Little mother ! little mother! 
 
 While they still embrace Sighle re-enters 
 
 from the room and stands still on the threshold 
 
 looking at MacDara . 
 
 Maire ( raising her head). Along all the 
 quiet roads and across all the rough moun- 
 tains, and through all the crowded towns, I 
 felt you drawing near to me. 
 
 MacDara. Oh, the long years, the long 
 years ! 
 
 Maire. I am crying for pride at the sight 
 of you. Neighbours, neighbours, this is 
 MacDara, the first child that I bore to my 
 husband. 
 
 MacDara ( kissing Cohn). My little 
 brother ! (To Cuimin ), Cuimin Eanna ! 
 (To Maoilsheachlainn ), Master ! (They shake 
 hands.) 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Welcome home. 
 
 Cuimin. Welcome home. 
 
 1 8 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 MacDara {looking round). Where is . . 
 
 [He sees Sighle in the doorway .) Sighle ! 
 [He approaches her and takes her hand.) 
 Little, little Sighle ! . . . I 
 
 Mother, sometimes whem-I was in the 
 middle of great crowds, I have seen this 
 fireplace, and you standing with your 
 hands stretched out to me as you stood a 
 minute ago, and Sighle in the doorway of 
 the room ; and my heart has cried out to 
 you. 
 
 Maire. I used to hear the crying of your v 
 heart. Often and often here by the fireside 
 or abroad on the street I would stand and 
 say, “ MacDara is crying out to me now. 
 The heart in him is yearning.” And this 
 while back I felt you draw near, draw near, 
 step by step. Last night I felt you very 
 near to me. Do you remember me saying, 
 Sighle, that I felt someone coming, and that 
 I thought maybe it might be MacDara ? 
 
 Sighle. You did. 
 
 Maire. I knew that something glorious 
 was coming to the mountain with to-day’s 
 dawn. Red dawns and white dawns I have 
 seen on the hills, but none like this dawn. 
 Come in, jewel, and sit down awhile in the 
 
 1 9 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 room. Sighle has the table laid. The tea 
 is drawn. Bring in the griddle-cakes, 
 Sighle. Come in, master. Come in, 
 Cuimin. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. No, Maire, we’ll 
 sit here a while. You and the children 
 will like to be by yourselves. Go in, west, 
 children. Cuimin and I have plans to 
 make. We’re expecting Diarmaid of the 
 Bridge in. 
 
 Maire. We don’t grudge you a share in 
 our joy, master. Nor you, Cuimin. 
 
 Cuimin. No, go on in, Maire. We’ll 
 go west after you. We want to talk here. 
 
 Maire. Well, come in when you have 
 your talk out. There’s enough tea on the 
 pot for everybody. In with you, children. 
 
 MacDara , Cohn , Sighle and Maire go 
 
 into the room , Sighle carrying the griddle - 
 
 cakes and Maire the tea . 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. This is great news, 
 MacDara to be back. 
 
 Cuimin. Do you think will he be with 
 
 us ? 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Is it a boy with that 
 gesture of the head, that proud, laughing 
 
 20 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 gesture, to be a coward or a stag ? You 
 don’t know the heart of this boy, Cuimin ; 
 the love that’s in it, and the strength. You 
 don’t know the mind he has, so gracious, so 
 full of wisdom. I taught him when he was 
 only a little ladeen. ’Tis a pity that he had 
 ever to go away from us. And yet, I think, 
 his exile has made him a better man. His 
 soul must be full of great remembrances. 
 
 Cuimin. I never knew rightly why he 
 was banished. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Songs he was mak- 
 ing that were setting the people’s hearts 
 on fire. 
 
 Cuimin. Aye, I often heard his songs. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. They were full of 
 terrible love for the people and of great 
 anger against the Gall. Some said there was 
 irreligion in them and blasphemy against 
 God. But I never saw it, and I don’t 
 believe it. There are some would have us 
 believe that God is on the side of the Gall. 
 Well, word came down from Galway or 
 from Dublin that he would be put in 
 prison, and maybe excommunicated if he 
 did not go away. He was only a gossoon 
 of eighteen, or maybe twenty. The priest 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 counselled him to go, and not to bring 
 sorrow on his mother’s house. He went 
 away one evening without taking farewell 
 or leave of anyone. 
 
 Cuimin. Where has he been since, I 
 don’t know ? 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. In great cities, I’d 
 say, and in lonely places. He has the face 
 of a scholar, or of a priest, or of a clerk, on 
 him. He must have read a lot, and thought 
 a lot, and made a lot of songs. 
 
 Cuimin. I don’t know is he as strong a 
 boy as Colm. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. He’s not as robust 
 in himself as Colm is, but there was great 
 strength in the grip of his hand. I’d say 
 that he’d wield a caman or a pike with any 
 boy on the mountain. 
 
 Cuimin. He’ll be a great backing to us 
 if he is with us. The people love him on 
 account of the songs he used to make. 
 There’s not a man that won’t do his bidding. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. That’s so. And his 
 counsel will be useful to us. He’ll make 
 better plans than you or I, Cuimin. 
 
 Cuimin. I wonder what’s keeping Diar- 
 maid. 
 
 22 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Some news that was 
 at the forge or at the priest’s house, maybe. 
 He went east the road to see if there was 
 sign of a word from Galway. 
 
 Cuimin. I’ll be uneasy till he comes. 
 (He gets up and walks to the window and looks 
 out ; Maoilsheachlainn remains deep in thought 
 by the fire . Cuimin returns from the window 
 and continues .) Is it to march we’ll do, or 
 
 to fight here in the hills ? 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Out Maam Gap 
 we’ll go and meet the boys from the Joyce 
 country. We’ll leave some to guard the Gap 
 and some at Leenane. We’ll march the 
 road between the lakes, through Maam and 
 Cornamona and Clonbur to Cong. Then 
 we’ll have friends on our left at Ballinrobe 
 and on our right at Tuam. What is there 
 to stop us but the few men the Gall have 
 in Clifden ? 
 
 Cuimin. And if they march against us, 
 we can destroy them from the mountains. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. We can. It’s into 
 a trap they’ll walk. 
 
 MacDara appears in the doorway of the 
 room with a cup of tea and some griddle- 
 cake in his hand. 
 
 23 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 MacDara. I’ve brought you out a cup 
 of tea, master. I thought it long you were 
 sitting here. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn ( taking it). God bless 
 you, MacDara. 
 
 MacDara. Go west, Cuimin. There’s 
 a place at the table for you now. 
 
 Cuimin ( rising and going in). I may as well. 
 Give me a call, boy, when Diarmaid comes. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. This is a great day, 
 MacDara. 
 
 MacDara. It is a great day and a glad 
 day, and yet it is a sorrowful day. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. How can the day of 
 your home-coming be sorrowful ? 
 
 MacDara. Has not every great jov a 
 great sorrow at its core ? Does not the 
 joy of home-coming enclose the pain of 
 departing? I have a strange feeling, master, 
 I have only finished a long journey, and I 
 feel as if I were about to take another long 
 journey. I meant this to be a home-coming, 
 but it seems only like a meeting on the 
 way. . . . When my mother stood up 
 
 to meet me with her arms stretched out to 
 me, I thought of Mary meeting her Son 
 on the Dolorous Way. 
 
 24 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. That was a queer 
 thought. What was it that drew you home ? 
 
 MacDara. Some secret thing that I have 
 no name for. Some feeling that I must see N 
 my mother, and Colm, and Sighle, again. 
 
 A feeling that I must face some great 
 adventure with their kisses on my lips. I 
 seemed to see myself brought to die before 
 a great crowd that stood cold and silent ; 
 and there were some that cursed me in their 
 hearts for having brought death into their 
 houses. Sad dead faces seemed to reproach 
 me. Oh, the wise, sad faces of the dead — 
 and the keening of women rang in my ears. 
 But I felt that the kisses of those three, warm 
 on my mouth, would be as wine in my blood, 
 strengthening me to bear what men said, 
 and to die with only love and pity in my 
 heart, and no bitterness. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. It was strange that 
 you should see yourself like that. 
 
 MacDara. It was foolish. One has 
 strange, lonesome thoughts when one is in x 
 the middle of crowds. But I am glad of 
 that thought, for it drove me home. I felt 
 so lonely away from here. . . . My 
 
 mother’s hair is greyer than it was. 
 
 2 5 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Aye, she has been 
 ageing. She has had great sorrows : your 
 father dead and you banished. Colm is 
 grown a fine, strapping boy. 
 
 MacDara. He is. There is some shy- 
 ness between Colm and me. We have not 
 spoken yet as we used to. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. When bovs are 
 
 j 
 
 brought up together and then parted for a 
 long time there is often shyness between 
 them when they meet again. . . . Do 
 
 you find Sighle changed? 
 
 MacDara. No; and, yet — yes. Master, 
 she is very beautiful. I did not know a 
 woman could be so beautiful. I thoughts 
 that all beauty was in the heart, that beauty 
 was a secret thing that could be seen only 
 with the eyes of reverie, or in a dream of 
 some unborn splendour. I had schooled 
 myself to think physical beauty an unholy 
 thing. I tried to keep my heart virginal ; 
 and sometimes in the street of a city when 
 I have stopped to look at the white limbs of 
 some beautiful child, and have felt the pain 
 that the sight of great beauty brings, I have 
 wished that I could blind my eyes so that I 
 might shut out the sight of everything that 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 tempted me. At times I have rebelled 
 against that, and have cried aloud that God 
 would not have filled the world with beauty, 
 even to the making drunk of the sight, if 
 beauty were not of heaven. But, then, 
 again, I have said, “ This is the subtlest 
 form of temptation ; this is to give to one’s 
 own desire the sanction of God’s will.” And 
 I have hardened my heart and kept myself 
 cold and chaste as the top of a high moun- 
 tain. But now I think I was wrong, for 
 beauty like Sighle’s must be holy. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Surely a good and 
 comely girl is holy. You question yourself 
 too much, MacDara. You brood too 
 much. Do you remember when you were 
 a gossoon, how you cried over the wild duck 
 whose wing you broke by accident with a 
 stone, and made a song about the crane 
 whose nest you found ravished, and about 
 the red robin you found perished on the 
 doorstep ? And how the priest laughed 
 because you told him in confession that you 
 had stolen drowned lilies from the river ? 
 
 MacDara [laughing). Aye, it was at a 
 station in Diarmaid of the Bridge’s, and 
 when the priest laughed my face got red* 
 
 2 7 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 and everyone looked at us, and I got up and 
 ran out of the house. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn [laughing). I remem- 
 ber it well. We thought it was what you 
 told him you were in love with his house- 
 keeper. 
 
 MacDara. It’s little but I was, too. 
 She used to give me apples out of the priest’s 
 apple-garden. Little brown russet apples, 
 the sweetest I ever tasted. I used to think 
 that the apples of the Hesperides that the 
 Children of Tuireann went to quest must 
 have been like them. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. It’s a wonder but 
 you made a poem about them. 
 
 MacDara. I did. I made a poem in 
 Deibhidhe of twenty quatrains. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Did you make many 
 songs while you were away ? 
 
 MacDara. When I went away first my 
 heart was as if dead and dumb and I could 
 not make any songs. After a little while, 
 when I was going through the sweet, green 
 country, and I used to come to little towns 
 where I’d see children playing, my heart 
 seemed to open again like hard ground that 
 would be watered with rain. The first song 
 
 28 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 that I made was about the children that I 
 saw playing in the street of Kilconnell. 
 The next song that I made was about an 
 old dark man that I met on the causeway 
 of Aughrim. I made a glad, proud song 
 when I saw the broad Shannon flow under 
 the bridge of Athlone. I made many a 
 song after that before I reached Dublin. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. How did it fare 
 with you in Dublin ? 
 
 MacDara. I went to a bookseller and 
 gave him the book of my songs to print. 
 He said that he dared not print them ; that 
 the Gall would put him in prison and break 
 up his printing-press. I was hungry and I 
 wandered through the streets. Then a man 
 who saw me read an Irish poster on the 
 wall spoke to me and asked me where I 
 came from. I told him my story. In a 
 few days he came to me and said that he 
 had found work for me to teach Irish and 
 Latin and Greek in a school. I went to 
 the school and taught in it for a year. I 
 wrote a few poems and they were printed in 
 a paper. One day the Brother who was 
 over the school came to me and asked me 
 was it I that had written those poems. I 
 
 29 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 said it was. He told me then that I could 
 not teach in the school any longer. So I 
 went away. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. What happened to 
 you after that ? 
 
 MacDara. I wandered in the streets 
 until I saw a notice that a teacher was 
 wanted to teach a boy. I went to the 
 house and a lady engaged me to teach her 
 little son for ten shillings a week. Two 
 years I spent at that. The boy was a win- 
 some child, and he grew into my heart. I 
 thought it a wonderful thing to have the 
 moulding of a mind, of a life, in my hands. 
 Do you ever think that, you who are a 
 schoolmaster ? 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. It’s not much time 
 I get for thinking. 
 
 MacDara. I have done nothing all my 
 life but think : think and make poems. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. If the thoughts and 
 the poems are good, that is a good life’s 
 work. 
 
 MacDara. Aye, they say that to be busy 
 with the things of the spirit is better than 
 to be busy with the things of the body. 
 But I am not sure, master. Can the Vision 
 
 3 ° 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Beautiful alone content a man ? I think a 
 true man is divine in this, that, like God, 
 he must needs create, he must needs do. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Is not a poet a 
 maker ? 
 
 MacDara. No, he is only a voice that 
 cries out, a sigh that trembles into rest. 
 The true teacher must suffer and do. He 
 must break bread to the people : he must 
 go into Gethsemane and toil up the steep of 
 Golgotha. . . . Sometimes I think that 
 
 to be a woman and to serve and suffer as 
 women do is to be the highest thing. 
 Perhaps that is why I felt it proud and 
 wondrous to be a teacher, for a teacher does 
 that. I gave to the little lad I taught the 
 very flesh and blood and breath that were 
 my life. I fed him on the milk of my 
 kindness ; I breathed into him my spirit. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Did he repay you 
 for that great service? 
 
 MacDara. Can any child repay its 
 mother? Master, your trade is the most 
 sorrowful of all trades. You are like a poor 
 mother who spends herself in nursing chil- 
 dren who go away and never come back to 
 her. 
 
 3 1 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Was your little pupil 
 untrue to you ? 
 
 MacDara. Nay; he was so true to me 
 that his mother grew jealous of me. A good 
 mother and a good teacher are always jealous 
 of each other. That is why a teacher's 
 trade is the most sorrowful of all trades. If 
 he is a bad teacher his pupil wanders away 
 from him. If he is a good teacher his 
 pupil’s folk grow jealous of him. My little 
 pupil’s mother bade him choose between 
 her and me. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Which did he 
 choose ? 
 
 MacDara. He chose his mother. How 
 could I blame him ? 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. What did you do ? 
 
 MacDara. I shouldered my bundle and 
 took to the roads. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. How did it fare with 
 you ? 
 
 MacDara. It fares ill with one who is 
 so poor that he has no longer even his 
 dreams. I was the poorest shuiler on the 
 roads of Ireland, for I had no single illusion 
 left to me. I could neither pray when I 
 came to a holy well nor drink in a public- 
 
 32 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 house when I had got a little money. One 
 seemed to me as foolish as the other. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Did you make no 
 songs in those days? 
 
 MacDara. I made one so bitter that 
 when I recited it at a wake they thought I 
 was some wandering, wicked spirit, and 
 they put me out of the house. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Did you not pray at 
 all? 
 
 MacDara. Once, as I knelt by the cross 
 of Kilgobbin, it became clear to me, with 
 an awful clearness, that there was no God. 
 Why pray after that ? I burst into a fit of 
 laughter at the folly of men in thinking that 
 there is a God. I felt inclined to run through 
 the villages and cry aloud, “ People, it is all 
 a mistake ; there is no God.” 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. MacDara, this grieves 
 me. 
 
 MacDara. Then I said, “ why take 
 away their illusion ? If they find out that 
 there is no God, their hearts will be as 
 lonely as mine.” So I walked the roads 
 with my secret. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. MacDara, I am sorry 
 for this. You must pray, you must pray. 
 
 33 d - 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 You will find God again. He has only 
 hidden His face from you. 
 
 MacDara. No, He has revealed His 
 Face to me. His Face is terrible and sweet, 
 Maoilsheachlainn. I know It well now. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Then you found 
 Him again ? 
 
 MacDara. His Name is suffering. His 
 Name is loneliness. His Name is abjec- 
 tion. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. I do not rightly 
 understand you, and yet I think you are 
 saying something that is true. 
 
 MacDara. I have lived with the home- 
 less and with the breadless. Oh, Maoilsheach- 
 lainn, the poor, the poor ! I have seen such 
 sad childings, such bare marriage feasts, such 
 candleless wakes ! In the pleasant country 
 places I have seen them, but oftener in the 
 dark, unquiet streets of the city. My heart 
 has been heavy with the sorrow of mothers, 
 my eyes have been wet with the tears of 
 children. The people, Maoilsheachlainn, 
 the dumb, suffering people : reviled and 
 outcast, yet pure and splendid and faithful. 
 In them I saw, or seemed to see again, the 
 Face of God. Ah, it is a tear-stained face, 
 
 34 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 blood-stained, defiled with ordure, but it is 
 the Holy Face ! 
 
 There is a page of MS. missing here , 
 which evidently covered the exit to the room 
 oj MacDara and the entrance of Diarmaid . 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. What news have you 
 with you ? 
 
 Diarmaid. The Gall have marched from 
 Clifden. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Is it into the hills? 
 Diarmaid. By Letterfrack they have 
 come, and the Pass of Kylemore, and 
 through Glen Inagh. ^ 
 
 Colm. And no word from Galway yet ? 
 Diarmaid. No word, nor sign of a word. 
 Colm. They told us to wait for the word. 
 We’ve waited too long. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. The messenger may 
 have been caught. Perhaps the Gall are 
 marching from Galway too. 
 
 Colm. We’d best strike ourselves, so. 
 Cuimin. Is it to strike before the word is 
 given ? 
 
 35 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Colm. Is it to die like rats you’d have us 
 because the word is not given ? 
 
 Cuimin. Our plans are not finished ; our 
 orders are not here. 
 
 Colm. Our plans will never be finished. 
 Our orders may never be here. 
 
 Cuimin. We’ve no one to lead us. 
 
 Colm. Didn’t you elect me your captain ? 
 
 Cuimin. We did : but not to bid us rise 
 out when the whole country is quiet. We 
 were to get the word from the men that are 
 over the people. They’ll speak when the 
 time comes. 
 
 Colm. They should have spoken before 
 the Gall marched. 
 
 Cuimin. What call have you to say what 
 they should or what they should not have 
 done ? Am I speaking lie or truth, men ? 
 Are we to rise out before the word comes? 
 I say we must wait for the word. What do 
 you say, Diarmaid, you that was our mes- 
 senger to Galway ? 
 
 Diarmaid. I like the way Colm has 
 spoken, and we may live to say that he 
 spoke wisely as well as bravely ; but I’m 
 slow to give my voice to send out the boys 
 of this mountain — our poor little handful — 
 
 3 6 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 to stand with their poor pikes against the 
 big guns of the Gall. If we had news that 
 they were rising in the other countrysides ; 
 but we’ve got no news. 
 
 Cuimin. What do you say, master? 
 You’re wiser than any of us. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. I say to Colm that 
 a greater one than he or I may give us the 
 word before the day is old. Let you have 
 patience, Colm — 
 
 Colm. My mother told me to have 
 patience this morning, when MacDara’s 
 step was on the street. Patience, and I 
 after waiting seven years before I spoke, and 
 then to speak too late ! 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. What are you saying 
 at all ? 
 
 Colm. I am saying this, master, that I’m 
 going out the road to meet the Gall, if only 
 five men of the mountain follow me. 
 
 Sigh/e has appeared in the doorway and 
 stands terror-stricken . 
 
 Cuimin. You will not, Colm. 
 
 Colm. I will. 
 
 Diarmaid. This is throwing away men’s 
 lives. 
 
 Colm. Men’s lives get very precious to 
 
 37 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 them when they have bought out their land. 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Listen tome,Colm — 
 
 Colm goes out angrily , and the others follow 
 him , trying to restrain him. Sighle comes to 
 the fire , where she kneels. 
 
 Sighle (as in a reverie ). “ They will go 
 out laughing,” I said, but Colm has gone 
 out with anger in his heart. And he was 
 so kind. . . . Love is a terrible thing. 
 
 There is no pain so great as the pain of 
 love. ... I wish MacDara and I were 
 children in the green mam and that we did 
 not know that we loved each other. 
 
 Colm will lie dead on the road to Glen 
 Inagh, and MacDara will go out to die. 
 
 There is nothing in the world but 
 love and death. 
 
 MacDara comes out of the room. 
 MacDara (in a low voice'). She has 
 dropped asleep, Sighle. 
 
 Sighle. She watched long, MacDara. 
 We all watched long. 
 
 MacDara. Every long watch ends. 
 Every traveller comes home. 
 
 Sighle. Sometimes when people watch it 
 is death that comes. 
 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 MacDara. Could there be a rovalier 
 
 J 
 
 coming, Sighle ? . . . Once I wanted 
 
 life. You and I to be together in one place 
 always : that is what I wanted. But now I 
 see that we shall be together for a little time 
 only ; that I have to do a hard, sweet thing, 
 and that I must do it alone. And because 
 I love you I would not have it different. 
 
 I wanted to have your kiss on my 
 lips, Sighle, as well as my mother’s and 
 Colm’s. But I will deny myself that. 
 ( Sighle is crying.) Don’t cry, child. Stay 
 near my mother while she lives — it may be 
 for a little while of years. You poor women 
 suffer so much pain, so much sorrow, and 
 yet you do not die until long after your 
 strong, young sons and lovers have died. 
 
 Ma ire's voice is heard from the room , 
 crying : MacDara ! 
 
 MacDara. She is calling me. 
 
 He goes into the room ; Sighle cries on her 
 knees by the fire. After a little while voices 
 are heard outside , the latch is lifted , and 
 Maoilsheachlainn comes in. 
 
 Sighle. Is he gone, master? 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Gone out the road 
 
 39 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 with ten or fifteen of the young lads. Is 
 MacDara within still? 
 
 Sighle. He was here in the kitchen 
 a while. His mother called him and he 
 went back to her. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn goes over and sits down 
 near the fire. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. I think, maybe, that 
 Colm did what was right. We are too old 
 to be at the head of work like this. Was 
 MacDara talking to you about the trouble ? 
 
 Sighle. He said that he would have to do 
 a hard, sweet thing, and that he would have 
 to do it alone. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. I’m sorry but I 
 called him before Colm went out. 
 
 A murmur is heard as oj a crowd of men 
 talking as they come up the hill. 
 
 Sighle. What is that noise like voices? 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. It is the boys coming 
 up the hillside. There was a great crowd 
 gathering below at the cross. 
 
 The voices swell loud outside the door. Cuimin 
 Eanna , Diarmaid , and some others come in. 
 
 Diarmaid. The men say we did wrong 
 to let Colm go out with that little handful. 
 They say we should all have marched. 
 
 40 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 Cuimin. And I say Colm was wrong to 
 go before he got his orders. Are we all to 
 go out and get shot down because one man 
 is hotheaded ? Where is the plan that was 
 to come from Galway ? 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Men, I’m blaming 
 myself for not saying the thing I’m going 
 to say before we let Colm go. We talk 
 about getting word from Galway. What 
 would you say, neighbours, if the man that 
 will give the word is under the roof of this 
 house. 
 
 Cuimin. Who is it you mean ? 
 Maoilsheachlainn {going to the door op 
 the room and throwing it open ). Let you rise 
 out, MacDara, and reveal yourself to the 
 men that are waiting for your word. 
 
 One of the Newcomers. Has MacDara 
 come home ? 
 
 MacDara comes out of the room : Maire 
 ni Fhiannachta stands behind him in the 
 doorway . 
 
 D i arm aid {starting up from where he has 
 been sitting ). That is the man that stood 
 among the people in the fair of Uachtar Ard ! 
 {He goes up to MacDara and kisses his hand .) 
 
 41 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 I could not get near you yesterday, MacDara, 
 with the crowds that were round you. 
 What was on me that didn’t know you ? 
 Sure, I had a right to know that sad, proud 
 head. Maire ni Fhiannachta, men and 
 women yet unborn will bless the pains of 
 your first childing. 
 
 Maire ni Fhiannachta comes forward 
 slowly and takes her son s hand and kisses it. 
 Maire (in a low voice). Soft hand that 
 played at my breast, strong hand that 
 will fall heavy on the Gall, brave hand 
 that will break the yoke ! Men of 
 this mountain, my son MacDara is the 
 Singer that has quickened the dead years 
 and all the quiet dust ! Let the horsemen 
 that sleep in Aileach rise up and follow him 
 into the war ! Weave your winding-sheets, 
 women, for there will be many a noble 
 corpse to be waked before the new moon ! 
 
 Each comes forward and kisses 
 his hand. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Let you speak, 
 MacDara, and tell us is it time. 
 
 MacDara. Where is Colm? 
 
 Diarmaid. Gone out the road to fight the 
 Gall, himself and fifteen. 
 
 42 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 MacDara. Has not Colm spoken by his 
 deed already ? 
 
 Cuimin. You are our leader. 
 
 MacDara. Your leader is the man that 
 spoke first. Give me a pike and I will 
 follow Colm. Why did you let him go out 
 with fifteen men only? You are fourscore 
 on the mountain. 
 
 Diarmaid. We thought it a foolish thing 
 for fourscore to go into battle against four 
 thousand, or, maybe, forty thousand. 
 
 MacDara. And so it is a foolish thing. 
 Do you want us to be wise ? 
 
 Cuimin. This is strange talk. 
 
 MacDara. I will talk to you more 
 strangely yet. It is for your own souls’ 
 sakes I would have had the fourscore go, 
 and not for Colm’s sake, or for the battle’s 
 sake, for the battle is won whether you go 
 or not. 
 
 A cry is heard outside. One rushes in 
 terror-stricken. 
 
 The Newcomer. Young Colm has fallen 
 at the Glen foot. 
 
 MacDara. The fifteen were too many. 
 Old men, you did not do your work well 
 enough. You should have kept all back but 
 
 43 
 
THE SINGER 
 
 one. One man can free a people as one 
 Man redeemed the world. I will take no 
 pike, I will go into the battle with bare 
 hands. I will stand up before the Gall as 
 Christ hung naked before men on the tree! 
 
 He moves through them , pulling off his 
 clothes as he goes. As he reaches the threshold 
 a great shout goes up from the people . He 
 passes out and the shout dies slowly away . 
 The other men follow him slowly. Maire 
 ni Fhiannachta sits down at the fre , where 
 Sighle still crouches . 
 
 THE CURTAIN DESCENDS. 
 
 44 
 
THE KTNG 
 
 A MORALITY 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Giolla na Naomh (“the Servant 
 of the Saints" ’) , a Little Boy 
 Boys 
 
 An Abbot 
 
 Monks 
 
 A King 
 
 Heroes 
 
 Gillies 
 
 Women 
 
 PLACE — An ancient monastery 
 
THE KING 
 
 A green before the monastery . The voices 
 of monks are heard chanting . Through the 
 
 chanting breaks the sound op a trumpet. A 
 little boy runs out from the monastery and 
 stands on the green looking in the direction 
 whence the trumpet has spoken . 
 
 The Boy. Conall, Diarmaid, Giolla na ,, K 
 Naomh ! 
 
 The voices of other boys answer him. 
 
 First Boy. There is a host marching f 
 from the North. 
 
 Second Boy. Where is it? ‘ ^ 
 
 First Boy. See it beneath you in the 
 glen. 
 
 Third Boy. It is the King’s host. 
 
 Fourth Boy. The King is going to 
 battle. 
 
 The trumpet speaks again , nearer. The 
 boys go upon the rampart of the monastery. 
 
 The murmur of a marching host is heard. 
 
 First Boy. I see the horses and the 
 riders. 
 
 47 
 
THE KING 
 
 Second Boy. I see the swords and the 
 spears. 
 
 Fourth Boy. I see the standards and 
 the banners. 
 
 Third Boy. I see the King’s banner. 
 
 Fourth Boy. I see the King ! 
 
 First Boy. Which of them is the 
 King ? 
 
 Fourth Boy. The tall comely man on 
 the black horse. 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. Let us salute the 
 Ring. 
 
 The Boys ( with the voice of one). Take 
 victory in battle and slaying, O King ! 
 
 The voices af warriors are heard ac- 
 claiming the King as the host marches past 
 
 with din of weapons and music of trumpet 
 
 and pipes . Silence succeeds. 
 
 First Boy. I would like to be a King. 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. Why ? 
 
 First Boy. The King has gold and 
 silver. 
 
 Second Boy. He has noble jewels in his 
 jewel-house. 
 
 Third Boy. He has slender steeds and 
 gallant hounds. 
 
 48 
 
THE KING 
 
 Fourth Boy. He has a keen-edged, gold- 
 hiked sword and a mighty-shafted, blue- 
 headed spear and a glorious red-emblazoned 
 shield. I saw him once in my father’s 
 house. 
 
 First Boy. What was he like ? 
 
 Fourth Boy. He was tall and noble. 
 He was strong and broad-shouldered. He 
 had long fair hair. He had a comely 
 proud face. He had two piercing grey 
 eyes. A white vest of satin next his skin. 
 A very beautiful red tunic, with a white 
 hood, upon his body. A royal mantle of 
 purple about him. Seven colours upon him, 
 between vest and tunic and hood and mantle. 
 A silver brooch upon his breast. A kingly 
 diadem upon his head, and the colour of 
 gold upon it. Two great wings rising 
 above his head, as white as the two wings of 
 a sea-gull and as broad as the two wings of an 
 eagle. He was a gallant man. 
 
 Second Boy. And what was the look of 
 his face ? 
 
 Third Boy. Did he look angry, stern ? 
 
 Fourth Boy. He did, at times. 
 
 First Boy. Had he a laughing look ? 
 
 Fourth Boy. He laughed only once. 
 
 49 
 
 E 
 
THE KING 
 
 Second Boy. How did he look mostly ? 
 Stern or laughing ? 
 
 Fourth Boy. He looked sorrowful. When 
 he was talking to the kings and the heroes 
 he had an angry and a laughing look every 
 second while, but when he was silent he 
 was sorrowful. 
 
 First Boy. What sorrow can he have ? 
 
 Fourth Boy. I do not know. The 
 thousands he has slain, perhaps. 
 
 Second Boy. The churches he has 
 plundered. 
 
 Third Boy. The battles he has lost. 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. Alas, the poor King ! 
 
 Second Boy. You would not like to be 
 a King, Giolla na Naomh ? 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. I would not. I would 
 rather be a monk that I might pray for the 
 King. 
 
 Fourth Boy. I may have the kingship 
 of this country when I am a man, for my 
 father is of the royal blood. 
 
 Second Boy. And my father is of the 
 royal blood, too. 
 
 Third Boy. Aye, and mine. 
 
 Fourth Boy. I will not let the kingdom 
 go with either of you. It is mine ! 
 
 5 ° 
 
THE KING 
 
 Second Boy. It is not, but mine 
 Third Boy. It matters not whose it is, 
 for I will have it ! 
 
 Second Boy. No, nor anyone of your 
 house ! 
 
 Fourth Boy [seizing a switch of sally and 
 brandishing it). I will ply the venom of my 
 sword upon you ! I will defend my king- 
 dom against my enemies ! Giolla na 
 Naomh, pray for the King ! 
 
 A bell sounds from the monastery. 
 Giolla na Naomh. The bell is ringing. 
 
 The people of the monastery come upon 
 the green in ones and twos , the Abbot last. 
 The boys gather a little apart. Distant 
 sounds of battle are heard. 
 
 The Abbot. My children, the King is 
 giving battle to his foes. 
 
 First Monk. This King has lost every 
 battle into which he has gone up to this. 
 
 The Abbot. In a vision that I saw last 
 night as I knelt before my God it was re- 
 vealed to me that the battle will be broken 
 on the King again. 
 
 Second Monk. My grief ! 
 
 Third Monk. My grief ! 
 
 5 1 
 
THE KING 
 
 First Monk. Tell us, Father, the cause 
 of these unnumbered defeats. 
 
 The Abbot. Do you think that an offer- 
 ing will be accepted from polluted hands ? 
 This King has shed the blood of the 
 innocent. He has made spoils and forays. 
 He has oppressed the poor. He has for- 
 saken the friendship of God and made 
 friends with evil-doers. 
 
 First Monk. That is true. Yet it is a 
 good fight that the King fights now, for he 
 gives battle for his people. 
 
 The Abbot. It is an angel that should 
 be sent to pour out the wine and to break 
 the bread of this sacrifice. Not by an 
 unholy King should the noble wine that 
 is in the veins of good heroes be spilt ; 
 not at the behest of a guilty king should 
 fair bodies be mangled. I say to you that 
 the offering will not be accepted. 
 
 First Monk. And are all guilty of the 
 sins of the King ? If the King is defeated 
 it’s grief will be for all. Why must all 
 suffer for the sins of the King ? On the 
 King the eric ! 
 
 The Abbot. The nation is guilty of the 
 sins of its princes. I say to you that this 
 
 5 2 
 
THE KING 
 
 nation shall not be freed until it chooses for 
 itself a righteous King. 
 
 Second Monk. Where shall a righteous 
 King be found ? 
 
 The Abbot. I do not know, unless he 
 be found among these little boys. 
 
 The boys have drawn near and are 
 gathered about the Abbot . 
 
 First Monk. And shall the people be in 
 bondage until these little lads are fit for 
 battle ? It is not the King’s case I pity, 
 but the case of the people. I heard women 
 mourning last night. Shall women be 
 mourning in this land till doom ? 
 
 Third Monk. As I went out from the 
 monastery yesterday there was a dead man 
 on the verge of the wood. Battle is terrible. 
 
 Second Monk. No, battle is glorious ! 
 While we were singing our None but 
 now, Father, I heard, through the psalmody 
 of the brethren, the voice of a trumpet. 
 My heart leaped, and I would fain have 
 risen from the place where I was and gone 
 after that gallant music. I should not have 
 cared though it were to my death I went. 
 
 The Abbot. That is the voice of a young 
 man. The old wait for death, but the 
 
 53 
 
THE KING 
 
 young go to meet it. If into this quiet 
 place, where monks chant and children play, 
 there were to come from yonder battle- 
 field a bloodstained man, calling upon all 
 to follow him into the battle-press, there is 
 none here that would not rise and follow 
 him, but I myself and the old brother that 
 rings our bell. There is none of you, 
 young brothers, no, nor any of these little 
 lads, that would not rise from me and go 
 into the battle. That music of the fighters 
 makes drunk the hearts of young men. 
 
 Second Monk. It is good for young men 
 to be made drunk. 
 
 First Monk. Brother, you speak wicked- 
 ness. 
 
 The Abbot. There is a heady ale which 
 all young men should drink, for he who 
 has not been made drunk with it has not 
 lived. It is with that ale that God makes 
 drunk the hearts of the saints. I would not 
 forbid you your intoxication, O young men ! 
 
 First Monk. This is not plain, Father. 
 
 The Abbot. Do you think if that terrible, 
 beautiful voice for which young men strain 
 their ears were to speak from yon place 
 where the fighters are, and the horses, and 
 
 54 
 
THE KING 
 
 the music, that I would stay you, did ye 
 rise to obey it ? Do you think I would 
 grudge any of you ? Do you think I would 
 grudge the dearest of these little boys, to 
 death calling with that terrible, beautiful 
 voice ? I would let you all go, though I and 
 the old brother should be very lonely here. 
 
 Second Boy. Giolla na Naomh would 
 not go, Father. 
 
 The Abbot. Why do you say that ? 
 
 Second Boy. He said that he would 
 rather be a monk. 
 
 The Abbot. Would you not go into 
 the battle, Giolla na Naomh ? 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. I would. I would 
 go as a gilly to the King, that I might serve 
 him when all would forsake him. 
 
 The Abbot. But it is to the saints you are 
 gilly, Giolla na Naomh, and not to the King. 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. It were not much for 
 the poor King to have one little gilly that 
 would not forsake him when the battle would 
 be broken on him and all forsaking him. 
 
 The Abbot. This child is right. While 
 we think of glory he thinks of service. 
 
 An outcry as of grief and dismay is heard 
 from the battlefield . 
 
 55 
 
THE KING 
 
 First Monk. I fear me that the King is 
 beaten ! 
 
 The Abbot. Go upon the rampart and 
 tell us what you see. 
 
 First Monk (having gone upon the ram- 
 part ). A man comes towards us in flight. 
 
 Second Monk. What manner of man is 
 he ? 
 
 First Monk. A bloodstained man, all 
 spent, his feet staggering and stumbling 
 under him. 
 
 Second Monk. Is he a man of the King’s 
 people ? 
 
 First Monk. He is. 
 
 A soldier comes upon the green all spent . 
 
 The Soldier. The King is beaten ! 
 
 The Monks. My sorrow, my sorrow ! 
 
 The Soldier. The King is beaten, I say 
 to you ! O ye of the books and the bells, 
 small was your help to us in the hard battle ! 
 The King is beaten ! 
 
 The Abbot. Where is the King? 
 
 The Soldier. He is flying. 
 
 The Abbot. Give us the description of 
 the battle. 
 
 The Soldier. I cannot speak. Let a 
 drink be given to me. 
 
 5 6 
 
THE KING 
 
 The Abbot. Let a drink be given to this 
 man. 
 
 The little hoy who is called Giolla na 
 Naomh gives him a drink of water . 
 
 The Abbot. Speak to us now and give 
 us the description of the battle. 
 
 The Soldier. Each man of us was a 
 fighter of ten. The King was a fighter of 
 a hundred. But what availed us ourvalour ? 
 We were beaten and we fled. Hundreds 
 lie sole to sole on the lea. 
 
 The Monks. My sorrow ! My sorrow ! 
 
 A din grows . 
 
 Second Monk. Who comes? 
 
 First Monk. The King ! 
 
 Riders and gillies come upon the green pell- 
 mell , the King in their midst. The King 
 goes upon his knees before the Abbot , and 
 throws his sword upon the ground . 
 
 The King. Give me your curse, O man 
 of God, and let me go to my death ! I am 
 beaten. My people are beaten. Ten battles 
 have I fought against my foes, and every 
 battle of them has been broken on me. It 
 is I who have brought God’s wrath upon 
 this land. Ask your God not to wreak his 
 
 57 
 
THE KING 
 
 anger on my people henceforth, but to 
 wreak it on me. Have pity on my people, 
 
 0 man of God ! 
 
 The Abbot. God will have pity on them. 
 The King. God has forsaken me. 
 
 The Abbot. You have forsaken God. 
 The King. God has forsaken my people. 
 The Abbot. He has not, neither will He. 
 He will save this nation if it choose a 
 righteous King. 
 
 The King. Give it then a righteous 
 King. Give it one of your monks or one 
 of these little lads to be its King. The 
 battle on your protection, O man of God ! 
 
 The Abbot. Not so, but on the protec- 
 tion of the sword of a righteous King. 
 Speak to me, my children, and tell me who 
 among you is the most righteous ? 
 
 First Monk. I have sinned. 
 
 Second Monk. And I. 
 
 Third Monk. Father, we have all sinned. 
 The Abbot. I, too, have sinned. All 
 that are men have sinned. How soon we 
 exchange the wisdom of children for the 
 folly of men ! O wise children, busy with 
 your toys while we are busy with our sins ! 
 
 1 see clearly now. I shall find a sinless 
 
 53 
 
THE KING 
 
 King among these little boys. Speak to 
 me, boys, and tell me who is most innocent 
 among you ? 
 
 The Boys (with one voice). Giolla na 
 Naomh. 
 
 The Abbot. The little lad that waits 
 upon all ! Ye are right. The last shall be 
 first. Giolla na Naomh, will you be King 
 over this nation ? 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. I am too young, 
 Father, I am too weak. 
 
 The Abbot. Come hither to me, child. 
 ( The child goes over to him.) O fosterling that 
 I have nourished, if I ask this thing of you, 
 will you not do it ? 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. I will be obedient 
 to you, Father. 
 
 The Abbot. Will you turn your face 
 into the battle ? 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. I will do the duty 
 of a King. 
 
 The Abbot. Little one, it may be that 
 your death will come of it. 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. Welcome is death 
 if it be appointed to me. 
 
 The Abbot. Did I not say that the 
 young seek death ? They are spendthrift 
 
 59 
 
THE KING 
 
 of all that we hoard jealously ; they pursue 
 all that we shun. The terrible, beautiful 
 voice has spoken to this child. O herald 
 death, you shall be answered ! I will not 
 grudge you my fosterling. 
 
 The King. Abbot, I will fight my own 
 battles : no child shall die for me ! 
 
 The Abbot. You have given me your 
 sword, and I give it to this child. God 
 has spoken through the voice of His ancient 
 herald, the terrible, beautiful voice that 
 comes out of the heart of battles. 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. Let me do this 
 little thing, King. I will guard your banner 
 well. I will bring you back your sword 
 after the battle. I am only your little gilly, 
 who watches while the tired King sleeps. 
 I will sleep to-night while you shall watch. 
 
 The King. My pity, my three pities! 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. We slept last night 
 while you were marching through the dark 
 country. Poor King, your marchings have 
 been long. My march will be very short. 
 
 The Abbot. Let this gentle asking pre- 
 vail with you, King. I say to you that 
 God has spoken. 
 
 The King. I do not understand your God. 
 
 66 
 
THE KING 
 
 The Abbot. Who understands Him ? He 
 demands not understanding, but obedience. 
 This child is obedient, and because he is 
 obedient, God will do mighty things through 
 him. King, you must yield to this. 
 
 The King. I yield, I yield ! Woe is 
 me that I did not fall in yonder onset ! 
 
 The Abbot. Let this child be stripped 
 ... v*>vy; r t r* i rr 
 
 that the raiment or a King may be put 
 
 about him. ( The child is stripped of his 
 
 clothing.) Let a royal vest be put next the 
 
 skin of the child. ( A royal vest is put upon 
 
 him.) Let a royal tunic be put about him. 
 
 (A royal tuiiic is put about him above the vest , 
 
 and sandals upon his feet.) Let the royal 
 
 mantle be put about him. ( The King takes 
 
 of the royal mantle and it is put upon the child.) 
 
 Let a royal diadem be put upon his head. 
 
 ( The King takes off the royal diadem and it is 
 
 put upon the child' s head.) Let him be given 
 
 the shield of the King. ( The shieldbearer 
 
 holds up the shield.) A blessing on this 
 
 shield ! May it be firm against foes ! 
 
 The Heroes. A blessing on this shield! 
 
 The shield is put on the child' s left arm. 
 
 The Abbot. Let him be given the spear 
 of the King. ( The spearbearer comes forward 
 
 61 
 
THE KING 
 
 and holds up the spear.) A blessing on this 
 spear ! May it be sharp against foes ! 
 
 The Heroes. A blessing on this spear ! 
 
 The Abbot. Let him be given the sword 
 of the King. ( The King lifts his sword and 
 girds it round the child'' s waist . Giolla na 
 
 Naomh draws the sword and holds it in his right 
 hand.) A blessing on this sword ! May it 
 be hard to smite foes ! 
 
 The Heroes. A blessing on this sword! 
 
 The Abbot. I call this little lad King, 
 and I put the battle under his protection in 
 the name of God. 
 
 The King ( kneeling before the boy). I do 
 homage to thee, O King, and I put the 
 battle under thy protection. 
 
 The Heroes, Monks, Boys, etc. (kneeling). 
 We do homage to thee, O King, and we 
 put the battle under thy protection. 
 
 Giolla na Naomh. I undertake to 
 sustain the battle in the name of God. 
 
 The Abbot. Let a steed be brought him. 
 (. A steed is brought .) Let the banner of the 
 
 King be unfurled. (The banner is unfurled.) 
 Turn thy face to the battle, O King ! 
 
 Giolla na Naomh (kneeling). Bless me, 
 Father. 
 
 62 
 
THE KING 
 
 The Abbot. A blessing on thee, little one. 
 The Heroes, etc. (with one voice). Take 
 victory in battle and slaying, O King. 
 
 The little King mounts , and , with the 
 heroes and soldiers and gillies , rides to the 
 battle. The Abbot , the King , the Monks , 
 and the Boys watch the in. 
 
 The Abbot. King, I have given you the 
 noblest jewel that was in my house. I 
 loved yonder child. 
 
 The King. Priest, I have never received 
 from my tributary kings a kinglier gift. 
 
 First Monk. They have reached the 
 place of battle. 
 
 The Abbot. O strong God, make strong 
 the hand of this child. Make firm his foot. 
 Make keen his sword. Let the purity of 
 his heart and the humbleness of his spirit be 
 unto him a magnifying of courage and an 
 exaltation of mind. Ye angels that fou ght 
 the ancient battles, ye veterans of God, 
 make a battle-pen about him and fight before 
 him with flaming swords. 
 
 The Monks and Boys. Amen, Amen. 
 The Abbot. O God, save this nation by 
 the sword of the sinless boy. 
 
 The King. And O Christ, that was 
 
 6 3 
 
THE KING 
 
 crucified on the hill, bring the child safe 
 from the perilous battle. 
 
 The Abbot. King, King, freedom is not 
 purchased but with a great price. [A 
 trumpet speaks .) Let the description of the 
 
 battle be given us. 
 
 The First Monk and the Second Monk go 
 upon the rampart . 
 
 First Monk. The two hosts are face to 
 face. Another trumpet speaks . 
 
 Second Monk. That is sweet ! It is the 
 trumpet of the King ! Shouts. 
 
 First Monk. The King’s host raises 
 shouts. Other shouts. 
 
 Second Monk. The enemy answers them. 
 
 First Monk. The hosts advance against 
 each other. 
 
 Second Monk. They fight. 
 
 First Monk. Our people are yielding. 
 
 Third Monk. Say not so. 
 
 Second Monk. My grief, they are 
 yielding. A trumpet speaks. 
 
 Third Monk. Sweet again ! It is timely 
 spoken, O trumpet of the King ! 
 
 First Monk. The King’s banner is going 
 into the battle ! 
 
 Second Monk. I see the little King ! 
 
 64 
 
THE KING 
 
 Third Monk. Is he going into the battle ? 
 
 First Monk. Yes. 
 
 The Monks and Boys (with one voice). 
 Take victory in battle and slaying, O King ! 
 
 Second Monk. It is a good fight now. 
 
 First Monk. Two seas have met on the 
 plain. 
 
 Second Monk. Two raging seas ! 
 
 First Monk. One sea rolls back. 
 
 Second Monk. It is the enemy that 
 retreats ! 
 
 First Monk. The little King goes 
 through them. 
 
 Second Monk. He goes through them 
 like a hawk through small birds. 
 
 First Monk. Yea, like a wolf through a 
 flock of sheep on a plain. 
 
 Second Monk. Like a torrent through a 
 mountain gap. 
 
 First Monk. It is a road of rout before 
 him. 
 
 Second Monk. There are great uproars 
 in the battle. It is a roaring path down 
 which the King rides. yj- 
 
 First Monk. O golden head above the 
 slaughter ! O shining, terrible sword of the 
 King! 
 
 6 5 
 
 F 
 
THE KING 
 
 Second Monk. The enemy flies ! 
 
 First Monk. They are beaten ! They 
 are beaten ! It is a red road of rout ! Raise 
 shouts of exultation ! 
 
 Second Monk. My grief! 
 
 First Monk. My grief! My grief! 
 
 The Abbot. What is that ? 
 
 First Monk. The little King is down! 
 
 The Abbot. Has he the victory ? 
 
 First Monk. Yes, but he himself is 
 down. I do not see his golden head. I 
 do not see his shining sword. My grief! 
 They raise his body from the plain. 
 
 The Abbot. Is the enemy flying ? 
 
 Second Monk. Yes, they fly. They 
 are pursued. They are scattered. They 
 are scattered as a mist would be scattered. 
 They are no longer seen on the plain. 
 
 The Abbot. It’s thanks to God ! ( Keening 
 is heard.) Thou hast been answered, O 
 terrible voice ! Old herald, my foster child 
 has answered ! 
 
 Third Monk. They bear hithera dead child. 
 
 The King. He said that he would sleep 
 to-night and that I should watch. 
 
 Heroes come upon the green bearing the 
 
 body of Giolla na Naomh on a bier ; there 
 
 66 
 
THE KING 
 
 are women keening it. The bier is laid in 
 the centre of the green . 
 
 The King. He has brought me back my 
 sword. He has guarded my banner well. 
 
 The Abbot ( lifting the sword from the 
 bier). Take the sword. 
 
 The King. No, I will let him keep it. 
 A King should sleep with a sword. This 
 was a very valiant King. (He takes the 
 sword from the Abbot and lays it again upon 
 the bier . He kneels.) I do homage to thee, 
 O dead King, O victorious child ! I kiss 
 thee, O white body, since it is thy purity 
 that hath redeemed my people. (He kisses 
 the forehead of Giolla na Naomh. They 
 commence to keen again.) 
 
 The Abbot. Do not keen this child, for 
 he hath purchased freedom for his people. 
 Let shouts of exultation be raised and let a 
 canticle be sung in praise of God. 
 
 The body is borne into the monastery with 
 a Te Deum. 
 
 THE SCENE CLOSES. 
 
 6 7 
 
THE MASTER 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 Ciaran, the Master 
 Pupils : 
 
 IoLLANN BEAG 
 Art 
 Breasal 
 Maine 
 Ronan 
 Ceallach 
 Daire, the King 
 Messenger 
 
 The Archangel Michael 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 A little cloister in a woodland . The 
 
 subdued sunlight of a forest place comes 
 through the arches . On the left , one arch 
 gives a longer vista where the forest opens 
 and the sun shines upon a far hill. In 
 the centre of the cloister two or three steps 
 lead to an inner place , as it were a little 
 chapel or cell . 
 
 Art, Breasal, and Maine are busy with 
 a game of jackstones about the steps . They 
 
 play silently . 
 
 Ronan enters from the left . 
 
 Ronan. Where is the Master? 
 
 Art. He has not left his cell yet. 
 
 Ronan. He is late. Who is with him, Art ? 
 Art. I was with him till a while ago. 
 When he had finished his thanksgiving he 
 told me he had one other little prayer to 
 say which he could not leave over. He 
 said it was for a soul that was in danger. I 
 left him on his knees and came out into the 
 sunshine. 
 
 7 * 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Maine. Aye, you knew that Breasal and 
 I were here with the jackstones. 
 
 Breasal. I served his Mass yesterday, and 
 he stayed praying so long after it that I fell 
 asleep. I did not stir till he laid his hand 
 upon my shoulder. Then I started up and 
 said I, “Is that you, little mother?” He 
 laughed and said he, “No, Breasal, it’s no 
 one so good as your mother.” 
 
 Ronan. He is merry and gentle this 
 while back, although he prays and fasts 
 longer than he used to. Little Iollann says 
 he tells him the merriest stories. 
 
 Breasal.. He is fond of little Iollann. 
 
 Maine. Aye ; when Iollann is late, or 
 when he is inattentive, the Master pretends 
 not to notice it. 
 
 Breasal. Well, Iollann is only a little 
 lad. 
 
 Maine. He is more like a little maid, 
 with his fair cheek that reddens when the 
 Master speaks to him. 
 
 Art. Faith, you wouldn’t call him a 
 little maid when you’d see him strip to 
 swim a river. 
 
 Ronan. Or when you’d see him spring 
 up to meet the ball in a hurley match. 
 
 72 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Maine. He has, certainly, many accom- 
 plishments. 
 
 Breasal. He has a high, manly heart. 
 
 Maine. He has a beautiful white body, 
 and, therefore, you all love him ; aye, the 
 Master and all. We have no woman here 
 and so we make love to our little Iollann. 
 
 Ronan {laughing). Why, I thrashed him 
 ere-yesterday for putting magories down my 
 neck ! 
 
 Maine. Men sometimes thrash their 
 women, Ronan. It is one of the ways of 
 loving. 
 
 Art. Maine, you have been listening to 
 some satirist making satires. There was 
 once a Maine that was called Maine Honey- 
 mouth. You will be called Maine Bitter- 
 Tongue. 
 
 Maine. Well, I’ve won this game of 
 jackstones. Will you play another ? 
 
 Ceallach {enters hastily ). Lads, do you 
 know what I have seen ? 
 
 Art. What is it, Ceallach ? 
 
 Ceallach. A host of horsemen riding 
 through the dark of the wood. A grim 
 host, with spears. 
 
 Maine. The King goes hunting. 
 
 73 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Ceallach. My grief for the noble deer 
 that the King hunts ! 
 
 Breasal. What deer is that ? 
 
 Ceallach. Our Master, Ciaran. 
 
 Ronan. I heard one of the captains say 
 that the cell was to be surrounded. 
 
 Art. But why does the King come 
 against Ciaran ? 
 
 Ceallach. It is the Druids that have 
 incited him. They say that Ciaran is over- 
 turning the ancient law of the people. 
 
 Maine. The King has ordered him to 
 leave the country. 
 
 Breasal. Aye, there was a King’s Mes- 
 senger here the other day who spoke long 
 to the Master. 
 
 Art. It is since then that the Master 
 has been praying so long every day. 
 
 Ronan. Is he afraid that the King will 
 kill him ? 
 
 Art. No, it is for a soul that is in danger 
 that he prays. Is it the King’s soul that 
 is in danger ? 
 
 Maine. Hush, the Master is coming. 
 
 Ciaran ( comes out from the inner place ; 
 the pupils rise). Are all here? 
 
 Breasal. Iollann Beag has not come yet. 
 
 74 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Ciaran. Not yet? 
 
 Ceallach. Master, the King’s horsemen 
 are in the wood. 
 
 Ciaran. I hope no evil has chanced to 
 little Iollann. 
 
 Maine. What evil could chance to him ? 
 
 Ceallach. Master, the King is seeking 
 you in the wood. 
 
 Ciaran. Does he not know where my 
 cell is ? 
 
 Breasal. The King has been stirred up 
 against you, Master, rise and fly before the 
 horsemen surround the cell. 
 
 Ciaran. No, if the King seeks me he 
 will find me here. ... I wish little 
 Iollann were come. ( The voice of Iollann 
 Beag is heard singing . All listen .) That is 
 his voice. 
 
 Art. He always comes singing. 
 
 Maine. Aye, he sings profane songs in 
 the very church porch. 
 
 Ronan. Which is as bad as if one 
 were to play with jackstones on the church 
 steps. 
 
 Ciaran. I am glad little Iollann has 
 come safe. 
 
 Iollann Beag comes into the cloister singing . 
 
 75 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 IoLLANN Be AG (sWgs). 
 
 We watch the wee ladybird fly far away, 
 With an oro and an iero and an umbo ero. 
 
 Art. Hush, Iollann. You are in God’s 
 
 Iollann Beag. Does God not like music? 
 Why then did he make the finches and the 
 chafers ? 
 
 Maine. Your song is profane. 
 
 Iollann Beag. I didn’t know. 
 
 Ciaran. Nay, Maine, no song is profane 
 unless there be profanity in the heart. But 
 why do you come so late, Iollann Beag? 
 
 Iollann Beag. There was a high oak 
 tree that I had never climbed. I went up 
 to its top, and swung myself to the top of 
 the next tree. I saw the tops of all the 
 trees like the green waves of the sea. 
 
 Ciaran. Little truant ! 
 
 Iollann Beag. I am sorry, Master. 
 
 Ciaran. Nay, I am not vext with you. 
 But you must not climb tall trees again at 
 lesson time. We have been waiting for 
 you. Let us begin our lesson, lads. 
 
 He sits down . 
 
 Ceallach. Dear Master, I ask you to fly 
 
 76 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 from this place ere the King’s horsemen 
 close you in. 
 
 Ciaran. My boy, you must not tempt 
 me. He is a sorry champion who forsakes 
 his place of battle. This is my place of battle. 
 You would not have me do a coward thing? 
 
 Art. But the King has many horsemen. 
 It is not cowardly for one to fly before a 
 host. 
 
 Ciaran. Has not the high God captains 
 and legions ? What are the King’s horse- 
 men to the heavenly riders? 
 
 Ceallach. O my dear Master ! — 
 
 Ronan. Let be, Ceallach. You cannot 
 move him. 
 
 Ciaran. Of what were we to speak 
 to-day ? They have sat down around him. 
 
 Art. You said you would speak of the 
 friends of Our Lord. 
 
 Ciaran. Aye, I would speak of friendship 
 and kindly fellowship. Is it not a sad thing 
 that every good fellowship is broken up ? 
 No league that is made among men has more 
 than its while, its little, little while. Even 
 that little league of twelve in Galilee was 
 broken full soon. The shepherd was struck 
 and the sheep of the flock scattered. The 
 
 77 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 hardest thing Our dear Lord had to bear 
 was the scattering of His friends. 
 
 Iollann Beag. Were none faithful to 
 Him? 
 
 Ciaran. One man only and a few women. 
 
 Iollann Beag. Who was the man ? 
 
 Ceallach. I know ! It was John, the 
 disciple that He loved. 
 
 Ciaran. Aye, John of the Bosom they 
 call him, for he was Iosa’s bosom friend. 
 Can you tell me the names of any others of 
 His friends? 
 
 Art. There was James, his brother. 
 
 Ronan. There was Lazarus, for whom 
 He wept. 
 
 Breasal. There was Mary, the poor 
 woman that loved Him. 
 
 Maine. There was her sister Martha, who 
 busied herself to make Him comfortable ; 
 and the other Mary. 
 
 Ceallach. Mary and Martha ; but that 
 other Mary is only a name. 
 
 Ciaran. Nay, she was the mother of the 
 sons of Zebedee. She stands for all lowly, 
 hidden women, all the nameless women of 
 the world who are just the mothers of their 
 children. And so we name her one of the 
 
 78 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 three great Marys, with poor Mary that 
 sinned, and with Mary of the Sorrows, the 
 greatest of the Marys. What other friends 
 can you tell me of? 
 
 Iollann Beag. There was John the Bap- 
 tist, His little playmate. 
 
 Ciaran. That is well said. Those two 
 Johns were good comrades to Iosa. 
 
 Ronan. There was Thomas. 
 
 Ciaran. Poor, doubting Thomas. I am 
 glad you did not leave him out. 
 
 Maine. There was Judas who betrayed 
 Him. 
 
 Art. There was Peter who — 
 
 Iollann Beag. Aye, good Peter of the 
 Sword ! 
 
 Ciaran. Nay, Iollann, it is Paul that 
 carries a sword. 
 
 Iollann Beag. Peter should have a sword, 
 too. I will not have him cheated of his 
 sword ! It was a good blow he struck ! 
 
 Breasal. Yet the Lord rebuked him for it. 
 
 Iollann Beag. The Lord did wrong to 
 rebuke him. He was always down on 
 Peter. 
 
 Ciaran. Peter was fiery, and the Lord 
 was very gentle. 
 
 79 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Iollann Beag. But when He wanted a 
 rock to build His church on He had to go 
 to Peter. No John of the Bosom then, but 
 the old swordsman. Paul must yield his 
 sword to Peter. I do not like that Paul. 
 
 Ciaran. Paul said many hard things and 
 many dark things. When you understand 
 him, Iollann, you will like him. 
 
 Maine. Let him not arrogate a sword 
 merely because his head was cut off, and 
 Iollann will tolerate him. 
 
 Ciaran. Who has brought me a poem 
 to-day? You were to bring me poems of 
 Christ’s friends. 
 
 Breasal. I have made a Song for Mary 
 Magdalene. Shall I say it to you? 
 
 Ciaran. Do, Breasal. 
 
 Breasal [ chants ). 
 
 O woman of the gleaming hair 
 
 (Wild hair that won men’s gaze to thee), 
 Weary thou turnest from the common stare. 
 For the shuiler Christ is calling thee. 
 
 O woman, of the snowy side, 
 
 Many a lover hath lain with thee, 
 
 Yet left thee sad at the morning tide ; 
 
 But thy lover Christ shall comfort thee. 
 
 80 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 O woman with the wild thing’s heart, 
 
 Old sin hath set a snare for thee ; 
 
 In the forest ways forspent thou art, 
 
 But the hunter Christ shall pity thee. 
 
 O woman spendthrift of thyself, 
 
 Spendthrift of all the love in thee, 
 
 Sold unto sin for little pelf, 
 
 The captain Christ shall ransom thee. 
 
 O woman that no lover’s kiss 
 
 (Tho’ many a kiss was given thee) 
 
 Could slake thy love, is it not for this 
 The hero Christ shall die for thee ? 
 
 Ciaran That is a good song, Breasal. 
 What you have said is true, that love is a 
 very great thing. I do not think faith will 
 be denied to him that loves. 
 
 Iollann was to make me a song to-day, too. 
 
 Iollann Beag. I have made only a little 
 rann. I couldn’t think of rhymes for a 
 big song. 
 
 Ciarnn . What do you call your rann ? 
 
 Iollann Beag. It is the Rann of the 
 Little Playmate. It is a rann that John the 
 Baptist made when he was on the way to 
 losa’s house one day. 
 
 Ciaran. Sing it to us, Iollann. 
 
 8 1 
 
 G 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Iollann (sings) : 
 
 Young Iosa plays with me every day 
 (With an oro and an iero) 
 
 Tig and Pookeen and Hide-in-the-Hay 
 (With an oro and an iero.) 
 
 We race in the river with otters gray, 
 
 We climb the tall trees where red squirrels 
 play, 
 
 We watch the wee lady-bird fly far away, 
 (With an oro and an iero and an imho ero). 
 
 A knocking is heard . 
 Ciaran. Run and open the postern, 
 Iollann. 
 
 Ceallach. Master, this may be the 
 King’s people. 
 
 Ciaran. If it be, Iollann will let them 
 in. Iollann Be ag goes to the door . 
 
 Ceallach. Why have good men such 
 ? 
 
 A King s Messenger appears upon the 
 threshold. Iollann Beag holds the curtain oj 
 the door while the Messenger speaks . 
 
 The Messenger. Who in this house is 
 Ciaran ? 
 
 Ciaran. I am Ciaran. 
 
 82 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 The Messenger. I bring you greeting 
 from the King. 
 
 Ciaran. Take back to him my greeting. 
 
 The Messenger. The King has come to 
 make the hunting of this wood. 
 
 Ciaran. It is the King’s privilege to 
 hunt the woods of the cantred. 
 
 The Messenger. Not far from here is 
 a green glade of the forest in which the 
 King with his nobles and good men, his 
 gillies and his runners, has sat down to meat. 
 
 Ciaran. May it be a merry sitting for 
 them. 
 
 The Messenger. It has seemed to the 
 King an unroyal thing to taste of the cheer 
 of this greenwood while he is at enmity 
 with you ; for he has remembered the old 
 saying that friendship is more welcome at 
 meat than ale or music. Therefore, he has 
 sent me to say to you that he has put all 
 enmity out of his heart, and that in token 
 thereof he invites you to share his forest 
 feast, such as it is, you and your pupils. 
 
 Ciaran. The King is kind. I would 
 like well to come to him, but my rule 
 forbids me to leave this house. 
 
 The Messenger. The King will take 
 
 83 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 badly any refusal. It is not usual to refuse 
 a King’s invitation. 
 
 Ciaran. When I came to this place, after 
 journeying many long roads of land and sea, 
 I said to myself : “ I will abide here hence- 
 forth, this shall be the sod of my death.” 
 And I made a vow to live in this little 
 cloister alone, or with a few pupils, I who 
 had been restless and a wanderer, and a 
 seeker after difficult things; the King will 
 not grudge me the loneliness of my cloister. 
 
 The Messenger. I will say all this to the 
 King. These lads will come with me? 
 
 Ciaran. Will ye go to the King’sfeast,lads ? 
 
 Breasal. May we go, Master. 
 
 Ciaran. I will not gainsay you. 
 
 Maine. It will be a great thing to sit at 
 the King’s table. 
 
 Ceallach. Master, it may turn aside the 
 King’s displeasure for your not going if we 
 go in your name. We may, perchance, 
 bring the King here, and peace will be 
 bound between you. 
 
 Ciaran. May God be near you in the 
 places to which you go. 
 
 Ceallach. I am loath to leave you alone. 
 Master. 
 
 84 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Ciaran . Little Iollann will stay with 
 me. Will you not, little Iollann. 
 
 Iollann Beag looks yearningly towards the 
 
 Messenger and the others as if he would fain 
 
 go; then he turns to Ciaran . 
 
 Iollann Beag. I will. 
 
 Ciaran ( caressing him). That is my 
 good little lad. 
 
 Art. We will bring you back some of 
 the King’s mead, Iollann. 
 
 Iollann Beag. Bring me some of his 
 apples and his hazel-nuts. 
 
 Ronan. We will, and, maybe, a roast 
 capon, or a piece of venison. 
 
 They all go out laughing . Ceallach turns 
 
 back in the door . 
 
 Ceallach. Good-bye, Master. 
 
 Ciaran. May you go safe, lad. (To 
 Iollann ). You are my whole school now, 
 Iollann. 
 
 Iollann (sitting down at his knee). Do 
 you think the King will come here ? 
 
 Ciaran. Yes, I think he will come. 
 
 Iollann. I would like to see him. Is he 
 a great, tall man ? 
 
 Ciaran. I have not seen him for a long 
 time ; not since he and I were lads. 
 
 85 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Iollann. Were you friends? 
 
 Ciaran. We were fostered together. 
 
 Iollann. Is he a wicked King? 
 
 Ciaran. No ; he has ruled this country 
 well. His people love him. They have 
 gone into many perilous places with him, 
 and he has never failed them. 
 
 Iollann. Why then does he hate you ? 
 Why do Ceallach and the others fear that 
 he may do you harm? 
 
 Ciaran. For twenty years Daire and I 
 have stood over against each other. When 
 we were at school we were rivals for the 
 first place. I was first in all manly games ; 
 Daire was first in learning. Everyone said 
 “ Ciaran will be a great warrior and Daire 
 will be a great poet or a great teacher.” 
 And yet it has not been so. I was nearly 
 as good as he in learning, and he was nearly 
 as good as I in manly feats. I said that I 
 would be his master in all things, and he 
 said that he would be my master. And we 
 strove one against the other. 
 
 Iollann Beag. Why did you want to be 
 his master? 
 
 Ciaran. I do not know. I thought that 
 I should be happy if I were first and Daire 
 
 86 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 only second. But Daire was always first. 
 I sought out difficult things to do that I 
 might become a better man than he : I went 
 into far countries and won renown among 
 strange peoples, but very little wealth and 
 no happiness ; I sailed into seas that no man 
 before me had sailed into, and saw islands 
 that only God and the angels had seen 
 before me ; I learned outland tongues and 
 read the books of many peoples and their 
 old lore ; and when I came back to my own 
 country I found that Daire was its king, 
 and that all men loved him. Me they had 
 forgotten. 
 
 Iollann Beag. Were you sad when you 
 came home and found that you were forgotten ? 
 
 Ciaran. No, I was glad. I said, “ This 
 is a hard thing that I have found to do, to 
 live lonely and unbeloved among my own 
 kin. Daire has not done anything as hard as 
 this.” In one of the cities that I had sailed 
 to I had heard of the true, illustrious God, 
 and of men who had gone out from warm 
 and pleasant houses, and from the kindly 
 faces of neighbours to live in desert places, 
 where God walked alone and terrible ; and 
 I said that I would do that hard thing, 
 
 87 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 though I would fain have stayed in my 
 father’s house. And so I came into this 
 wilderness, where I have lived for seven 
 years. For a few years I was alone ; then 
 pupils began to come to me. By-and-bye 
 the druids gave out word that I v/as teaching 
 new things and breaking established custom ; 
 and the King has forbade my teaching, and 
 I have not desisted, and so he and I stand 
 opposed as of old. 
 
 Iollann Beag. You will win this time, 
 little Master. 
 
 Ciaran. I think so ; I hope so, dear. 
 (. Aside .) I would 1 could say “ I know so.” 
 This seems to me the hardest thing I have 
 tried to do. Can a soldier fight for a cause 
 of which he is not sure? Can a teacher die 
 for a thing he does not believe ? 
 
 Forgive me, Lord ! It is my weakness that 
 cries out. I believe, I believe ; help my 
 unbelief. (To Iollann Beag.) Why do you 
 think I shall win this time, Iollann, — I who 
 have always lost ? 
 
 Iollann Beag. Because God’s great angels 
 will fight for you. Will they not? 
 
 Ciaran. Yes, I think they will. All that 
 old chivalry stands harnessed in Heaven. 
 
 88 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Iollann Beag. Will they not come if you 
 call them ? 
 
 Ciaran. Yes, they will come. [Aside.) 
 Is it a true thing I tell this child or do I lie 
 to him ? Will they come at my call ? Will 
 they come at my call? My spirit reaches 
 out and finds Heaven empty. The great 
 halls stand horseless and riderless. I have 
 called to you, O riders, and I have not heard 
 the thunder of your coming. The multi- 
 tudinous, many-voiced seaand the green, quiet 
 earth have each its children, but where are 
 the sons of Heaven? Where in all this 
 temple of the world, this dim and wondrous 
 temple, does its God lurk ? 
 
 Iollann Beag. And would they come if 
 I were to call them — old Peter, and the 
 Baptist John, and Michael and his riders? 
 
 Ciaran. We are taught that if one calls 
 them with faith they will come. 
 
 Iollann Beag. Could I see them and 
 speak to them ? 
 
 Ciaran. If it were necessary for any dear 
 purpose of God’s, as to save a soul that were 
 in peril, we are taught that they would come 
 in bodily presence, and that one could see 
 them and speak to them. 
 
 89 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Iollann Beag. If the soul of any dear 
 friend of mine be ever in peril I will call 
 upon them. I will say, “ Baptist John, 
 Baptist John, attend him. Good Peter of 
 the Sword, strike valiantly. Young Michael, 
 stand near with all the heroes of Heaven !” 
 Ciaran (aside). If the soul of any dear 
 friend of his were in peril ! The peril is 
 near ! The peril is near ! 
 
 A knock at the postern ; Iollann Beag 
 looks towards Ciaran . 
 
 Ciaran. Run, Iollann, and see who 
 knocks. (Iollann Beag goes out.) I have 
 looked back over the journey of my life as a 
 man at evening might look back from a 
 hill on the roads he had travelled since 
 morning. I have seen with a great clearness 
 as if I had left this green, dim wood and 
 climbed to the top of that far hill I have 
 seen from me for seven years now, yet never 
 climbed. And I see that all my wayfaring 
 has been in vain. A man may not escape 
 from that which is in himself. A man shall 
 not find his quest unless he kill the dearest 
 thing he has. I thought that I was sacrificing 
 everything, but I have not sacrificed the old 
 pride of my heart. I chose self-abnegation, 
 
 90 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 not out of humility, but out of pride : 
 and God, that terrible hidden God, has 
 punished me by withholding from me His 
 most precious gift of faith. Faith comes to 
 the humble only. . . . Nay, Lord, I 
 
 believe : this is but a temptation. Thou, 
 too, wast tempted. Thou, too, wast forsaken. 
 O valiant Christ, give me Thy strength ! 
 My need is great. Iollann Beag returns . 
 
 Iollann Beag. There is a warrior at the 
 door, Master, that asks a shelter. He says 
 he has lost his way in the wood. 
 
 Ciaran. Bid him to come in Iollann. 
 ( Iollann Beag goes to the door again .) I, too, 
 
 have lost my way. I am like one that has 
 trodden intricate forest paths that have crossed 
 and recrossed and never led him to any 
 homestead ; or like a mariner that has 
 voyaged on a shoreless sea yearning for a 
 glimpse of green earth, yet never descrying 
 it. If I could find some little place to rest, 
 if I could but lie still at last after so much 
 wayfaring, after such clamour of loud- 
 voiced winds, methinks that would be to 
 find God ; for is not God quiet, is not God 
 peace ? But always I go on with a cry as 
 of baying winds or of vociferous hounds 
 
 9 1 
 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 about me. . . . They say the King 
 
 hunts me to-day: but the King is not so 
 terrible a hunter as the desires and the doubts 
 of a man’s heart. The King I can meet un- 
 afraid, but who is not afraid of himself? 
 (. Daire enters , wrapped in a long mantle , and 
 stands a little within the threshold : lollann 
 Beag behind him . Ciaran looks fixedly at him ; 
 then speaks.) You have hunted well to-day, 
 O Daire ! 
 
 Daire. I am famed as a hunter. 
 
 Ciaran. When I was a young man I said, 
 “ I will strive with the great untamed 
 elements, with the ancient, illimitable sea 
 and the anarchic winds ; ” you, in the manner 
 of Kings, have warred with timid, furtive 
 creatures, and it has taught you only cruelty 
 and craft. 
 
 Daire. What has your warfare taught 
 you ? I do not find you changed, Ciaran. 
 Your old pride but speaks a new language. 
 
 I am, as you remind me, only a 
 King ; but I have been a good King. Have 
 you been a good teacher? 
 
 Ciaran. Mv pupils must answer. 
 
 Daire. Where are your pupils? 
 
 Ciaran. True ; they are not here. 
 
 92 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Daire. They are at an ale-feast in my 
 tent. . . . ( Coming ?iearer to Ciaran.) 
 
 I have not come to taunt you, Ciaran. 
 Nor should you taunt me. You seem to 
 me to have spent your life pursuing shadows 
 that fled before you ; yea, pursuing ghosts 
 over wide spaces and through the devious 
 places of the world : and I pity you for the 
 noble manhood you have wasted. I seem 
 to you to have spent my life busy with the 
 little, vulgar tasks and the little, vulgar 
 pleasures of a King : and you pity me because 
 I have not adventured, because I have not 
 been tried, because I have not suffered as 
 you have. It should be sufficient triumph 
 for each of us that each pities the other, 
 Ciaran. You speak gently, Daire; and 
 you speak wisely. You were always wise. 
 And yet, methinks, you are wrong. There 
 is a deeper antagonism between you and me 
 than you are aware of. It is not merelv 
 that the little things about you, the little, 
 foolish, mean, discordant things of a man’s 
 life, have satisfied you, and that I have been 
 discontent, seeking things remote and holy 
 and perilous — 
 
 Daire. Ghosts, ghosts ! 
 
 93 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Ciaran. Nay, they alone are real ; or, 
 rather, it alone is real. For though its 
 names be many, its substance is one. One 
 man will call it happiness, another will call 
 it beauty, a third will call it holiness, a 
 fourth will call it rest. I have sought it 
 under all its names. 
 
 Daire. What is it that you have sought? 
 
 Ciaran. I have sought truth. 
 
 Daire. And have you found truth ? 
 (i Ciaran bows his head in dejection .) Ciaran, 
 was it worth your while to give up all goodly 
 life to follow that mocking phantom ? I do 
 not say that a man should not renounce ease. 
 I have not loved ease. But I have loved 
 power, and victory, and life, and men, and 
 women, and the gracious sun. He who 
 renounces these things to follow a phantom 
 across a world has given his all for nothing. 
 
 Ciaran. Is not the mere quest often worth 
 while, even if the thing quested be never 
 found ? 
 
 Daire. And so you have not found your 
 quest ? 
 
 Ciaran. You lay subtle traps for me in 
 your speeches, Daire. It was your way at 
 school when we disputed. 
 
 94 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Daire. Kings must be subtle. It is by 
 craft we rule. . . . Ciaran, for the 
 
 shadow you have pursued I offer you a 
 substance ; in place of vain journeying I 
 invite you to rest. ... If you make 
 your peace with me you shall be the second 
 man in my kingdom. 
 
 Ciaran (in scorn and wrath). The second 
 man ! 
 
 Daire. There speaks your old self, Ciaran. 
 I did not mean to wound you. I am the 
 King, chosen by the people to rule and lead. 
 I could not, even if I would, place you above 
 me ; but I will place you at my right hand. 
 
 Ciaran. You would bribe me with this 
 petty honour? 
 
 Daire. No. I would gain you for the 
 service of your people. What other service 
 should a man take upon him ? 
 
 Ciaran. I told you that you did not 
 understand the difference between you and 
 me. May one not serve the people by 
 bearing testimony in their midst to a true 
 thing even as by feeding them with 
 bread ? 
 
 Daire. Again you prate of truth. Are 
 you fond enough to think that what has not 
 
 95 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 imposed even upon your pupils will impose 
 upon me ? 
 
 Ciaran. My pupils believe. You must 
 not wrong them, Daire. 
 
 Daire. Are you sure of them ? 
 
 Ciaran. Yes, I am sure. ( Aside .) Yet 
 sometimes I thought that that gibing Maine 
 did not believe. It may be — 
 
 Daire. Where are your pupils ? Why 
 are they not here to stand by you in your 
 bitter need ? 
 
 Ciaran. You enticed them from me by 
 guile. 
 
 Daire. I invited them ; they came. You 
 could not keep them, Ciaran. Think you my 
 young men would have left me, in similar 
 case ? Their bodies would have been my 
 bulwark against a host. 
 
 Ciaran. You hint unspeakable things. 
 
 Daire. I do but remind you that you 
 have to-day no disciples ; ( smiling ) except, 
 perhaps, this little lad. Come, I will win 
 him from you with an apple. 
 
 Ciaran. You shall not tempt him ! 
 
 Daire [laughing). Ciaran, you stand con- 
 fessed : you have no faith in your disciples ; 
 methinks you have no faith in your religion. 
 
 96 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Ciaran. You are cruel, Daire. You were 
 not so cruel when we were lads. 
 
 Daire. You have come into my country 
 preaching to my people newthings, incredible 
 things, things you dare not believe yourself. 
 I will not have this lie preached to men. If 
 
 a 
 
 your religion be true, you must give me a 
 sign of its truth. 
 
 Ciaran. It is true, it is true ! 
 
 Daire. Give me a sign. Nay, show me 
 that you yourself believe. Call upon your 
 God to reveal Himself. I do not trust these 
 skulking gods. 
 
 Ciaran. Who am I to ask that great 
 Mystery to unveil Its face? Who are you 
 that a miracle should be wrought for you? 
 
 Daire. This is not an answer. So priests 
 ever defend their mysteries. I will not be 
 put off as one would put off a child that 
 asks questions. Lo, here I bare my sword 
 against God ; lo, here I lift up my shield. 
 Let one of his great captains come down to 
 answer the challenge ! 
 
 Ciaran. This the bragging of a fool. 
 
 Daire. Nor does that answer me. Ciaran, 
 you are in my power. My young men 
 surround this house. Yours are at an ale-feast. 
 
 97 
 
 H 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Ciaran. O wise and far-seeing King ! 
 You have planned all well. 
 
 Daire. There is a watcher at every door 
 of your house. There a tracker on every 
 path of the forest. The wild boar crouches 
 in his lair for fear of the men that fill 
 this wood. Three rings of champions ring 
 round the tent in which your pupils feast. 
 Your God had need to show Himself 
 a God ! 
 
 Ciaran. Nay, slay me, Daire. I will 
 bear testimony with my life. 
 
 Daire. What will that prove? Men die 
 for false things, for ridiculous things, for 
 evil things. What vile cause has not its 
 heroes ? Though you were to die here with 
 joy and laughter you would not prove 
 your cause a true one. Ciaran, let God 
 send down an angel to stand between you 
 and me. 
 
 Ciaran. Do you think that to save my 
 poor life Omnipotence will display Itself? 
 
 Daire. Who talks of your life ? It is 
 your soul that is at stake, and mine, and this 
 little boy’s, and the souls of all this nation, 
 born and unborn. 
 
 Ciaran ( aside ). He speaks true. 
 
 98 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Daire. Nay, I will put you to the proof. 
 {To lollann .) Come hither, child. {lollann 
 Beag approaches .) He is daintily fashioned, 
 Ciaran, this last little pupil of yours. I 
 swear to you that he shall die unless your 
 God sends down an angel to rescue him. 
 Kneel boy. {lollann Beag kneels.) Speak 
 now, if God has ears to hear. 
 
 He raises his sword. 
 Ciaran {aside). I dare not speak. My 
 God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me ? 
 
 Iollann Beag. Fear not, little Master, I 
 remember the word you taught me. . . . 
 
 Young Michael, stand near me ! 
 
 The figure of a mighty IVarrior , winged , 
 and clothed in light , seems to stand beside the 
 boy. Ciaran bends on one knee. 
 
 Daire. Who art thou, O Soldier? 
 Michael. I am he that waiteth at the 
 portal. I am he that hasteneth. I am he that 
 rideth before the squadron. I am he that 
 holdeth a shield over the retreat of man’s 
 host when Satan cometh in war. I am he 
 that turneth and smiteth. I am he that is 
 Captain of the Host of God. 
 
 Daire bends slowly on one knee . 
 
 99 
 
THE MASTER 
 
 Ciaran. The Seraphim and the Cherubim 
 stand horsed. I hear the thunder of their 
 coming. . . O Splendour ! 
 
 He falls forward , dead* 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 IoSAGAN 
 Old Matthias 
 The Priest 
 
 Boys:— Daragh, Padraic, Coilin, Cuimin, 
 Feichin, Eoghan 
 
 Daragh and Padraic are a little older than 
 the other boys 
 
 PLACE — A sea- strand beside a village 
 in Iar-Connacht 
 
 TIME — The present 
 
 Iosagan, loving diminutive of lopa; “Jesukin” 
 (“IpuccAn”) is the name of the Child Jesus in the 
 exquisite hymn attributed to St. Ita, b. 470, d. 580, 
 A.D. — Author s Note. 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 A sea-strand beside a village in Iar- 
 Connacht. A house on the right-hand side. 
 The sound of a bell comes east , very clearly . 
 The door of the house is opened . An aged 
 man , old Matthias , comes out on the door-fag 
 and stands for a spell looking down the road. 
 He sits then on a chair that is outside the door y 
 his two hands gripping a sticky his head bent , 
 and he listening attentively to the sound of the 
 bell. The bell stops ringing. Daragh , 
 
 Padraic and Coilin come up from the sea 
 and they putting on their share of clothes after 
 bathing . 
 
 Daragh ( stretching his finger towards the 
 sea). The flowers are white in the fisherman’s 
 
 Padraic. They are, muise. 
 
 Coilin. Where are they ? 
 
 i°3 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Daragh. See them out on the sea. 
 
 Coilin. Those are not white flowers. 
 Th ose are white horses. 
 
 Daragh. They’re like white flowers. 
 
 Coilin. No; Old Matthias says those are 
 the white horses that go galloping across the 
 sea from the Other Country. 
 
 Padraic. I heard Iosagan saying they 
 were flowers. 
 
 Coilin. What way would flowers grow 
 on the sea? 
 
 Padraic. And what wav would horses 
 
 * 
 
 travel on the sea? 
 
 Coilin. Easy, if they were fairy horses 
 would be in them. 
 
 Padraic. And wouldn’t flowers grow on 
 the sea as easy, if they were fairy flowers 
 would be in them? Isn’t it often you saw 
 the water-lilies on Loch Ellery ? And 
 couldn’t they grow on the sea as well as on 
 the lake ? 
 
 Coilin. I don’t know if they could. 
 
 Padraic. They could, muise . 
 
 Daragh. The sea was fine to-day, lad. 
 
 Coilin. It was, but it was devilish cold. 
 
 Padraic. Why wouldn’t you be cold 
 when you’d only go into your knees? 
 
 1 04 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Coilin. By my word, I was afraid the 
 waves would knock me down if I’d go in 
 any further. They were terrible big. 
 
 Daragh. That’s what I like, lad. Do 
 you mind yon terrible big one that came 
 over our heads? 
 
 Padraic. Aye, and Coilin screaming out 
 he was drowned. 
 
 Coilin. It went down my throat ; it did 
 that, and it nearly smothered me. 
 
 Padraic. Sure, you had your mouth 
 open, and you shouting. It would be a queer 
 story if it didn’t go down your throat. 
 
 Coilin, Yon one gave me enough. I 
 kept out of their way after that. 
 
 Daragh. Have the other lads on them yet? 
 
 Padraic. Aye. Here they are. 
 
 Coilin. Look at Feichin’s hair ! 
 
 Feichin , Eoghan and Cuimin come up from 
 the sea and they drying their hair . 
 
 Cuimin. What’ll we play to-day ? 
 
 Coilin. “Blind Man’s Buff!” 
 
 Padraic. Ara, shut up, yourself and your 
 “ Blind Man’s Buff.” 
 
 Coilin. “ High Gates,” then ! 
 
 Padraic. No. We’re tired of those 
 “ High Gates.” 
 
 !°5 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Daragh. “ Hide and Seek ! ” 
 
 Feichin. Away ! 
 
 Eoghan. “ Fox and Chickens ! ” 
 
 Coilin. No. We’ll play “ Lurabog 
 Lara bog” 
 
 Padraic I ’ll make a lurabog of you ! 
 
 Coilin. You do be always at me, Padraic. 
 ( Padraic catches hold of him.) Listen to me, 
 
 will you ? 
 
 Cuimin. Ara, listen to him, Padraic. 
 
 Daragh. Listen to him. 
 
 Padraic lets him go. 
 
 Coilin. Speak yourself, Padraic, if you 
 won’t give leave to anyone else. 
 
 Padraic. Let’s jump ! 
 
 Eoghan. Let’s jump! Let’s jump ! 
 
 Daragh. I’ll bet I’ll beat you, Padraic. 
 
 Padraic. At jumping, is it f 
 
 Daragh. Aye. 
 
 Padraic. Didn’t I beat you the day 
 before yesterday at the School Rock? 
 
 Daragh. I’ll bet you won’t beat me 
 to-day. Will you try ? 
 
 Padraic. I won’t. My feet are sore. ( The 
 other boys begin laughing ; Padraic speaks with 
 a shamed face .) I’d rather play ball. 
 
 Eoghan. Ball ! Ball ! 
 
 106 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Daragh. Has anybody a ball ? 
 
 Cuimin. And if they had, itself, where 
 would we play ? 
 
 Padraic. Against Old Matthias’s gable- 
 end. There’s no nicer place to be found. 
 
 Coilin. Who has the ball ? 
 
 Cuimin. My soul, I haven’t it. 
 
 Daragh. No, nor I. 
 
 Padraic. You yourself, Coilin, had it on 
 Friday. 
 
 Coilin. By my word, didn’t the master 
 grab it where I was hopping it in the school 
 at Catechism ? 
 
 Feichin. True for you, lad. 
 
 Cuimin. My soul, but I thought he’d give 
 you the rod that time. 
 
 Coilin. He would, too, only he was 
 expecting the priest to come in. 
 
 Daragh. It’s the ball he wanted. He’ll 
 have a game with the peelers to-day after 
 Mass. 
 
 Padraic. My soul, but he will, and it’s 
 he can beat the peelers, too. 
 
 Daragh. He can’t beat the sergeant. 
 The sergeant’s the best man of them all. 
 He beat Hoskins and the red man together 
 last Sunday. 
 
 107 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Feichin. Ara, stop ! Did he beat them? 
 Daragh. He did, muise . The red man 
 
 was raging, and the master and the peelers 
 all laughing at him. 
 
 Padraic. I bet the master will beat the 
 
 sergeant. 
 
 Daragh. I’ll bet he won’t. 
 
 Padraic. Do ye hear him? 
 
 Daragh. I’ll bet the sergeant can beat 
 any man in this country. 
 
 Padraic. Ara, how do you know whether 
 he can or not ? 
 
 Daragh. I know well he can. Don’t 
 I be always watching them ? 
 
 Padraic. You don’t know ! 
 
 Daragh. I do know ! It’s I that know 
 it ! 
 
 They threaten each other . A quarrel 
 
 arises among the boys , a share of them sayings 
 “ The sergeant’s the best ! ” and others , 
 “ The master’s best ! ” Old Matthias 
 gets up to listen to them . He comes forward , 
 twisted and bent in his body , and barely able 
 to drag his feet along . He speaks to them 
 quietly , laying his hand on Daragh' s head . 
 Matthias. O ! O ! O ! My shame 
 ye are ! 
 
 108 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Padraic. This fellow says the master 
 can’t beat the sergeant playing ball. 
 
 Daragh. By my word, wouldn’t the 
 sergeant beat anybody at all in this country, 
 Matthias ? 
 
 Matthias. Never mind the sergeant. 
 Look at that lonesome wild goose that’s 
 making on us over Loch Ellery ! Look ! 
 
 All the boys look up . 
 
 Padraic. I see it, by my soul ! 
 
 Daragh. Where’s she coming from, 
 Matthias ? 
 
 Matthias. From the Eastern World. 
 I would say she has travelled a thousand 
 miles since she left her nest in the lands to 
 the north. 
 
 Coilin. The poor thing. And where will 
 she drop ? 
 
 Matthias. To Aran she’ll go, it’s a 
 chance. See her now out over the sea. 
 My love you are, lonesome wild goose ! 
 
 Coilin. Tell us a story, Matthias. 
 
 He sits on a stone by the strand-edge , and 
 the boys gather round him . 
 
 Matthias. What story shall I tell*? 
 
 Feichin. “ The Adventures of the Grey 
 Horse!” 
 
 109 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Cuimin. “ The Hen-Harrier and the 
 Wren ! ” 
 
 Padraic. “The Two-Headed Giant!” 
 Coilin. “ The Adventures of the Piper 
 in the Snail’s Castle !” 
 
 Eoghan. Aye, by my soul, “The Adven- 
 tures of the Piper in the Snail’s Castle ! ” 
 The Boys (with one voice), “ The Adven- 
 tures of the Piper in the Snail’s Castle!” 
 Matthias. I’ll do that. “ There was a 
 Snail in it long ago, and it’s long since it 
 was. If we’d been there that time, we 
 wouldn’t be here now ; and if we were, 
 itself, we’d have a new story or an old 
 story, and that’s better than to be without 
 e’er a story at all. The Castle this Snail 
 lived in was the finest that man’s eye ever saw. 
 It was greater entirely, and it was a thousand 
 times richer than Meave’s Castle in Rath 
 Cruachan, or than the Castle of the High- 
 King of Ireland itself in Tara of the Kings. 
 Th is Snail made love to a Spider — ” 
 
 Coilin. No, Matthias, wasn’t it to a 
 Granny’s Needle he made love ? 
 
 Matthias. My soul, but you’re right. 
 What’s coming on me ? 
 
 Padraic. Go on, Matthias. 
 
 1 10 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Matthias. “ This Nettle-Worm was 
 very comely entirely — ” 
 
 Feichin. What’s the Nettle-Worm, 
 Matthias ? 
 
 Matthias. Why, the Nettle-Worm he 
 made love to. 
 
 Cuimin. But I thought it was to a 
 Granny’s Needle he made love. 
 
 Matthias. Was it ? The story’s going 
 from me. “This Piper was in love with 
 the daughter of the King of Connacht — ” 
 
 Eoghan. But you didn’t mention the 
 Piper yet, Matthias ! 
 
 Matthias. Didn’t I ! “ The Piper 
 
 ” yes, by my soul, the Piper — 
 I’m losing my memory. Look here, neigh- 
 bours, we won’t meddle with the story 
 to-day. Let’s have a song. 
 
 Coilin. “ Hi diddle dum ! ” 
 
 Matthias. Are ye satisfied ? 
 
 The Boys. We are. 
 
 Matthias. I’ll do that. {He sings the 
 following rhyme) : 
 
 “ Hi diddle dum, the cat and his 
 mother, 
 
 That went to Galway riding a drake.” 
 
 The Boys. And hi diddle dum ! 
 
 1 1 1 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Matthias. 
 
 “ Hi diddle dum, the rain came pelting, 
 And drenched to the skin the cat and his 
 mother.” 
 
 The Boys. And hi diddle dum ! 
 Matthias. 
 
 “ Hi diddle dum, ’twas like in the deluge 
 The cat and his mother would both be 
 drownded.” 
 
 The Boys. And hi diddle dum ! 
 Matthias. 
 
 “ Hi diddle dum, my jewel the drake was, 
 That carried his burden — ” 
 
 Coilin. Swimming — 
 
 Matthias. Good man, Coilin. 
 
 “ That carried his burden swimming to 
 Galway.” 
 
 The Boys. And hi diddle dum ! 
 
 Old Matthias shakes his head wearily ; 
 he speaks in a sad voice . 
 Matthias. My songs are going from 
 me, neighbours. I’m like an old fiddle 
 that’s lost all its strings. 
 
 Cuimin. Haven’t you the “ Baidln ” 
 always, Matthias ? 
 
 Matthias. I have, my soul ; I have it 
 as long as I’m living. I won’t lose the 
 
 1 1 2 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 “ Bdidln ” till I’m stretched in the clay. 
 Shall we have it ? 
 
 The Boys. Aye. 
 
 Matthias. Are ye ready to go rowing ? 
 The Boys. We are ! 
 
 They order themselves as they would be 
 rowing . Old Matthias sings these verses. 
 Matthias. 
 
 “ I will hang a sail, and I will go west.” 
 The Boys. Oro\ mo churaichln , 0/ 
 Matthias. 
 
 “ And till St. John’s Day I will not rest.” 
 The Boys. Oro , mo churaichln , 0 / 
 
 CW, churaichln. 0 ! 
 
 'S oro , mo bhaidln ! 
 
 Matthias. 
 
 “ Isn’t it fine, my little boat, sailing on the 
 bay.” 
 
 The Boys, Oro , ^ churaichin , 0/ 
 Matthias. “ The oars pulling — ” 
 
 He stops suddenly , to 
 
 his head. 
 
 Padraic. What’s on you, Matthias ? 
 Eoghan. Are you sick, Matthias ? 
 Matthias. Something that came on my 
 head. It’s nothing. What’s this I was 
 saying ? 
 
 1 x 3 
 
 i 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Coilin. You were saying the “ Baidinf 
 
 Matthias, but don’t mind if you don’t feel 
 * + 
 
 well. Are you sick ? 
 
 Matthias. Sick ? By my word, I’m 
 not sick. What would make me sick ? 
 We’ll start again : 
 
 “ Isn’t it fine, my little boat, sailing on the 
 bay.” 
 
 The Boys. Oro\ mo churaichin , 0 / 
 Matthias. “ The oars pulling strongly — ” 
 (He stops again.) Neighbours, the “ Bat din ” 
 itself is gone from me. (They remain silent 
 for a spelf the old man sitting and his head 
 bent on his breast , and the boys looking on him 
 sorrowfully . The old man speaks with a start.) 
 Are those the people coming home from 
 Mass ? 
 
 Cuimin. No. They won’t be free for 
 a half hour yet. 
 
 Coilin. Why don’t you go to Mass, 
 Matthias ? 
 
 The old man rises up and puts his hand 
 to his head again. He speaks angrily at 
 first , and after that softly. 
 
 Matthias. Why don’t I go ? . . . I’m 
 not good enough. By my word, God 
 
 1 14' 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 wouldn’t hear me. . . . What’s this I’m 
 
 saying ? . . . (He laughs .) And I have 
 
 lost the “ Baidin” do ye say ? Amn’t I the 
 pitiful object without my “ Baidin ! ” 
 
 He hobbles slowly across the road. Coilin 
 rises and puts his shoulder under the old 
 man s hand to support him . The boys begin 
 playing “ jacks tones” quietly. Old Matthias 
 sits on the chair again , and Coilin returns. 
 Daragh speaks in a low voice. 
 
 Daragh. There’s something on Old 
 Matthias to-day. He never forgot the 
 “ Baidin ” before. 
 
 Cuimin. I heard my father saying to my 
 mother, the other night, that it’s not long 
 he has to live. 
 
 Coilin. Do you think is he very old ? 
 Padraic. Why did you put that question 
 on him about the Mass ? Don’t you know 
 he hasn’t been seen at Mass in the memory 
 of the people ? 
 
 Daragh. I heard Old Cuimin Enda 
 saying to my father that he himself saw 
 Old Matthias at Mass when he was a 
 youth. 
 
 Coilin. Do you know why he doesn’t 
 go to Mass now ? 
 
 1 1 5 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Padraic (in a whisper ). It’s said he 
 doesn’t believe there’s a God. 
 
 Cuimin. I heard Father Sean Eamonn 
 saying it’s the way he did some terrible 
 sin at the start of his life, and when 
 the priest wouldn’t give him absolution in 
 confession there came a raging anger on 
 him, and he swore an oath he wouldn’t 
 touch priest or chapel for ever again. 
 
 Daragh. That’s not how I heard it. 
 One night when I was in bed the old people 
 were talking and whispering by the fireside, 
 and IheardMaire of the Bridge saying to the 
 other old women that it’s the way Matthias 
 sold his soul to some Great Man he met 
 once on the top of Cnoc-a’-Daimh, and that 
 this Man wouldn’t allow him to go to 
 Mass. 
 
 Padraic. Do you think was it the devil 
 he saw? 
 
 Daragh. I don’t know. A u Great 
 Man,” said Maire of the Bridge. 
 
 Cuimin. I wouldn’t believe a word of it. 
 Sure, if Matthias sold his soul to the devil 
 it must be he’s a wicked person. 
 
 Padraic. He’s not a wicked person, 
 muise . Don’t you mind the day Iosagan 
 
 1 16 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 said that his father told him Matthias would 
 be among the saints on the Day of the 
 Mountain ? 
 
 Cuimin. I mind it well. 
 
 Coilin. Where’s Iosagan from us to-day? 
 Daragh. He never comes when there 
 does be a grown person watching us. 
 
 Cuimin. Wasn’t he here a week ago 
 to-day when old Matthias was watching us? 
 Daragh. Was he? 
 
 Cuimin. He was. 
 
 Padraic. Aye, and a fortnight to-day, as 
 well. 
 
 Daragh. There’s a chance he’ll come 
 to-day, then. Cuimin rises and looks east . 
 Cuimin. O, see, he’s coming. 
 
 Iosagan enters — a little , brown-haired boy , 
 a white coat on him , and he without shoes or 
 cap like the other boys . The boys welcome 
 him . 
 
 The Boys. God save you, Iosagan ! 
 Iosagan. God and Mary save you ! 
 
 He sits among them , a hand of his about 
 Daragli s neck ; the boys begin playing again , 
 gently , without noise or quarrelling . Iosagan 
 joins in the game . Matthias rises with a 
 
 start on the coming of Iosagan , and stands 
 
 ll 7 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 gazing at him. After they have played for 
 a spell he comes towards them , and then 
 stands again and calls over to Coilin. 
 Matthias. Coilin ! 
 
 Coilin. What do you want ? 
 
 Matthias. Come here to me. ( Coilin rises 
 and goes to him.) Who is that boy I see among 
 you this fortnight back — he, yonder, with 
 the brown head on him — but take care it’s 
 not red he is ; I don’t know is it black or 
 is it fair he is, the way the sun is burning 
 on him ? Do you see him — him that has 
 his arm about Daragh’s neck? 
 
 Coilin. That’s Iosagan. 
 
 Matthias. Iosagan ? 
 
 Coilin. That’s the name he gives himself 
 Matthias. Who are his people ? 
 
 Coilin. I don’t know, but he says his 
 father’s a king. 
 
 Matthias. Where does he live ? 
 
 Coilin. He never told us that, but he 
 says his house isn’t far away. 
 
 Matthias. Does he be among you 
 often ? 
 
 Coilin. He does, when we do be amusing 
 ourselves like this. But he goes from us 
 when grown people come near. He will 
 
 1 1 8 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 go from us now as soon as the people begin 
 coming from Mass. 
 
 The boys rise and go , in ones and twos , 
 when they have finished the game . 
 Coilin. O ! They are going jumping. 
 
 He runs out after the others . Iosagan 
 and Daragh rise and go. Matthias comes 
 forward and calls Iosagan. 
 
 Matthias. Iosagan ! ( The Child turns 
 back and comes towards him at a run.) Come 
 here and sit on my knee for a little while, 
 Iosagan. ( The Child links his hand in the old 
 
 man' s hand, and they cross the road together. 
 Matthias sits on his chair and draws Iosagan to 
 him.) Where do you live, Iosagan ? 
 
 Iosagan. Not far from this my house is. 
 Why don’t you come to see me? 
 
 Matthias. I would be afraid in a royal 
 house. They tell me that your father’s a 
 king. 
 
 Iosagan. He is High-King of the World. 
 But there’s no call for you to be afraid of 
 Him. He’s full of pity and love. 
 
 Matthias. I fear I didn’t keep His law. 
 Iosagan. Ask forgiveness of Him. I and 
 my Mother will make intercession for you. 
 Matthias. It’s a pity I didn’t see You 
 
 ”9 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 before this, Iosagan. Where were You 
 from me ? 
 
 Iosagan. I was here always. I do be 
 travelling the roads and walking the hills 
 and ploughing the waves. I do be among 
 the people when they gather into My house. 
 I do be among the children they do leave 
 behind them playing on the street. 
 
 Matthias. I was too shy, or too proud, 
 to go into Your house, Iosagan : among the 
 children, it was, I found You. 
 
 Iosagan. There isn’t any place or time 
 the children do be making fun to themselves 
 that I’m not with them. Times they see 
 Me ; other times they don’t see Me. 
 
 Matthias. I never saw You till lately. 
 
 Iosagan. All the grown people do be 
 blind. 
 
 Matthias. And it has been granted me 
 to see You, Iosagan. 
 
 Iosagan. My Father gave Me leave to 
 show Myself to you because you loved His 
 little children. ( The voices are heard of the 
 people returning from Mass.) I must go now 
 from you. 
 
 Matthias. Let me kiss the hem of 
 Your coat. 
 
 120 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 IoSAGAN. Kiss it. 
 
 He kisses the hem of His coat . 
 Matthias. Shall I see You again, Iosagan? 
 Iosagan. You will. 
 
 Matthias. When ? 
 
 Iosagan. To-night. 
 
 Iosagan goes. The old man stands on the 
 door-fag looking after Him . 
 Matthias. I will see Him to-night. 
 
 The people pass along the road , returning 
 from Mass . 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 I 2 I 
 
SCENE II 
 
 Old Matthias's room . It is very dark . The 
 old man lying on his bed. Some one knocks 
 outside the door. Matthias speaks in a weak 
 voice . 
 
 Matthias. Come in. [The Priest enters. 
 He sits down beside the bed and hears the old 
 man's confession . When they have finished , 
 Matthias speaks.) Who told you I was 
 wanting you, Father? I was praying God 
 that you’d come, but I hadn’t a messenger 
 to send for you. 
 
 Priest. But, sure, you did send a mes- 
 senger for me ? 
 
 Matthias. No. 
 
 Priest. You didn’t? But a little boy 
 came and knocked at my door, and he said 
 you were wanting my help. 
 
 The old man straightens himself back in the 
 bed , and his eyes flash. 
 Matthias. What sort of a little boy was 
 he, Father? 
 
 122 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Priest. A mannerly little boy, with a 
 white coat on him. 
 
 Matthias. Did you take notice if there 
 was a shadow of light about his head ? 
 
 Priest. I did, and it put great wonder 
 on me. 
 
 The door opens . lo sagan stands on the 
 
 threshold , and He with His two arms stretched 
 oat towards Matthias ; a miraculous light 
 about His face and head. 
 
 Matthias. Iosagan ! You’re good, 
 Iosagan. You didn’t fail me, love. I was 
 too proud to go into Your house, but at the 
 last it was granted me to see You. “ I was 
 here always,” says He. “ I do be travelling 
 the roads and walking the hills and plough- 
 ing the waves. I do be among the people 
 when they gather into My house. I do be 
 among the children they do leave behind 
 playing on the street.” Among the children, 
 it was, I found You, Iosagan. “ Shall I see 
 You again?” 44 You will,” says He. 44 You’ll 
 see Me to-night.” Se do bheatha , a losagain ! 
 
 He falls back on the bed , and he dead . 
 The Priest goes softly to him and closes his 
 eves . 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 123 
 

THE MOTHER 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 There was a company of women sitting 
 up one night in the house of Barbara of the 
 Bridge, spinning frieze. It would be 
 music to you to be listening to them, and 
 their voices making harmony with the drone 
 of the wheels, like the sound of the wind 
 with the shaking of the bushes. 
 
 They heard a cry. The child, it was, 
 talking in its sleep. 
 
 “ Some evil thing that crossed the door,” 
 says Barbara. “ Rise, Maire, and stir the 
 cradle.” 
 
 The woman spoken-to got up. She was 
 sitting on the floor till that, carding. She 
 went over to the cradle. The child was 
 wide awake before her, and he crying 
 pitifully. Maire knelt down beside the 
 cradle. As soon as the child saw her face 
 he ceased from crying. A long, beautiful 
 face she had ; a brow, broad and smooth, 
 black hair and it twisted in clusters about 
 her head, and two grey eyes that would 
 look on you slow, serious, and troubled-like. 
 
 127 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 It was a gift Maire had, the way she would 
 quieten a cross child or put a sick child to 
 sleep, looking on that smooth, pleasant face 
 and those grey, loving eyes of hers. 
 
 Maire began singing the “ Crondn na 
 Banaltra ” (The Nurse’s Lullaby) in a 
 low voice. The other women ceased from 
 their talk to listen to her. It wasn’t long 
 till the child was in a dead sleep. Maire 
 rose and went back to where she was sitting 
 before. She fell to her carding again. 
 
 “ May you have good, Maire,” says 
 Barbara. “ There’s no wonder in life but 
 the way you’re able to put children asleep. 
 Though that’s my own heir, I would be 
 hours of the clock with him before he 
 would go off on me.” 
 
 “ Maire has magic,” says another woman. 
 
 “ She’s like the harpers of Meave that 
 would put a host of men asleep when they 
 would play their sleep-tunes,” says old Una 
 ni Greelis. 
 
 “ Isn’t it fine she can sing the Crondn na 
 Banaltra ?' ’ says the second woman. 
 
 “ My soul, you would think it was the 
 Virgin herself that would be saying it,” 
 says old Una. 
 
 128 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 “ Do you think is it true, Una, that it 
 was the Blessed Virgin (praise to her for 
 ever) that made that tune?” says Barbara. 
 
 “ I know it’s true. Isn’t it with that 
 tune she used put the Son of God (a 
 thousand glories to His name) asleep when 
 He was a child ? ” 
 
 “ And how is it, then, the people do 
 have it now?” says Barbara. 
 
 “ Coming down from generation to gener- 
 ation, I suppose, like the Fenian tales,” says 
 one of the women. 
 
 “No, my soul,” says old Una. “The 
 people it was heard the tune from the 
 Virgin’s mouth itself, here in this country- 
 side, not so long ago.” 
 
 “ And how would they hear it ? ” 
 
 “ Doesn’t the world know that the 
 glorious Virgin goes round the townlands 
 every Christmas Eve, herself and her child ? ” 
 “ I heard the people saying she does.” 
 
 “ And don’t you know if the door is left 
 ajar and a candle lighting in the window, 
 that the Virgin and her Child will come 
 into the house, and that they will sit down 
 to rest themselves?” 
 
 “ My soul, but I heard that, too.” 
 
 129 K 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 “A woman of the Joyce country, it 
 was, waiting up on Christmas Eve to see 
 the Virgin, that heard the tune from 
 her for the first time and taught it to 
 the country. It’s often I heard dis- 
 course about her, and I a growin g g> rl - 
 c Maire of the Virgin ’ was the name they 
 gave her. It’s said that it’s often she saw 
 the glorious Virgin. She died in the poor- 
 house in Uachtar Ard a couple of years 
 before I was married. The blessing of God 
 be with the souls of the dead.” 
 
 “ Amen, O Lord,” say the other women. 
 But Maire did not speak. She and her 
 two big grey eyes were going, as you would 
 say, through old Una’s forehead, and she 
 telling the story. She spoke after a spell. 
 
 “ Are you sure, Una, that the Virgin and 
 her Child come into the houses on Christmas 
 Eve ? ” says she. 
 
 “ As sure as I’m living.” 
 
 “ Did you ever see her ? ” 
 
 “ I did not, then. But the Christmas 
 Eve after I was married I waited up to see 
 her, if it would be granted me. A cloud 
 of sleep fell on me. Some noise woke me, 
 and when I opened my eyes I thought 
 
 13° 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 I saw, as it would be, a young woman and 
 a child in her arms going out the door.” 
 
 No one spoke for a long time. Nothing 
 was heard in the house but the drone of 
 the spinning-wheels and the crackling of the 
 fire, and the chirping of the crickets. Maire 
 got up. 
 
 “ I’ll be shortening the road,” says she. 
 “ May God give you good night, women.” 
 
 “ God speed you, Maire,” they answered 
 together. 
 
 She drew-to the door on herself. 
 
 There was, as it would be, a blaze of fire 
 in that woman’s heart, and she going the 
 road home in the blackness of night. The 
 great longing of her soul was plundering 
 and desolating her — the longing for children. 
 She had been married four years, and hadn’t 
 clann. It’s often she would spend the hours 
 on her knees, praying God to send her a 
 child. It’s often she would rise from the 
 bed in the night-time, and go on her two 
 naked knees on the cold, hard stone making 
 the same petition. It’s many a penance 
 she used put on herself in hopes that the 
 torture of her body would soften God’s 
 heart. It’s often when her man would be 
 
 l 3 l 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 from home, that she would go to sleep 
 without dinner and without supper. Once 
 or twice, when her man was asleep, she left 
 the bed and went out and stood a long while 
 under the dew of the night sending her 
 prayer to the dark, lonesome skies. Once 
 she drew blood from her shoulder-blades 
 with blows she gave herself with a switch. 
 Another time she stuck thorns into her flesh 
 in memory of the crown of thorns that went 
 on the brow of the Saviour. The penances 
 and the heart-scald were preying on her 
 health. Nobody guessed what was wrong 
 with her. Her own husband — a decent, 
 kindly man — didn’t understand the story 
 right, though it’s often he would hear her 
 in the night talking to herself as a mother 
 would be talking to a child, when she would 
 feel its hand or its mouth at her breast. Ah ! 
 it’s many a woman hugs her heart and 
 whispers in the dead time of night to the 
 child that isn’t born, and will not be. 
 
 Maire thought long until Christmas Eve 
 came. But as there’s a wearing on every- 
 thing, so there was a wearing on the delay 
 of that time. The day of Christmas Eve 
 was tedious to her until evening came. She 
 
 13 2 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 swept the floor of the house, and she cleaned 
 the chairs, and she made up a good fire 
 before going to sleep. She left the door on the 
 latch, and she put a tall, white candle in the 
 window. When she stretched herself beside 
 her man it wasn’t to sleep it was, but to 
 watch. She thought her man would never 
 sleep. She felt at last by the quiet breath 
 he was drawing that he was gone off. 
 Then she got up. She put on her dress, 
 and she stole out to the kitchen. No one 
 was there. Not even a mouse was stirring. 
 The crickets themselves were asleep. The 
 fire was in red ashes. The candle was 
 shining brightly. She bent on her knees 
 in the room door. It’s sweet the calm of 
 the house was to her in the middle of the 
 night, though, I tell you, it was terrible. 
 There came a heightening of mind on her 
 as it used to come betimes in the chapel, 
 and she going to receive communion from 
 the priest’s hands. She felt, somehow, that 
 the Presence wasn’t far from her, and that it 
 wouldn’t be long until she would hear a foot- 
 step. She listened patiently. The house 
 itself, she thought, and what was in it both 
 living and dead, was listening as well. The 
 
 *33 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 hills were listening, and the stones of the 
 earth, and the starry stars of the sky. 
 
 She heard a sound. A footstep on the 
 door-flag. She saw a young woman coming 
 in and a child in her arms. The young 
 woman drew up to the fire. She sat down 
 on a chair. She began crooning, very low, 
 to the child. Maire recognised the music. 
 The tune that was on it was the “ Cronan 
 na Banaltra” 
 
 A while to them like that. The woman 
 hugging the child to her breast, and croon- 
 ing, very sweetly, very softly. Maire on 
 her two knees, under the shadow of the 
 door. It wasn’t in her to speak nor to 
 move. She was barely able to draw her breath. 
 
 At last the woman rose. It’s then Maire 
 rose. She went hither to the woman. 
 
 “ A Mhuire ,” says she, whispering-like. 
 
 The woman turned her countenance 
 towards her. A lovely, noble countenance 
 it was. 
 
 “ A Mhuire ,” says Maire again. “I have 
 a request of you.” 
 
 “ Say it,” says the other woman. 
 
 “ A child drinking the milk of my breast,” 
 says Maire. “Don’t deny me, a Mhuire .” 
 
 1 34 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 “ Come closer to me,” says the other 
 woman. 
 
 Maire came closer to her. The other 
 woman raised her child. The child stretched 
 out its two little hands, and it laid a hand 
 softly on each cheek of Maire’s two cheeks. 
 
 “ That blessing will make you fruitful,” 
 says the Mother. 
 
 “ Its a good woman you are, a Mhuire ,” 
 says Maire. “ It’s good your Son is.” 
 
 “ I leave a blessing in this house,” says 
 the other woman. 
 
 She squeezed her child to her breast again 
 and went out the door. Maire fell on her 
 knees. 
 
 It’s a year since that Christmas Eve. The 
 last time I passed Maire’s house there was 
 a child in her breast. There was that look 
 on her that doesn’t be on living soul but a 
 mother when she feels the mouth of her 
 firstborn at her nipple. 
 
 “ God loves the women better than the 
 men,” said I to myself. “ It’s to them He 
 sends the greatest sorrows, and it’s on them 
 He bestows the greatest joy.” 
 
 *35 
 

THE DEARG-DAOL 
 
THE DEARG-DAOL 
 
 A walking-man, it was, come into my 
 father’s house out of the Joyce Country, 
 that told us this story by the fireside one 
 wild winter’s night. The wind was wailing 
 round the house, like women keening the 
 dead, while he spoke, and he would make 
 his voice rise or fall according as the wind’s 
 voice would rise or fall. A tall man he was, 
 with wild eyes, and his share of clothes 
 almost in tatters. There was a sort of fear 
 on me of him when he came in, and his 
 story didn’t lessen my fear. 
 
 The three most blessed beasts in the world, 
 says the walking-man, are the haddock, the 
 robin redbreast, and God’s cow. And the 
 three most cursed beasts in the world are 
 the viper, the wren, and the dearg-daol 
 (“black chafer”). And it’s the dearg-daol 
 is the most cursed of them. ’Tis I that 
 know that. Woman of the house, if a man 
 would murder his son, don’t call him the 
 dearg-daol . If a woman would come between 
 yourself and the husband of your bed, don’t 
 put her in comparison with the dearg-daoL 
 
 1 39 
 
THE DEARG-DAOL 
 
 “ God save us,” says my mother. 
 
 “ Amen, Lord,” says the walking-man. 
 
 He didn’t speak again for a spell. We 
 all listened, for we knew he was going to 
 tell a story. It wasn’t long before he began. 
 
 When I was a lad, says the walking- 
 man, there was a woman of our people 
 that everybody was afraid of. In a little, 
 lonely cabin in a gap of a mountain, it was, 
 she lived. No one would go near her house. 
 She, herself, wouldn’t come next or near any 
 other body’s house. Nobody would speak 
 to her when they met her on the road. She 
 wouldn’t put word nor wisdom on anybody 
 at all. You’d think a pity to see the 
 creature and she going the road alone. 
 
 “ Who is she,” I would say to my mother, 
 “ or why wouldn’t they speak to her?” 
 
 “ Whisht, boy,” my mother would say to 
 me. ct That’s the Dearg-DaoL ’Tis a cursed 
 woman she is.” 
 
 “ What did she do, or who put the curse 
 on her ? ” I would say. 
 
 “ A priest of God that put the curse on 
 her,” my mother would say. “ No one in 
 life knew what she did.” 
 
 And that’s all the knowledge I got of 
 
 1 40 
 
THE DEARG-DAOL 
 
 her until I was a grown chap. And indeed 
 to you, neighbours, I never heard anything 
 about her but that she committed some 
 dreadful sin at the start of her life, and that 
 the priest put his curse on her before the 
 people on account of that sin. One 
 Sunday, when the people were gathered at 
 Mass, the priest turned round on them, and 
 says he : — 
 
 “ There is a woman here,” says he, “ that 
 will merit eternal damnation for herself and 
 for every person that makes familiar with 
 her. And I say to that woman,” says he, 
 “ that she is a cursed woman, and I say to 
 you, let you not have intercourse or neigh- 
 bourliness with that woman but as much as 
 you’d have with a dearg-daoL Rise up now, 
 Dearg-Daol ,” says he, “ and avoid the com- 
 pany of decent people henceforth.” 
 
 The poor woman got up, and went out 
 the chapel door. There was no name on 
 her from that out but the Dearg-Daol. Her 
 own name and surname were put out of mind. 
 ’Twas said that she had the evil eye. If 
 she’d look on a calf or a sheep that wasn’t 
 her own, the animal would die. The women 
 were afraid to let their children out on the 
 
 141 
 
THE DEARG-DAOL 
 
 street if the Dearg-Daol was going the 
 road. 
 
 I married a comely girl when I was of 
 the age of one-and-twenty. We had a little 
 slip of a girl, and we had hopes of another 
 child. One day when I was cutting turf in 
 the bog, my wife was feeding the fowl on 
 the street, when she saw — God between us 
 and harm — the Dearg-Daol making on her 
 up the bohereen, and she with the little, soft 
 pataire of a child in her arms. An arm of 
 the child was about the woman’s neck, and 
 her shawl covering her. Speech left my 
 wife. 
 
 The Dearg-Daol laid the little girl in 
 her mother’s breast. My woman took notice 
 that her clothes were wet. 
 
 “ What happened the child ? ” says she. 
 
 “ Falling into Lochan na Luachra (the 
 Pool of the Rushes), she did it,” says the 
 Dearg-Daol . “ Looking for water-lilies she 
 
 was. I was crossing the road, and I heard 
 her scream. In over the dyke with me. 
 It was only by dint of trouble I caught 
 her.” 
 
 “ May God reward you,” says my wife. 
 The other woman went off before she had 
 
 142 
 
THE DEARG-DAOL 
 
 time to say more. My wife fetched the 
 little wee thing inside, she dried her, and 
 put her to sleep. When I came in from the 
 bog she told me the story. The two of us 
 prayed our blessing on the Dearg-Daol that 
 night. 
 
 The day after, the little girl began prattling 
 about the woman that saved her. “The 
 water was in my mouth, and in my eyes, 
 and in my ears,” says she. “ I saw shining 
 sparks, and I heard a great noise ; I was 
 slipping and slipping,” says she; “and 
 then,” says she, “ I felt a hand about me, 
 and she lifted me up and she kissed me. I 
 thought it was at home, I was, when I was 
 in her arms and her shawl about me,” says 
 she. 
 
 A couple of days after that my wife 
 noticed the little thing away from her. We 
 sought her for the length of two hours. 
 When she came home she told us that she 
 was after paying a visit to the woman that 
 saved her. “ She made a cake for me,” 
 says she. “ She has ne’er a one in the house 
 at all but herself, and she said to me I should 
 go visiting her every evening.” 
 
 Neither I nor my wife was able to say a 
 
 x 43 
 
THE DEARG-DAOL 
 
 word against her. The Dearg-Daol was 
 after saving our girl’s life, and it wouldn’t 
 be natural to hinder the child going into her 
 house. From that day out the little girl 
 would go up the hill to her every day. 
 
 The neighbours said to us that it wasn’t 
 right. There was a sort of suspicion on 
 ourselves that it wasn’t right, but how 
 could we help it? 
 
 Would you believe me, people? From 
 the day the Dearg-Daol laid eyes on the 
 little girl, she began dwindling and dwind- 
 ling, like a fire that wouldn’t be mended. 
 She lost her appetite and her activity. After 
 a quarter she was only a shadow. After 
 another month she was in the churchyard. 
 
 The Dearg-Daol came down the moun- 
 tain the day she was buried. She wouldn’t 
 be let into the graveyard. She went her 
 road up the mountain again alone. My 
 heart bled for the creature, for I knew that 
 our trouble was no heavier than her trouble. 
 I myself went up the hill the morning of 
 the next day. I meant to say to her that 
 neither my wife nor myself had any up- 
 braiding for her. I knocked at the door. 
 I didn’t get any answer. I went into the 
 
 144 
 
THE DEARG-DAOL 
 
 house. The ashes were red on the hearth. 
 There was no one at all to be seen. I 
 noticed a bed in the corner. I went over 
 to the bed. The Dearg-Daol was lying 
 there, and she cold dead. 
 
 There wasn’t any luck on me or on my 
 household from that day out. My wife 
 died a month after that, and she in child- 
 birth. The child didn’t live. There fell 
 a murrain on my cattle the winter following. 
 The landlord put me out of my holding. 
 I am a walking man, and the roads of 
 Connacht before me, from that day to this. 
 

THE ROADS 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 Rossnageeragh will mind till death the 
 night the Dublin Man gave us the feast in 
 the schoolhouse of Turlagh Beg. We had 
 no name or surname for that same man ever 
 but the “ Dublin Man.” Peatin Pharaig 
 would say to us that he was a man who 
 wrote for the newspapers. Peatin would 
 read the Gaelic paper the mistress got 
 every week, and it’s a small thing he 
 hadn’t knowledge of, for there was discourse 
 in that paper on the doings of the Western 
 World and on the goings-on of the Eastern 
 World, and there would be no bounds to 
 the information Peatin would have to give 
 us every Sunday at the chapel gate. He 
 would say to us that the Dublin Man had 
 a stack of money, for two hundred pounds 
 in the year were coming to him out of the 
 heart of that paper he wrote for every 
 week. 
 
 The Dublin Man would pay a fortnight’s 
 or a month’s visit to Turlagh every year. 
 This veiy year he sent out word calling 
 
 H9 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 poor and naked to a feast he was gathering 
 for us in the schoolhouse. He announced 
 that there would be music and dancing and 
 Gaelic speeches in it ; that there would be 
 a piper there from Carrowroe ; that Brigid 
 ni Mhainin would be there to give Conntae 
 Mhuigheo ; that Martin the Fisherman 
 would tell a Fenian story; that old Una ni 
 Greelis would recite a poem if the creature 
 wouldn’t have the asthma ; and that Mar- 
 cuseen Mhichil Ruaidh would do a bout 
 of dancing unless the rheumatic pains would 
 be too bad on him. Nobody ever knew 
 Marcuseen to have the rheumatics but when 
 he’d be asked to dance. “ Bedam, but I’m 
 dead with the pains for a week,” he’d 
 always say when a dance would be hinted. 
 But no sooner would the piper start on 
 “ Tatter Jack Walsh,” than Marcuseen 
 would throw his old hat in the air, “ hup ! ” 
 he’d say, and take the floor. 
 
 The family of Col Labhras were drink- 
 ing tea the evening of the feast. 
 
 “ Will we go to the schoolhouse to-night, 
 daddy?” says Cuimin Col to his father. 
 
 “ We will. Father Ronan said he’d like 
 all the people to go.” 
 
 150 
 
savs 
 
 THE ROADS 
 
 “Won’t we have the spree!’’ 
 Cuimin. 
 
 “ You’ll stay at home, Nora,” says the 
 mother, “ to mind the child.” 
 
 Nora put a lip on herself, but she didn’t 
 speak. 
 
 After tea Col and his wife went into the 
 room to ready themselves for the road. 
 
 “ My sorrow that it’s not a boy God 
 made me,” says Nora to her brother. 
 
 “ Muise , why ? ” says Cuimin. 
 
 “ For one reason better than another,” 
 says Nora. With that she gave a little 
 slap to the child that was half-asleep and 
 half-awake in the cradle. The child let a 
 howl out of him. 
 
 “ Ara , listen to the child,” says Cuimin. 
 “ If my mother hears him crying, she’ll 
 take the ear off you.” 
 
 “ I don’t care if she takes the two ears 
 off me,” says Nora. 
 
 “What’s up with you?” Cuimin was 
 washing himself, and he stopped to look 
 over his shoulder at his sister, and the water 
 streaming from his face. 
 
 “ Tired of being made a little ass of by 
 my mother and by everybody, I am,” says 
 
 l 5 l 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 Nora. “I working from morning till night, 
 and yc at your case. Ye going to the 
 spree to-night, and I sitting here nursing this 
 child. ‘You’ll stay at home, Nora, to 
 mind the child,’ says my mother. That’s 
 always the way. It’s a pity it’s not a boy 
 God made me.” 
 
 Cuimin was drying his face meanwhile, 
 and “ s-s-s-s-s ” coming out of him like a 
 person would be grooming a horse. 
 
 “ It’s a pity, right enough,” says he, 
 when he was able to speak. 
 
 He threw the towel from him, he put 
 his head to one side, and looked compla- 
 cently at himself in the glass was hanging 
 on the wall. 
 
 “A parting in my hair now,” says he, 
 “ and I’ll be first-class.” 
 
 “Are you ready, Cuimin?” says his 
 father, coming out of the room. 
 
 “I am.” 
 
 “ We’ll be stirring on then.” 
 
 The mother came out. 
 
 “ If he there is crying, Nora,” says she, 
 “give him a drink of milk out of the bottle.” 
 
 Nora didn’t say a word. She remained 
 sitting on the stool beside the cradle, and her 
 
 152 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 chin laid in her two hands and her two 
 elbows stuck on her knees. She heard her 
 father and her mother and Cuimin going out 
 the door and across the street ; she knew by 
 their voices that they were going down the 
 bohereen. The voices died away, and she un- 
 derstood that they were after taking the road. 
 
 Nora began making fancy pictures in her 
 mind. She saw, she thought, the fine, level 
 road and it white under the moonlight. The 
 people were in groups making for the school- 
 house. The Rossnagceragh folk were com- 
 ing out the road, and the Garumna folk 
 journeying round by the mistress’s house, 
 and the Kilbrickan folk crowding down the 
 hill, and the Turlagh Beg’s crowding like- 
 wise ; there was a band from Turlagh, and 
 an odd sprinkling from Glencaha, and one 
 or two out of Inver coming in the road. 
 She imagined her own people were at the 
 school gate by now. They were going up 
 the path. They were entering in the door. 
 The schoolhouse was well-nigh full, and 
 still no end to the coming of the people. 
 There were lamps hung on the walls, and 
 the house as bright as it would be in the 
 middle of day. Father Ronan was there, 
 
 r 53 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 and he going from person to person and 
 bidding welcome to everybody. The Dublin 
 Man was there, and he as nice and friendly- 
 like as ever. The mistress was there, and 
 the master and mistress from Gortmore, and 
 the lace-instructress. The schoolgirls sitting 
 together on the front benches. Weren’t 
 they to sing a song ? She saw, she thought, 
 Maire Sean Mor, and Maire Pheatin Johnny, 
 and Babeen Col Marcus, and the Boatman’s 
 Brigid, and her red head on her, and Brigid 
 Caitin ni Fhiannachta, with her mouth open 
 as usual. The girls were looking round and 
 nudging one another, and asking one another 
 where was Nora Col Labhras. The school- 
 house was packed to the door now. Father 
 Ronan was striking his two hands together. 
 They were stopping from talk and from 
 whispering. Father Ronan was speaking to 
 them. He was speaking comically. Every- 
 body was laughing. He was calling on the 
 schoolgirls to give their song. They were 
 getting up and going to the head of the 
 room and bowing to the people. 
 
 “ My sorrow, that I’m not there,” says 
 poor Nora to herself, and she laid her face 
 in her palms and began crying, 
 
 T I" 4 
 
 1 :>4 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 She stopped crying, suddenly. She hung 
 her head, and rubbed a palm to her eyes. 
 
 It wasn’t right, says she in her own mind. 
 It wasn’t right, just, or decent. Why should 
 she be kept at home? Why should they 
 always keep her at home ? If she was 
 a boy she’d be let out. Since she was only 
 a girl they would keep her at home. She 
 was, as she had said to Cuimin that evening, 
 only a little ass of a girl. She wouldn’t put 
 up with it any longer. She would have her 
 own way. She would be as free as any boy 
 that came or went. It’s often before that 
 she set her mind to the deed. She would 
 do the deed that night. 
 
 It’s often Nora thought that it would be a 
 fine life to be going like a flying hawk, 
 independent of everybody. The roads of 
 Ireland before her, and her face on them ; 
 the back of her head to home and hardship 
 and the vexation of her people. She going 
 from village to village, and from glen to 
 glen. The fine, level road before her, fields 
 on both sides of her, little, well-sheltered 
 houses on the slopes of the hills. If she’d 
 get tired she could stretch back by the side 
 of a ditch, or she could go into some house 
 
 l 55 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 and ask the good woman for a drink of milk 
 and a seat by the fire. To make the night’s 
 sleep in some wood under the shadow of 
 trees, and to rise early in the morning and 
 stretch out again under the lovely fresh air. 
 If she wanted food (and it’s likely she would 
 want it), she would do a day’s work here 
 and a day’s work there, and she would be 
 full-satisfied if she got a cup of tea and a 
 crumb of bread in payment for it. Wouldn’t 
 it be a fi ne life that, besides being a little ass 
 of a girl at home, feeding the hens and 
 minding the child ! 
 
 It’s not as a girl she’d go, but as a boy. 
 No one in life would know that it’s not a 
 boy was in it. When she’d cut her hair 
 and put on herself a suit of Cuimin’s 
 bawneens, who would know that it’s a girl 
 she was ? 
 
 It’s often Nora took that counsel to her- 
 self, but the fear would never let her put it 
 in practice. She never had right leave for 
 it. Her mother would always be in the 
 house, and no sooner would she be gone 
 than she’d feel wanted. But she had leave 
 now. None of them would be back in the 
 house for another hour of the clock, at the 
 
 li 6 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 least. She’d have a power of time to change 
 her clothes, and to go off unbeknown to the 
 world. She would meet nobody on the road, 
 for all the people were gathered in the 
 schoolhouse. She would have time to go 
 as far as Ellery to-night and to sleep in the 
 wood. She would rise early on the morrow 
 morning, and she would take the road before 
 anybody would be astir. 
 
 She jumped from the stool. There were 
 scissors in the drawer of the dresser. It 
 wasn’t long till she had a hold of them, and 
 snip ! snap ! She cut off her back hair, 
 and the fringe that was on her brow, and 
 each ringleted tress that was on her, in one 
 attack. She looked at herself in the glass. 
 A inghean O ! isn’t it bald and bare she looked. 
 She gathered the curls of hair from the 
 floor, and she hid them in an old box. Over 
 with her then to the place where a clean 
 suit of bawneens belonging to Cuimin was 
 hanging on a nail. Down with her on her 
 knees searching for a shirt of Cuimin’s that 
 was in a lower drawer of the dresser. She 
 threw the clothes on the floor beside the fire. 
 
 Here she is now taking off her own share 
 of clothes in a hurry. She threw her 
 
 1 57 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 dress and her little blouse and her shift into 
 a chest that was under the table. She put 
 Cuimin’s shirt on herself. She stuck her 
 legs into the breeches, and she pulled them 
 up on herself. She minded then that she 
 had neither belt nor gallowses. She’d have 
 to make a belt out of an old piece of cord. 
 She put the jacket on herself. She looked 
 in the glass, and she started. It’s how she 
 thought Cuimin was before her ! She 
 looked over her shoulder, but she didn’t 
 see anybody. It’s then she minded that it’s 
 her own self was looking at her, and she 
 laughed. But if she did itself, she was a 
 little scared. If she’d a cap now she’d be 
 ready for the road. Yes, she knew where 
 there was an old cap of Cuimin’s. She got 
 it, and put it on her head. Farewell for 
 ever now to the old life, and a hundred 
 welcomes to the new ! 
 
 When she was at the door she turned 
 back and she crept over to the cradle. The 
 child was sound asleep. She bent down 
 and she gave a kiss to the baby, a little, 
 little, light kiss in on his forehead. She 
 stole on the tips of her toes to the door, 
 opened it gently, went out on the street, 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 and shut the door quietly after her. Across 
 the street with her, and down the bohereen. 
 It was short till she took the road to her- 
 self. She pressed on then towards Turlagh 
 
 Be g- 
 
 It was short till she saw the schoolhouse 
 by the side of the road. There was a fine 
 light burning through the windows. She 
 heard a noise, as if they’d be laughing and 
 clapping hands within. Over across the 
 fence with her, and up the school path. 
 She went round to the back of the house. 
 The windows were high enough, but she 
 raised herself up till she’d a view of what 
 was going on inside. Father Ronan was 
 speaking. He stopped, and O, Lord ! — 
 the people began getting up. It was plain 
 that the fun was over, and that they were 
 about to separate to go home. What 
 would she do, if she’d be seen ? 
 
 She threw a leap from the window. Her 
 foot slipped from her, coming down on the 
 ground, and she got a drop. She very 
 nearly screamed out, but she minded herself 
 in time. Her knee was a little hurt, she 
 thought. The people were out on the 
 school yard by that. She must stay in 
 
 J 59 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 hiding till they were all gone. She moved 
 into the wall as close as she could. She 
 heard the people talking and laughing, and 
 she knew that they were scattering after 
 one another. 
 
 What was that? The voices of people 
 coming towards her ; the sound of a foot- 
 step on the path beside her ! It’s then she 
 minded that there was a short-cut across 
 the back of the house, and that there might 
 be some people going the short-cut. Likely, 
 her own people would be going that way, 
 for it was a little shorter than round by 
 the high road. A little knot came towards 
 her ; she recognized by their voices that 
 they were Peatin Johnny’s people. They 
 passed. Another little knot ; the Boatman’s 
 family. They drew that close to her that 
 Eamonn trod on her poor, bare, little foot. 
 She almost let a cry out of her the second 
 time, but she didn’t — she only squeezed 
 herself tighter to the wall. Another crowd 
 was coming : O, Great God, her own 
 
 people ! Cuimin was saying, “ Wasn’t it 
 wonderful, Marcuseen’s dancing ! ” Her 
 mother’s dress brushed Nora’s cheek going 
 by : she didn’t draw her breath all that 
 
 1 60 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 time. A company or two more went 
 past. She listened for a spell. Nobody 
 else was coming. It’s how they were all 
 gone, said she to herself. Out with her 
 from her hiding-place, and she tore across 
 the path. Plimp ! She ran against some- 
 body. Two big hands were about her. 
 She heard a man’s voice. She recognized 
 the voice. The priest that was in it. 
 
 “Who have I?” says Father Ronan. 
 
 She told a lie. What else had she to 
 say ? 
 
 “ Cuimin Col Labhras, Father,” says she. 
 
 He laid a hand on each shoulder of her, 
 and looked down on her. She had her 
 head bent. 
 
 “ I thought you went home with your 
 father and mother,” says he. 
 
 “ I did. Father, but I lost my cap and I 
 came back looking for it.” 
 
 “ Isn’t your cap on your head?” 
 
 “ I found it on the path.” 
 
 “ Aren’t your father and mother gone 
 the short-cut ? ” 
 
 “ They are, Father, but I am going the 
 road so that I’ll be with the other boys.” 
 
 “ Off with you, then, or the ghosts’ll 
 
 1 6 1 M 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 catch you ! ” With that Father Ronan 
 let her go from him. 
 
 “ May God give you good-night, Father,” 
 says she. She didn’t mind to take off her 
 cap, but it’s how she curtseyed to the 
 priest after the manner of girls ! If the 
 priest took notice of that much he hadn’t 
 time to say a word, for she was gone in the 
 turning of your hand. 
 
 Her two cheeks were red-hot with shame, 
 and she giving face on the road. She was 
 after telling four big lies to the priest ! 
 She was afraid that those lies were a 
 terrible sin on her soul. She was afraid 
 going that lonesome road in the dark- 
 ness of the night, and that burthen on 
 her heart. The night was very black. 
 There was a little brightening on her right 
 hand. The lake of Turlagh Beg that was 
 in it. There rose some bird, a curlew or a 
 snipe, from the brink of the lake, letting 
 mournful cries out of it. Nora started 
 when she heard the bird’s voice, that 
 suddenly, and the drumming of its wings. 
 She hurried on, and her heart beating against 
 her breast. She left Turlagh Beg behind 
 her, and faced the long, straight road that 
 
 162 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 leads to the Crosses of Kilbrickan. It’s 
 with trouble she recognized the shape of the 
 houses on the hill when she reached the 
 Crosses. There was a light in the house of 
 Peadar O Neachtain, and she heard voices 
 from the side of Snamh-Bo. She followed 
 on, drawing on Turlagh. When she reached 
 the Bog Hill the moon came out, and she 
 saw from her the scar of the hills. There 
 came a great cloud across the face of the 
 moon, and it seemed to her that it’s double 
 dark the night was then. Terror seized her, 
 for she minded that Cnoc-a’-Leachta (the 
 Hill of the Grave) wasn’t far off, and that 
 the graveyard would be on her right hand 
 then. It’s often she heard that was an 
 evil place in the middle of the night. She 
 sharpened her pace ; she began running. 
 She thought that she was being followed ; 
 that there was a bare-footed woman tread- 
 ing almost on her heels ; that there was a 
 thin, black man travelling alongside her ; 
 that there was a child, and a white shirt on 
 him, going the road before her. She opened 
 her mouth to let a screech out of her, but 
 there didn’t come a sound from her. She 
 was in a cold sweat. Her legs were bending 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 under her. She nearly fell in a heap on 
 the road. She was at Cnoc-a’-Leachta 
 about that time. It seemed to her that 
 Cill Eoin was full of ghosts. She minded 
 the word the priest said “ Have a care, or 
 the ghosts’ll catch you.” They were on 
 her ! She heard, she thought, the “ plub- 
 plab ” of naked feet on the road. She 
 turned to her left hand and she gave a leap 
 over the ditch. She went near to being 
 drowned in a deal-hole that was between 
 
 v 
 
 her and the wood, unbeknown to her. She 
 twisted her foot trying to save herself, and 
 she felt pain. On with her, reeling. She 
 was in the fields of Ellery then. She saw 
 the lamp of the lake through the branches. 
 A tree-root took a stumble out of her, and 
 she fell. She lost her senses. 
 
 • ••••••• 
 
 After a very long time she imagined that 
 the place was filled with a sort of half-light, 
 a light that was between the light of the 
 sun and the light of the moon. She saw, 
 very clearly, the feet of the trees, and them 
 dark against a yellowish-green sky. She 
 never saw a sky of that colour before, and it 
 was beautiful to her. She heard a footstep, 
 
 164 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 and she understood that there was someone 
 coming towards her up from the lake. She 
 knew in some manner that a prodigious 
 miracle was about to be shown her, and that 
 someone was to suffer there some awful 
 passion. She hadn’t long to wait till she 
 saw a young man struggling wearily through 
 the tangle of the wood. He had his head 
 bent, and the appearance of great sorrow on 
 him. Nora recognised him. The Son of 
 Mary that was in it, and she knew that He 
 was journeying all alone to His death. 
 
 The Man threw himself on His knees, and 
 He began praying. Nora didn’t hear one 
 word from Him, but she understood in her 
 heart what He was saying. He was asking 
 H is Eternal Father to send someone to Him 
 who would side with Him against His 
 enemies, and who would bear half of His 
 burthen. Nora wished to rise and to go to 
 Him, but she couldn’t stir out of the place 
 she was in. 
 
 She heard a noise, and the place was filled 
 with armed men. She saw dark, devilish 
 faces and grey swords and edged weapons. 
 The gentle Man was seized outrageously, 
 and His share of clothes torn from Him, and 
 
 i6 5 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 He was scourged with scourges there till His 
 body was in a bloody mass and in an ever- 
 lasting wound from His head to the soles of 
 His feet. A thorny crown was put then on 
 His gentle head, and a cross was laid on His 
 shoulders, and He went before Him, heavy- 
 footed, pitifully, the sorrowful way of His 
 journey to Calvary. The chain that was 
 tying Nora’s tongue and limbs till that broke, 
 and she cried aloud : 
 
 “ Let me go with You, Jesus, and carry 
 Your cross for You ! ” 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 She felt a hand on her shoulder. She 
 looked up. She saw her father’s face. 
 
 “ What’s on my little girl, or why did 
 she go from us? ” says her father’s voice. 
 
 He lifted her in hisarms and he brought her 
 home. She lay on her bed till the end of a 
 month after that. She was out of her mind 
 for half of that time, and she thought at times 
 that she was going the road, like a lone, 
 wild-goose, and asking knowledge of the 
 way of people ; and she thought at other 
 times that she was lying in under a tree in 
 Ellery, and that she was watching again the 
 passion of that gentle Man, and she trying 
 
 1 66 
 
THE ROADS 
 
 to help Him, but without power to help 
 him. That wandering went out of her 
 mind at long last, and she understood she 
 was at home again. And when she recog- 
 nised her mother’s face her heart was filled 
 with consolation, and she asked her to put 
 the child into the bed with her, and when 
 he was put into the bed she kissed him 
 lovingly. 
 
 “ Oh, mameen,” says she, “ I thought I 
 wouldn’t see you or my father or Cuimin or 
 the child ever again. Were ye here all 
 that time ? ” 
 
 “ We were, white lamb,” says her mother. 
 
 “ I’ll stay in the place where ye are,” says 
 she. “ Oh, mameen, heart, the roads were 
 very dark. . . . And I’ll never strike 
 
 the child again,” — and she gave him another 
 little kiss. 
 
 The child put his arm about her neck, 
 and he curled himself up in the bed at his 
 full ease. 
 
 167 
 
BRIGID OF THE SONGS 
 
BRIGID OF THE SONGS 
 
 Brigid of the Songs was the most famous 
 singer in Rossnageeragh, not only in my 
 time but in my father’s time. It’s said 
 that she could wile the song-thrush from 
 the branch with the sweetness of the music 
 that God gave her ; and I would believe it, 
 for it’s often she wiled me and other lads 
 besides from our dinner or our supper. I’d 
 be a rich man to-day if I had a shilling for 
 every time I stopped outside her door, on 
 my way home from school, listening to her 
 share of songs ; and my father told me that 
 it’s often and often he did the same thing 
 when he was a lad going to school. It was 
 a tradition among the people that it was 
 from Raftery himself that Brigid learned 
 “ Conntae Mhuigheo" (The County of Mayo), 
 and isn’t it with the “ Conntae Mhuigheo ” 
 that she drew the big tears out of the eyes 
 of John MacHale one time he was on a visit 
 here, along with our own Bishop, a year 
 exactly before I was born ? 
 
 A thing that’s no wonder, when we heard 
 
 I7 1 
 
BRIGID OF THE SONGS 
 
 that there was to be a Feis in Moykeeran, 
 we all settled in our minds that it’s Brigid 
 would have the prize for the singing, if 
 she’d enter for it. There was no other 
 person, neither men-singers nor women- 
 singers, half as good as she was in the seven 
 parishes. She couldn’t be beaten, if right 
 was to be done. She would put wonder- 
 ment on the people of Moykeeran and on 
 the grand folk would be in it out of Galway 
 and out of Tuam. She would earn name 
 and fame for Rossnageeragh. She would 
 win the prize easy, and she would be sent 
 to Dublin to sing a song at the Oireachtas. 
 There was a sort of hesitation on Brigid at 
 first. She was too old, she said. Her 
 voice wasn’t as good as it used be. She 
 
 hadn’t her wind. A share of her songs 
 were going out of her memory. She didn’t 
 want a prize. Didn’t the men of Ireland 
 know that she was the best singer in Iar- 
 Connacht? Didn’t Raftery praise her, 
 didn’t Colm Wallace make a song in her 
 honour, didn’t she draw tears out of the 
 eyes of John MacHale ? Brigid said that 
 much and seven times more ; but it was 
 plain, at the same time, that there was a 
 
 172 
 
BRIGID OF THE SONGS 
 
 wish on her to go to the Feis, and we all 
 knew that she would go. To make a short 
 story of it, we were at her until we took a 
 promise out of her that she would go. 
 
 She went. It’s well I remember the day 
 of the Feis. The world of Ireland was 
 there, you’d think. The house was over- 
 flowing with poor people and with rich 
 people, with noble folk and with lowly folk, 
 with strong, active youths, and with 
 withered, done old people. There were 
 priests and friars there from every art. 
 There were doctors and lawyers there from 
 Tuam and from Galway and from Uachtar 
 Ard. There were newspaper people there 
 from Dublin. There was a lord’s son there 
 from England. The full of people went 
 up, singing songs. Brigid went up. We 
 were at the back of the house, listening to 
 her. She began. There was a little 
 bashfulness on her at the start, and her 
 voice was too low. But she came to 
 herself in time, according as she was stirring 
 out into the song, and she took tears out 
 of the eyes of the gathering with the last 
 verse. There was great cheering when she 
 had finished, and she coming down. We 
 
 *73 
 
BRIGID OF THE SONGS 
 
 put a shout out of us you’d think would 
 crack the roof of the house. A young girl 
 went up. Her voice was a long way better 
 than Brigid’s, but, we thought, there was 
 not the same sadness nor sweetness in the 
 song as there was in Brigid’s. She came 
 down. The people cheered again, but I 
 didn’t notice that anybody was crying. One 
 of the judges got up. He praised Brigid 
 greatly. He praised the young girl greatly, 
 too. He was very tedious. 
 
 “ Who won the prize ? ” says one of us at 
 last, when our share of patience was 
 exhausted. 
 
 “ Oh, the prize ! ” says he. “ Well, in 
 regard to the prize, we are giving it to 
 Nora Cassidy (the young girl), but we 
 are considering the award of a special prize 
 to Brigid ni Mhainin (our Brigid). Nora 
 Cassidy will be sent to Dublin to sing a song 
 at the Oireachtas.” 
 
 The Moykeeran people applauded, for it 
 was out of Moykeeran that Nora Cassidy 
 was. We didn’t say anything. We looked 
 over at Brigid. Her face was grey-white, 
 and she trembling in every limb. 
 
 “What did you say, sir, please?” 
 
 1 74 - 
 
 says 
 
BRIGID OF THE SONGS 
 
 she in a strange voice. “ Is it I that have 
 the prize ? ” 
 
 “ We are considering the award of a 
 special prize to you, my good woman, as 
 you shaped so excellently — you did that, — 
 but it’s to Nora Cassidy that the Feis prize 
 is given.” 
 
 Brigid didn’t speak a word ; but it’s how 
 she rose up, and without looking either to 
 the right hand or to the left, she went out 
 the door. She took the road to Rossna- 
 geeragh, and she was before us when we 
 reached the village late in the night. 
 «■*..• 
 
 The Oireachtas was to be in Dublin the 
 week after. We were a sad crowd, re- 
 membering that Brigid of the Songs wouldn’t 
 be there. We were full sure that fair play 
 wasn’t done her in Moykeeran, and we 
 thought that if she’d go to Dublin she’d 
 get satisfaction. But alas ! we had no 
 money to send her there, and if we had 
 itself we knew that she wouldn’t take it 
 from us. We were arguing the question one 
 evening at the gable of the Boatman’s house, 
 when who should come up but little Martin 
 Connolly, at a full run, and he said to us 
 
 l 7S 
 
BRIGID OF THE SONGS 
 
 that Brigid of the Songs was gone, the lock 
 on the door, and no tale or tidings to be got 
 of her. 
 
 We didn’t know what happened her 
 until a fortnight’s time after that. Here’s 
 how it fell out. When she heard that the 
 Oireachtas was to be in Dublin on such a 
 day, she said to herself that she would be 
 there if she lived. She didn’t let on to 
 anyone, but went off with herself in the 
 night-time, walking. She had only a florin 
 piece in her pocket. She didn’t know 
 where Dublin was, nor how far it was 
 away. She followed her nose, it’s like, 
 asking the road of the people she met, 
 tramping always, until she’d left behind her 
 Cashlagh, and Spiddal, and Galway, and 
 Oranmore, and Athenry, and Kilconnell, 
 and Ballinasloe, and Athlone, and Mullingar, 
 and Maynooth, until at last she saw from 
 her the houses of Dublin. It’s like that her 
 share of money was spent long before that, 
 and nobody will ever know how the creature 
 lived on that long, lonesome journey. But 
 one evening when the Oireachtas was in full 
 swing in the big hall in Dublin, a country- 
 woman was seen coming in the door, her 
 
 176 
 
BRIGID OF THE SONGS 
 
 feet cut and bleeding with the hard stones 
 of the road, her share of clothes speckled 
 with dust and dirt, and she weary, worn-out 
 and exhausted. 
 
 She sat down. People were singing in 
 the old style. Brigid ni Mhainin from 
 Rossnageeragh was called on (for we had 
 entered her name in hopes that we’d be 
 able to send her). The old woman rose, 
 went up, and started “ Conntae Mhuigheo .” 
 
 When she finished the house was in one 
 ree-raw with shouts, it was that fine. She 
 was told to sing another song. She 
 began on the “ Sail Og Ruadh ” (The 
 Red Willow). She had only the first 
 line of the second verse said when there 
 came some wandering in her head. She 
 stopped and she began again. The wander- 
 ing came on her a second time, then a 
 trembling, and she fell in a faint on the 
 stage. She was carried out of the hall. 
 A doctor came to examine her. 
 
 “ She is dying from the hunger and the 
 hardship,” says he. 
 
 While that was going on, great shouts 
 were heard inside the hall. One of the 
 judges came out in a hurry. 
 
 1 77 
 
 N 
 
BRIGID OF THE SONGS 
 
 “You have won the first prize!” 
 says he. “You did” — . He stopped 
 suddenly. 
 
 A priest was on his knees bending over 
 Brigid. He raised his hand and he gave 
 the absolution. 
 
 “ She has won a greater reward than the 
 first prize,” says he. 
 
 178 
 
THE THIEF 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 One day when the boys of Gortmore were 
 let out from school, after the Glencaha boys 
 and the Derrybanniv boys had gone east, the 
 Turlagh boys and the Inver boys stayed to 
 have a while’s chat before separating at the 
 Rossnageeragh road. The master’s house 
 is exactly at the head of the road, its back 
 to the hill and its face to Loch Ellery. 
 
 “ I heard that the master’s bees were 
 swarming,” says Michileen Bartly Enda. 
 
 “ In with you into the garden till we 
 look at them,” says Daragh Barbara of the 
 Bridge. 
 
 “ I’m afraid,” says Michileen. 
 
 “ What are you afraid of? ” says Daragh. 
 
 “ By my word, the master and the mistress 
 will be out presently.” 
 
 “ Who’ll stay to give us word when the 
 master will be coming? ” says Daragh. 
 
 “ I will,” says little Anthony Manning. 
 
 “ That’ll do,” says Daragh. “ Let a 
 whistle when you see him leaving the school.” 
 
 In over the fence with him. In over the 
 fence with the other boys after him. 
 
 1 8 1 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 “ Have a care that none of you will get 
 a sting,” says Anthony. 
 
 “ Little fear,” says Daragh. And off 
 forever with them. 
 
 Anthony sat on the fence, and his back to 
 the road. He could see the master over his 
 right shoulder if he’d leave the schoolhouse. 
 What a nice garden the master had, thought 
 Anthony. He had rose-trees and gooseberry- 
 trees and apple-trees. He had little white 
 stones round the path. He had big white 
 stones in a pretty rockery, and moss and 
 maiden-hair fern and common fern growing 
 between them. He had 
 
 Anthony saw a wonder greater than any 
 wonder the master had in the garden. He 
 saw a little, beautiful wee house under the 
 shade of one of the rose-trees ; it made of 
 wood ; two storys in it ; white colour on 
 the lower story and red colour on the upper 
 story ; a little green door on it ; three 
 windows of glass on it, one downstairs and 
 two upstairs ; house furniture in it, between 
 tables and chairs and beds and delf, and the 
 rest ; and, says Anthony to himself, look at 
 the lady of the house sitting in the door ! 
 
 Anthony never saw a doll’s house before, 
 
 182 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 and it was a wonder to him, its neatness and 
 order, for a toy. He knew that it belonged 
 to the master’s little girl, little Nance. A pity 
 that his own little sister hadn’t one like it — 
 Eibhlin, the creature, that was stretched on 
 her bed for a long three months, and she 
 weak and sick ! A pity she hadn’t the doll 
 itself! Anthony put the covetousness of his 
 heart in that doll for Eibhlin. He looked 
 over his right shoulder — neither master nor 
 mistress was to be seen. He looked over 
 his left shoulder — the other boys were out 
 of sight. He didn’t think the second 
 thought. He gave his best leap from the 
 fence ; he seized the doll ; he stuck it under 
 his jacket ; he clambered out over the ditch 
 again, and away with him home. 
 
 “ I have a present for you,” says he to 
 Eibhlin, when he reached the house. 
 “ Look ! ” and with that he showed her the 
 doll. 
 
 There came a blush on the wasted cheeks 
 of the little sick girl, and a light into her eyes. 
 
 “ Ora , Anthony, love, where did you get 
 it ? ” says she. 
 
 “ The master’s little Nance, that sent it to 
 you for a present,” says Anthony. 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 Their mother came in. 
 
 “ Oh, mameen, treasure,” says Eibhlin, 
 “ look at the present that the master’s little 
 Nance sent me ! ” 
 
 “ In earnest? ” says the mother. 
 
 “ Surely,” says Eibhlin. “ Anthony, it 
 was, that brought it in to me now.” 
 
 Anthony looked down at his feet, and 
 began counting the toes that were on them. 
 
 “ My own pet,” says the mother, “ isn’t 
 it she that was good to you ! Muise , Nance ! 
 I’ll go bail that that present will put great 
 improvement on my little girl.” 
 
 And there came tears in the mother’s eyes 
 out of gratitude to little Nance because she 
 remembered the sick child. Though he 
 wasn’t able to look his mother between the 
 eyes, or at Eibhlin, with the dint of fear, 
 Anthony was glad that he committed the 
 theft. 
 
 He was afraid to say his prayers that 
 night, and he lay down on his bed without 
 as much as an “ Our Father.” He couldn’t 
 say the Act of Contrition, for it wasn’t 
 truthfully he’d be able to say to God that 
 he was sorry for that sin. It’s often he 
 started in the night, imagining that little 
 
 i 84 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 Nance was coming seeking the doll from 
 Eibhlin, that the master was taxing him 
 with the robbery before the school, that 
 there was a miraculous swarm of bees rising 
 against him, and Daragh Barbara of the 
 Bridge and the other boys exciting them 
 with shouts and with the music of drums. 
 But the next morning he said to himself: 
 “ I don’t care. The doll will make Eibhlin 
 better.” 
 
 When he went to school the boys asked 
 him why he went off unawares the evening 
 before that, and he after promising them 
 he’d keep watch. 
 
 “ My mother sent for me,” says Anthony. 
 “ She’d a task for me.” 
 
 When little Nance came into the school, 
 Anthony looked at her under his brows. 
 He fancied that she was after being crying ; 
 he thought that he saw the track of the 
 tears on her cheeks. The first time the 
 master called him by his name he jumped, 
 because he thought that he was going to tax 
 him with the fault or to cross-question him 
 about the doll. He never put in as miserable 
 a day as that day at school. But when he 
 went home and saw the great improvement 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 on Eibhlin, and she sitting up in the bed for 
 the first time for a month, and the doll 
 clasped in her arms, says he to himself : “ I 
 don’t care. The doll is making Eibhlin 
 better.” 
 
 In his bed in the night-time he had bad 
 dreams again. He thought that the master 
 was after telling the police that he stole the 
 doll, and that they were on his track ; he 
 imagined one time that there was a police- 
 man hiding under the bed and that there 
 was another hunkering behind the window- 
 curtain. He screamed out in his sleep. 
 
 “ What’s on you?” says his father to 
 
 him. 
 
 “ The peeler that’s going to take me,” 
 says Anthony. 
 
 “ You’re only rambling, boy,” says his 
 father to him. “ There’s no peeler in it. 
 Go to sleep.” 
 
 There was the misery of the world on the 
 poor fellow from that out. He used think 
 they would be pointing fingers at him, and 
 he going the road. He used think they 
 would be shaking their heads and saying 
 to each other, “ There’s a thief,” or, “ Did 
 you hear what Anthony Pharaig Manning 
 
 1 86 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 did ? Her doll he stole from the master’s 
 little Nance. Now what do you say?” 
 But he didn’t suffer rightly till he went to 
 Mass on Sunday and till Father Ronan 
 started preaching a sermon on the Seventh 
 Commandment : cc Thou shalt not steal ; and 
 if you commit a theft it will not be forgiven 
 you until you make restitution.” Anthony 
 was full sure that it was a mortal sin. He 
 knew that he ought to go to confession and 
 tell the sin to the priest. But he couldn’t 
 go to confession, for he knew that the priest 
 would say to him that he must give the doll 
 back. And he wouldn’t give the doll back. 
 He hardened his heart and he said that he’d 
 never give the doll back, for that the doll 
 was making Eibhlin better every day. 
 
 One evening he was sitting by the bed- 
 foot in serious talk with Eibhlin when his 
 mother ran in in a hurry, and says she — 
 
 “ Here’s the mistress and little Nance 
 coming up the bohereen ! ” 
 
 Anthony wished the earth would open 
 and swallow him. His face was red up to 
 his two ears. He was in a sweat. He 
 wasn’t able to say a word or to think a 
 thought. But these words were running 
 
 187 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 through his head : “ They’ll take the doll 
 from Eibhlin.” It was all the same to him 
 what they’d say or what they’d do to him- 
 self. The only answer he’d have would be, 
 “ The doll’s making Eibhlin better.” 
 
 The mistress and little Nance came into 
 the room. Anthony got up. He couldn’t 
 look them in the face. He began at his old 
 clatter, counting the toes of his feet. Five 
 on each foot ; four toes and a big toe ; or 
 three toes, a big toe, and a little toe ; that’s 
 five ; twice five are ten ; ten in all. He 
 couldn’t add to their number or take from 
 them. His mother was talking, the mistress 
 was talking, but Anthony paid no heed to 
 them. He was waiting till something would 
 be said about the doll. There was nothing 
 for him to do till that but count his toes. 
 One, two, three 
 
 What was that ? Eibhlin was referring 
 to the doll. Anthony listened now. 
 
 “ Wasn’t it good of you to send me the 
 doll? ” she was saying to Nance. “ From 
 the day Anthony brought it in to me a 
 change began coming on me.” 
 
 “ It did that,” says her mother. “ We’ll 
 be forever grateful to you for that same doll 
 
 1 88 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 you sent to her. May God increase your 
 store, and may He requite you for it a 
 thousand times.” 
 
 Neither Nance nor the mistress spoke. 
 Anthony looked at Nance shyly. His two 
 eyes were stuck in the doll, for the doll was 
 lying cosy in the bed beside Eibhlin. It 
 had its mouth half open, and the wonder of 
 the world on it at the sayings of Eibhlin 
 and her mother. 
 
 “ It’s with trouble I believed Anthony 
 when he brought it into me,” says Eibhlin, 
 “ and when he told me you sent it to me as 
 a present.” 
 
 Nance looked over at Anthony. Anthony 
 lifted his head slowly, and their eyes met. 
 It will never be known what Nance read in 
 Anthony’s eyes. What Anthony read in 
 Nance’s eyes was mercy, love and sweetness. 
 Nance spoke to Eibhlin. 
 
 “ Do you like it? ” says she. 
 
 “ Over anything,” says Eibhlin. I’d 
 rather it than anything I have in the 
 world.” 
 
 “ I have the little house it lives in,” says 
 Nance. “ I must send it to you. Anthony 
 will bring it to you to-morrow.” 
 
 189 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 “ Ora ! ” says Eibhlin, and she clapping 
 her two little thin palms together. 
 
 “ You’ll miss it, love,” says Eibhlin’s 
 mother to Nance. 
 
 “ No,” said Nance. “ It will put more 
 improvement on Eibhlin. I have lots of 
 things.” 
 
 “ Let her do it, Cait,” said the mistress 
 to the mother. 
 
 “ Ye are too good,” says the poor woman. 
 
 Anthony thought that it’s dreaming he 
 was. Or he thought that it’s not a person 
 of this world little Nance was at all, but an 
 angel come down out of heaven. He 
 wanted to go on his knees to her. 
 
 When the mistress and little Nance went 
 off, Anthony ran out the back door and 
 tore across the garden, so that he’d be before 
 them at the bohereen-foot,and they going out 
 on the road. 
 
 “ Nance,” says he, “ I s-stole it, — the 
 d-doll. ” 
 
 “ Never mind, Anthony,” says Nance, 
 “ you did good to Eibhlin.” 
 
 Anthony stood like a stake in the road, 
 and he couldn’t speak another word. 
 
 Isn’t it he was proud bringing the doll’s 
 
 190 
 
THE THIEF 
 
 house home to Eibhlin after school the 
 next day ! And isn’t it they had the fun 
 that evening settling the house and polishing 
 the furniture and putting the doll to sleep 
 on its little bed ! 
 
 The Saturday following Anthony went to 
 confession, and told his sin to the priest. 
 The penance the priest put on him was to 
 clean the doll’s house once in the week for 
 Eibhlin, till she would be strong enough 
 to clean it herself. Eibhlin was strong 
 enough for it by the end of a month. By 
 the end of another month she was at school 
 again. 
 
 There wasn’t a Saturday evening from 
 that out that they wouldn’t hear a little, 
 light tapping at the master’s door. On the 
 mistress going out Anthony would be 
 standing at the door. 
 
 “ Here’s a little present for Nance,” 
 he’d say, stretching towards her half-a-dozen 
 duck’s eggs, or a bunch of heather, or, at the 
 least, the full of his fist of duileasg , and then 
 he’d brush off with him without giving the 
 mistress time to say “ thank you.” 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 I 
 
 “Coilin,” says my father to me one 
 morning after the breakfast, and I putting my 
 books together to be stirring to school — 
 “ Coilin,” says he, “ I have a task for you 
 to-day. Sean will tell the master it was 
 myself kept you at home to-day, or it’s the 
 way he’ll be thinking you’re miching, like 
 you were last week. Let you not forget 
 now, Sean.” 
 
 “ I will not, father,” says Sean, and a lip 
 on him.' He wasn’t too thankful it to be 
 said that it’s not for him my father had the 
 task. This son was well satisfied, for my 
 lessons were always a trouble to me, and the 
 master promised me a beating the day 
 before unless I’d have them at the tip of 
 my mouth the next day. 
 
 “ What you’ll do, Coilin,” says my father 
 when Sean was gone off, “ is to bring the 
 ass and the little car with you to Screeb, 
 and draw home a load of sedge. Michileen 
 
 x 95 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 Maire is cutting it for me. We’ll be 
 starting, with God’s help, to put the new 
 roof on the house after to-morrow, if the 
 weather stands.” 
 
 “ Michileen took the ass and car with 
 him this morning,” says I. 
 
 “You’ll have to leg it, then, a mhic O,” 
 says my father. “ As soon as Michileen 
 has an ass-load cut, fetch it home with you 
 on the car, and let Michileen tear till he’s 
 black. We might draw the other share 
 to-morrow.” 
 
 It wasn’t long till I was knocking steps 
 out of the road. I gave my back to Kil- 
 brickan and my face to Turlagh. I left 
 Turlagh behind me, and I made for Gort- 
 more. I stood a spell looking at an oared 
 boat that was on Loch Ellery, and another 
 spell playing with some Inver boys that 
 were late going to Gortmore school. I 
 left them at the school gate, and I reached 
 Glencaha. I stood, for the third time, 
 watching a big eagle that was sunning 
 himself on Carrigacapple. East with me, then, 
 till I was in Derrybanniv, and the hour and 
 a half wasn’t spent when I cleared Glasha- 
 duff bridge. 
 
 196 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 There was a house that time a couple of 
 hundred yards east from the bridge, near 
 the road, on your right-hand side and you 
 drawing towards Screeb. It was often before 
 that that I saw an old woman standing in 
 the door of that house, but I had no 
 acquaintance on her, nor did she ever put 
 talk or topic on me. A tall, thin woman 
 she was, her head as white as the snow, 
 and two dark eyes, as they would be two 
 burning sods, flaming in her head. She 
 was a woman that would scare me if I met 
 her in a lonely place in the night. Times 
 she would be knitting or carding, and she 
 crooning low to herself ; but the thing she 
 would be mostly doing when I travelled, 
 would be standing in the door, and looking 
 from her up and down the road, exactly as 
 she’d be waiting for someone that would be 
 away from her, and she expecting him home. 
 
 She was standing there that morning as 
 usual, her hand to her eyes, and she staring 
 up the road. When she saw me going 
 past, she nodded her head to me. I went 
 over to her. 
 
 “ Do you see a person at all coming up 
 the road ? ” says she. 
 
 197 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 44 I don’t,” says I. 
 
 “ I thought I saw someone. It can’t 
 be that I’m astray. See, isn’t that a young 
 man making up on us?” says she. 
 
 44 Devil a one do I see,” says I. 44 There’s 
 not a person at all between the spot we’re 
 on and the turning of the road.” 
 
 44 I was astray, then,” says she. 44 My 
 sight isn’t as good as it was. I thought I 
 saw him coming. I don’t know what’s 
 keeping him.” 
 
 44 Who’s away from you ? ” says myself. 
 
 44 My son that’s away from me,” says 
 she. 
 
 44 Is he long away ? ” 
 
 46 This morning he went to Uachtar Ard.” 
 
 44 But, sure, he couldn’t be here for a 
 while,” says I. 44 You’d think he’d barely 
 be in Uachtar Ard by now, and he doing 
 his best, unless it was by the morning train 
 he went from the Burnt House.” 
 
 44 What’s this I’m saying?” says she. 
 44 It’s not to-day he went, but yesterday, — 
 or the day ere yesterday, maybe. 
 
 I’m losing my wits.” 
 
 44 If it’s on the train he’s coming,” says I, 
 44 he’ll not be here for a couple of hours yet.” 
 
 198 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 “ On the train ?” says she. “ What train ?” 
 “ The train that does be at the Burnt 
 H ouse at noon/’ 
 
 “ He didn’t say a word about a train,” 
 says she. “ There was no train coming as 
 far as the Burnt House yesterday.” 
 
 “ Isn’t there a train coming to the Burnt 
 House these years?” says I, wondering 
 greatly. She didn’t give me any answer, 
 however. She was staring up the road 
 again. There came a sort of dread on me 
 of her, and I was about gathering off. 
 
 “ If you see him on the road,” says she, 
 “ tell him to make huu*y.” 
 
 “ I’ve no acquaintance on him,” says I. 
 
 “ You’d know him easy. He’s the play- 
 boy of the people. A young, active lad, 
 and he well set-up. He has a white head 
 on him, like is on yourself, and grey eyes 
 . . . like his father had. Bawneens 
 
 he’s wearing.” 
 
 “ If I see him,” says I, “ I’ll tell him 
 you’re waiting for him.” 
 
 “ Do, son,” says she. 
 
 With that I stirred on with me east, and 
 left her standing in the door. 
 
 199 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 She was there still, and I coming home a 
 couple of hours after that, and the load of 
 sedge on the car. 
 
 “ He didn’t come yet?” says I to 
 her. 
 
 “ No, a mhuirnin . You didn’t see him ?” 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ No ? What can have happened him?” 
 
 There were signs of rain on the day. 
 
 “ Come in till the shower’s over,” says 
 she. “ It’s seldom I do have company.” 
 
 I left the ass and the little car on the 
 road, and I went into the house. 
 
 “ Sit and drink a cup of milk,” says 
 she. 
 
 I sat on the bench in the corner, and she 
 gave me a drink of milk and a morsel of 
 bread. I was looking all round the house, 
 and I eating and drinking. There was a 
 chair beside the fire, and a white shirt and a 
 suit of clothes laid on it. 
 
 “ I have these ready against he will 
 come,” says she. “ I washed the bawneens 
 yesterday after his departing, — no, the day 
 ere yesterday — I don’t know right which 
 day I washed them ; but, anyhow, they’ll 
 be clean and dry before him when he does 
 
 200 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 come. . . . What’s your own name f ” 
 
 says she, suddenly, after a spell of silence. 
 
 I told her. 
 
 “ Muise, my love you are!” says she. 
 “ The very name that was — that is — on my 
 own son. Whose are you?” 
 
 I told her. 
 
 “ And do you say you’re a son of Sean 
 Feichin’s? ” says she. “ Your father was in 
 the public-house in Uachtar Ard that night. 
 
 • . .” She stopped suddenly with that, 
 
 and there came some change on her. She 
 put her hand to her head. You’d think 
 that it’s madness was struck on her. She 
 sat before the fire then, and she stayed for a 
 while dreaming into the heart of the fire. 
 It was short till she began moving herself 
 to and fro over the fire, and crooning or 
 keening in a low voice. I didn’t understand 
 the words right, or it would be better for 
 me to say that it’s not on the words I was 
 thinking but on the music. It seemed to me 
 that there was the loneliness of the hills in 
 the dead time of night, or the loneliness of 
 the grave when nothing stirs in it but 
 worms, in that music. Here are the words 
 as I heard them from my father after that : — 
 
 201 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 Sorrow on death, it is it that blackened my heart, 
 That carried off my love and that left me ruined, 
 Without friend, without companion under the 
 roof of my house 
 
 But this sorrow in my middle, and I lamenting. 
 
 Going the mountain one evening, 
 
 The birds spoke to me sorrowfully, 
 
 The melodious snipe and the voiceful curlew, 
 Telling me that my treasure was dead. 
 
 1 called on you, and your voice I did not hear, 
 
 I called again, and an answer I did not get. 
 
 I kissed your mouth, and O God, wasn’t it cold! 
 Och, it’s cold your bed is in the lonely graveyard. 
 
 And O sod-green grave, where my child is, 
 
 O narrow, little grave, since you are his bed, 
 
 My blessing on you, and the thousand blessings 
 On the green sods that are over my pet. 
 
 Sorrow on death, its blessing is not possible — 
 
 It lays fresh and withered together ; 
 
 And, O pleasant little son, it is it is my affliction. 
 Your sweet body to be making clay ! 
 
 When she had that finished, she kept on 
 moving herself to and fro, and lamenting 
 in a low voice. It was a lonesome place 
 to be, in that backward house, and you to 
 have no company but yon solitary old 
 
 202 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 woman, mourning to herself by the fire- 
 side. There came a dread and a creeping 
 on me, and I rose to my feet. 
 
 “ It’s time for me to be going home,” 
 says I. “ The evening’s clearing.” 
 
 “ Come here,” says she to me. 
 
 I went hither to her. She laid her two 
 hands softly on my head, and she kissed my 
 forehead. 
 
 “The protection of God to you, little 
 son,” says she. “ May He let the harm of 
 the year over you, and may He increase the 
 good fortune and happiness of the year to 
 you and to your family.” 
 
 With that she freed me from her. I left 
 the house, and pushed on home with me. 
 
 “ Where were you, Coilin, when the 
 shower caught you ?” says my mother to me 
 that night. “ It didn’t do you any hurt.” 
 “ I waited in the house of yon old woman 
 on the east side of Glashaduff bridge,” says 
 I. “ She was talking to me about her son. 
 He’s in Uachtar Ard these two days, and 
 she doesn’t know why he hasn’t come home 
 ere this.” 
 
 203 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 My father looked over at my mother. 
 
 “The Keening Woman,” says he. 
 
 “ Who is she?” says I. 
 
 “ The Keening Woman,” says my father. 
 “ Muirne of the Keens.” 
 
 “Why was that name given to her?” 
 says I. 
 
 “ For the keens she does be making,” 
 answered my father. “ She’s the most 
 famous keening-woman in Connemara or 
 in the Joyce Country. She’s always sent 
 for when anyone dies. She keened my 
 father, and there’s a chance but she’ll keen 
 myself. But, may God comfort her, it’s 
 her own dead she does be keening always, 
 it’s all the same what corpse is in the 
 house.” 
 
 “ And what’s her son doing in Uachtar 
 Ard ? ” says I. 
 
 “ Her son died twenty years since, 
 Coilin,” says my mother. 
 
 “ He didn’t die at all,” says my father, 
 and a very black look on him. “ He was 
 murdered .” 
 
 “ Who murdered him? ” 
 
 It’s seldom I saw my father angry, but 
 it’s awful his anger was when it would 
 
 204 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 rise up in him. He took a start out of me 
 when he spoke again, he was that angry. 
 
 “ Who murdered your own grandfather ? 
 Who drew the red blood out of my grand- 
 mother’s shoulders with a lash ? Who 
 would do it but the English ? My curse 
 on — ” 
 
 My mother rose, and she put her hand 
 on his mouth. 
 
 “ Don’t give your curse to anyone, Sean,” 
 says she. My mother was that kind- 
 hearted, she wouldn’t like to throw the 
 bad word at the devil himself. I believe 
 she’d have pity in her heart for Cain and 
 for Judas, and for Diarmaid of the Galls. 
 “ It’s time for us to be saying the Rosary,” 
 says she. “Your father will tell you about 
 Coilin Muirne some other night.” 
 
 “ Father,” says I, and we going on our 
 knees, “ we should say a prayer for Coilin’s 
 soul this night.” 
 
 “ We’ll do that, son,” says my father 
 kindly. 
 
 205 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 II 
 
 Sitting up one night, in the winter that 
 was on us, my father told us the story of 
 Muirne from start to finish. It’s well I 
 mind him in the firelight, a broad-shouldered 
 man, a little stooped, his share of hair going 
 grey, lines in his forehead, a sad look in his 
 eyes. He was mending an old sail that 
 night, and I was on my knees beside him in 
 the name of helping him. My mother and 
 my sisters were spinning frieze. Seaneen 
 was stretched on his face on the floor, and 
 he in grips of a book. ’Twas small the 
 heed he gave to the same book, for it’s the 
 pastime he had, to be tickling the soles of 
 my feet and taking an odd pinch out of my 
 calves ; but as my father stirred out in the 
 story Sean gave over his trickery, and it is 
 short till he was listening as interested as 
 anyone. It would be hard not to listen to 
 my father when he’d tell a story like that by 
 the hearthside. He was a sweet storyteller. 
 It’s often I’d think there was music in his 
 
 206 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 voice ; a low, deep music like that in the 
 bass of the organ in Tuam Cathedral. 
 
 Twenty years are gone, Coilin (says my 
 father), since the night myself and Coilin 
 Muirne (may God give him grace) and three 
 or four others of the neighbours were in 
 Neachtan’s public-house in Uachtar Ard. 
 There was a fair in the town the same day, 
 and we were drinking a glass before taking 
 the road home on ourselves. There were 
 four or five men in it from Carrowroe and 
 from the Joyce Country, and six or seven 
 of the people of the town. There came a 
 stranger in, a thin, black man that nobody 
 knew. He called for a glass. 
 
 “ Did ye hear, people,” says he to us, and 
 he drinking with us, “ that the lord is to 
 come home to-night? ” 
 
 “What business has the devil here?” 
 says someone. 
 
 “ Bad work he’s up to, as usual,” says the 
 black man. “ He has settled to put seven 
 families out of their holdings.” 
 
 “ Who’s to be put out? ” says one of us. 
 “ Old Thomas O’Drinan from the Glen, 
 — I’m told the poor fellow’s dying, but it’s 
 on the roadside he’ll die, if God hasn’t him 
 
 207 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 already ; a man of the O’Conaire’s that lives 
 in a cabin on this side of Loch Shindilla ; 
 Manning from Snamh Bo ; two in Annagh- 
 maan ; a woman at the head of the Island ; 
 and Anthony O’Greelis from Lower Camus.” 
 “ Anthony’s wife is heavy in child,” says 
 Cuimin O’Niadh. 
 
 “That won’t save her, the creature,” 
 says the black man. “ She’s not the first 
 woman out of this country that bore her 
 child in a ditch-side of the road.” 
 
 There wasn’t a word out of anyone of 
 us. 
 
 “What sort of men are ye?” says the 
 black man, — “ ye are not men, at all. I 
 was born and raised in a countryside, and, 
 my word to you, the men of that place 
 wouldn’t let the whole English army together 
 throw out seven families on the road without 
 them knowing the reason why. Are ye 
 afraid of the man that’s coming here to- 
 night ? ” 
 
 “ It’s easy to talk,” said Cuimin, “ but 
 what way can we stop the bodach ? ” 
 
 “ Murder him this night,” says a voice 
 behind me. Everybody started. I myself 
 turned round. It was Coilin Muirne that 
 
 208 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 spoke. His two eyes were blazing in his 
 head, a flame in his cheeks, and his head 
 thrown high. 
 
 “ A man that spoke that, whatever his 
 name and surname,” says the stranger. He 
 went hither and gripped Coilin’s hand. 
 “ Drink a glass with me,” says he. 
 
 Coilin drank the glass. The others 
 wouldn’t speak. 
 
 “ It’s time for us to be shortening the 
 road,” says Cuimin, after a little spell. 
 
 We got a move on us. We took the 
 road home. The night was dark. There 
 was no wish for talk on any of us, at all. 
 When we came to the head of the street 
 Cuimin stood in the middle of the road. 
 
 “ Where’s Coilin Muirne ? ” says he. 
 
 We didn’t feel him from us till Cuimin 
 spoke. He wasn’t in the company. 
 
 Myself went back to the public-house. 
 Coilin wasn’t in it. I questioned the pot- 
 boy. He said that Coilin and the black 
 man left the shop together five minutes after 
 our going. I searched the town. There 
 wasn’t tale or tidings of Coilin anywhere. 
 I left the town and I followed the other 
 men. I hoped it might be that he’d be to 
 
 209 p 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 find before me. He wasn’t, nor the track 
 of him. 
 
 It was very far in the night when we reached 
 Glashaduff bridge. There was a light in 
 Muirne’s house. Muirne herself was stand- 
 ing in the door. 
 
 “ God save you, men,” says she, coming 
 over to us. “ Is Coilin with you ? ” 
 
 “He isn’t, muise” says I. “He stayed 
 behind us in Uachtar Ard.” 
 
 “ Did he sell ? ” says she. 
 
 “ He did, and well,” says I. “ There’s 
 every chance that he’ll stay in the town till 
 morning. The night’s black and cold in 
 itself. Wouldn’t it be as well for you to go 
 in and lie down ? ” 
 
 “ It’s not worth my while,” says she. 
 “ I’ll wait up till he comes. May God 
 hasten you.” 
 
 We departed. There was, as it would be, 
 a load on my heart. I was afraid that there 
 was something after happening to Coilin. 
 I had ill notions of that black man . 
 
 I lay down on my bed after coming home, 
 but I didn’t sleep. 
 
 The next morning myself and your 
 mother were eating breakfast, when the 
 
 210 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 latch was lifted from the door, and in comes 
 Cuimin O’Niadh. He could hardly draw 
 his breath. 
 
 ‘‘What’s the news with you, man?” 
 says I. 
 
 “Bad news,” says he. “The lord was 
 murdered last night. He was got on the 
 road a mile to the east of Uachtar Ard, 
 and a bullet through his heart. The 
 soldiers were in Muirne’s house this morn- 
 ing on the track of Coilin, but he wasn’t 
 there. He hasn’t come home yet. It’s 
 said it was he murdered the lord. You 
 mind the words he said last night?” 
 
 I leaped up, and out the door with me. 
 Down the road, and east to Muirne’s house. 
 There was no one before me but herself. 
 The furniture of the house was this way 
 and that way, where the soldiers were 
 searching. Muirne got up when she saw 
 me in the door. 
 
 “ Sean O’Conaire,” says she, “ for God’s 
 pitiful sake, tell me where’s my son? You 
 were along with him. Why isn’t he 
 coming home to me?” 
 
 “ Let you have patience, Muirne,” says 
 I. “ I’m going to Uachtar Ard after him.” 
 
 2 1 1 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 I struck the road. Going in the street 
 of Uachtar Ard, I saw a great ruck of 
 people. The bridge and the street before 
 the chapel were black with people. People 
 were making on the spot from every art. 
 But, a thing that put terror on my heart, 
 there wasn’t a sound out of that terrible 
 gathering, — only the eyes of every man 
 stuck in a little knot that was in the right- 
 middle of the crowd. Soldiers that were 
 in that little knot, black coats and red 
 coats on them, and guns and swords in 
 their hands ; and among the black coats 
 and red coats I saw a country boy, and 
 bawneens on him. Coilin Muirne that 
 was in it, and he in holds of the soldiers. 
 The poor boy’s face was as white as my 
 shirt, but he had the beautiful head of him 
 lifted proudly, and it wasn’t the head of a 
 coward, that head. 
 
 He was brought to the barracks, and that 
 crowd following him. He was taken to 
 Galway that night. He was put on his 
 trial the next month. It was sworn that 
 he was in the public-house that night. It 
 was sworn that the black man was discours- 
 ing on the landlords. It was sworn that 
 
 212 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 he said the lord would be coming that 
 night to throw the people out of their 
 holdings the next day. It was sworn that 
 Coilin Muirne was listening attentively to 
 him. It was sworn that Coilin said those 
 words, “ Murder him this night,” when 
 Cuimin O’Niadh said, “ What way can we 
 stop the bodach?” It was sworn that the 
 black man praised him for saying those 
 words, that he shook hands with him, 
 that they drank a glass together. It was 
 sworn that Coilin remained in the shop 
 after the going of the Rossnageeragh people, 
 and that himself and the black man left 
 the shop together five minutes after that. 
 There came a peeler then, and he swore 
 he saw Coilin and the black man leaving 
 the town, and that it wasn’t the Rossna- 
 geeragh road they took on themselves, but 
 the Galway road. At eight o’clock they 
 left the town. At half after eight a shot 
 was fired at the lord on the Galway road. 
 Another peeler swore he heard the report 
 of the shot. He swore he ran to the place, 
 and, closing up to the place, he saw two 
 men running away. A thin man one of 
 them was, and he dressed like a gentleman 
 
 213 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 would be. A country bey the other man 
 was. 
 
 “ What kind of clothes was the country 
 boy wearing? ” says the lawyer. 
 
 “ A suit of bawneens,” says the peeler. 
 
 “ Is that the man you saw?” says the 
 lawyer, stretching his finger towards Coilin. 
 
 “ I would say it was.” 
 
 “ Do you swear it ? ” 
 
 J 
 
 The peeler didn’t speak for a spell. 
 
 “Do you swear it?” says the lawyer 
 again. 
 
 “ I do,” says the peeler. The peeler’s 
 face at that moment was whiter than the 
 face of Coilin himself. 
 
 A share of us swore then that Coilin 
 never fired a shot out of a gun ; that he was 
 a decent, kindly boy that wouldn’t hurt a 
 fly, if he had the power for it. The parish 
 priest swore that he knew Coilin from the 
 day he baptized him ; that it was his opinion 
 that he never committed a sin, and that he 
 wouldn’t believe from anyone at all that he 
 would slay a man. It was no use for us. 
 What good was our testimony against the 
 testimony of the police ? Judgment of death 
 was given on Coilin. 
 
 214 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 His mother was present all that time. She 
 didn’t speak a word from start to finish, but 
 her two eyes stuck in the two eyes of her 
 son, and her two hands knitted under her 
 shawl. 
 
 tc He won’t be hanged,” says Muirne that 
 night. “ God promised me that he won’t 
 be hanged.” 
 
 A couple of days after that we heard that 
 Coilin wouldn’t be hanged, that it’s how his 
 soul would be spared him on account of him 
 being so young as he was, but that he’d be 
 kept in gaol for the term of his life. 
 
 “ He won’t be kept,” says Muirne. “ O 
 Jesus,” she would say, don’t let them keep 
 my son from me.” 
 
 It’s marvellous the patience that woman 
 had, and the trust she had in the Son of 
 God. It’s marvellous the faith and the hope * 
 and the patience of women. 
 
 She went to the parish priest. She said 
 to him that if he’d write to the people of 
 Dublin, asking them to let Coilin out to her, 
 it’s certain he would be let out. 
 
 “ They won’t refuse you, Father,” says 
 she. 
 
 The priest said that there would be no 
 
 21 5 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 use at all in writing, that no heed would be 
 paid to his letter, but that he himself would 
 go to Dublin and that he would speak with 
 the great people, and that, maybe, some good 
 might come out of it. He went. Muirne 
 was full-sure her son would be home to her 
 by the end of a week or two. She readied 
 the house before him. She put lime on it 
 herself, inside and outside. She set two 
 neighbours to put a new thatch on it. She 
 spun the makings of a new suit of clothes 
 for him ; she dyed the wool with her own 
 hands ; she brought it to the weaver, and 
 she made the suit when the frieze came 
 home. 
 
 We thought it long while the priest was 
 away. He wrote a couple of times to the 
 master, but there was nothing new in the 
 letters. He was doing his best, he said, but 
 he wasn’t succeeding too well. He was 
 going from person to person, but it’s not 
 much satisfaction anybody was giving him. 
 It was plain from the priest’s letters that he 
 hadn’t much hope he’d be able to do any- 
 thing. None of us had much hope, either. 
 But Muirne didn’t lose the wonderful trust 
 she had in God. 
 
 216 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 “ The priest will bring my son home with 
 him,” she used say. 
 
 There was nothing making her anxious 
 but fear that she wouldn’t have the new suit 
 ready before Coilin’s coming. But it was 
 finished at last ; she had everything ready, 
 repair on the house, the new suit laid on a 
 chair before the fire, — and still no word of 
 the priest. 
 
 “ Isn’t it Coilin will be glad when he sees 
 the comfort I have in the house,” she would 
 say. “Isn’t it he will look spruce going the road 
 to Mass of a Sunday, and that suit on him!” 
 
 It’s well I mind the evening the priest 
 came home. Muirne was waiting for him 
 since morning, the house cleaned up, and 
 the table laid. 
 
 “ Welcome home,” she said, when the 
 priest came in. She was watching the door, 
 as she would be expecting someone else to 
 come in. But the priest closed the door 
 after him. 
 
 “ I thought that it’s with yourself he’d 
 come, Father,” says Muirne. “ But, sure, 
 it’s the way he wouldn’t like to come on the 
 priest’s car. He was shy like that always, 
 the creature.” 
 
 217 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 “ Oh, poor Muirne,” says the priest, 
 holding her by the two hands, “ I can’t 
 conceal the truth from you. He’s not 
 coming, at all. I didn’t succeed in doing 
 anything. They wouldn’t listen to me.” 
 
 Muirne didn’t say a word. She went 
 over and she sat down before the fire. The 
 priest followed her and laid his hand on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 “ Muirne,” says he, like that. 
 
 “ Let me be, Father, for a little while,” 
 says she. “ May God and His Mother 
 reward you for what you’ve done for me. 
 But leave me to myself for a while. I 
 thought you’d bring him home to me, and 
 it’s a great blow on me that he hasn’t 
 come.” 
 
 The priest left her to herself. He thought 
 he’d be no help to her till the pain of that 
 blow would be blunted. 
 
 The next day Muirne wasn’t to be found. 
 Tale or tidings no one had of her. Word 
 nor wisdom we never heard of her till the 
 end of a quarter. A share of us thought 
 that it’s maybe out of her mind the creature 
 went, and a lonely death to come on her in 
 the hollow of some mountain, or drowning 
 
 218 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 in a boghole. The neighbours searched 
 the hills round about, but her track wasn’t 
 to be seen. 
 
 One evening myself was digging potatoes 
 in the garden, when I saw a solitary woman 
 making on me up the road. A tall, thin 
 woman. Her head well-set. A great 
 walk under her. “ If Muirne ni Fhiann- 
 achta is living,” says I to myself, “ it’s she 
 that’s in it.” ’Twas she, and none else. 
 Down with me to the road. 
 
 “ Welcome home, Muirne,” says I to 
 her. “ Have you any news?” 
 
 “ I have, then,” says she, “ and good 
 news. I went to Galwav. I saw the 
 
 j 
 
 Governor of the gaol. He said to me that 
 he wouldn’t be able to do a taste, that it’s 
 the Dublin people would be able to let him 
 out of gaol, if his letting-out was to be got. 
 I went off* to Dublin. O, Lord, isn’t it 
 many a hard, stony road I walked, isn’t it 
 many a fine town I saw before I came to 
 Dublin? ‘Isn’t it a great country, Ireland 
 is ? ’ I used say to myself every evening 
 when I’d be told I’d have so many miles to 
 walk before I’d see Dublin. But, great 
 thanks to God and to the Glorious Virgin, I 
 
 219 
 
 V 
 
 \ 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 walked in on the street of Dublin at last, 
 one cold, wet evening. I found a lodging. 
 The morning of the next day I enquired 
 for the Castle. I was put on the way. I 
 went there. They wouldn’t let me in at 
 first, but I was at them till I got leave of 
 talk with some man. He put me on to 
 another man, a man that was higher than 
 himself. He sent me to another man. I 
 said to them all I wanted was to see the 
 Lord Lieutenant of the Queen. I saw him 
 at last. I told him my story. He said to 
 me that he couldn’t do anything. I gave 
 my curse to the Castle of Dublin, and out 
 the door with me. I had a pound in my 
 pocket. I went aboard a ship, and the 
 morning after I was in Liverpool of the 
 English. I walked the long roads of Eng- 
 land from Liverpool to London. When I 
 came to London I asked knowledge of the 
 Queen’s Castle. I was told. I went there. 
 They wouldn’t let me in. I went there 
 every day, hoping that I’d see the Queen 
 coming out. After a week I saw her 
 coming out. There were soldiers and great 
 people about her. I went over to the 
 Queen before she went in to her coach, 
 
 220 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 There was a paper, a man in Dublin wrote 
 for me, in my hand. An officer seized me. 
 The Queen spoke to him, and he freed me 
 from him. I spoke to the Queen. She 
 didn’t understand me. I stretched the paper 
 to her. She gave the paper to the officer, 
 and he read it. He wrote certain words 
 on the paper, and he gave it back to me. 
 The Queen spoke to another woman that 
 was along with her. The woman drew out 
 a crown piece and gave it to me. I gave 
 her back the crown piece, and I said that 
 it’s not silver I wanted, but my son. They 
 laughed. It’s my opinion they didn’t 
 understand me. I showed them the paper 
 again. The officer laid his finger on the 
 words he was after writing. I curtseyed 
 to the Queen and went off with me. A 
 man read for me the words the officer wrote. 
 It’s what was in it, that they would write 
 to me about Coilin without delay. I struck 
 the road home then, hoping that, maybe, 
 there would be a letter before me. “Do 
 you think, Sean,” says Muirne, finishing 
 her story, “has the priest any letter? 
 There wasn’t a letter at all in the house 
 before me coming out the road ; but I’m 
 
 221 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 thinking it’s to the priest they’d send the 
 letter, for it’s a chance the great people 
 might know him.” 
 
 “I don’t know did any letter come,” says 
 I. “ I would say there didn’t, for if 
 there did the priest would be telling us.” 
 
 “ It will be here some day yet,” says 
 Muirne. “ I’ll go in to the priest, anyhow, 
 and I’ll tell him my story.” 
 
 In the road with her, and up the hill to 
 the priest’s house. I saw her going home 
 again that night, and the darkness falling. 
 It’s wonderful how she was giving it to 
 her footsoles, considering what she suffered 
 of distress and hardship for a quarter. 
 
 A week went by. There didn’t come 
 any letter. Another week passed. No 
 letter came. The third week, and still no 
 letter. It would take tears out of the grey 
 stones to be looking at Muirne, and the 
 anxiety that was on her. It would break 
 your heart to see her going in the road to 
 the priest every morning. We were afraid 
 to speak to her about Coilin. We had evil 
 notions. The priest had evil notions. He 
 said to us one day that he heard from 
 another priest in Galway that it’s not more 
 
 222 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 than well Coilin was, that it’s greatly the 
 prison was preying on his health, that he 
 was going back daily. That story wasn’t 
 told to Muirne. 
 
 One day myself had business with the 
 priest, and I went in to him. We were 
 conversing in the parlour when we heard a 
 person’s footstep on the street outside. 
 Never a knock on the house-door, or on 
 the parlour-door, but in into the room with 
 Muirne ni Fhiannachta, and a letter in her 
 hand. It’s with trouble she could talk. 
 
 “ A letter from the Queen, a letter from 
 the Queen ! ” says she. 
 
 The priest took the letter. He opened 
 it. I noticed that his hand was shaking, 
 and he opening it. There came the colour 
 of death in his face after reading it. Muirne 
 was standing out opposite him, her two 
 eyes blazing in her head, her mouth half open. 
 
 “ What does she say, Father?” says she. 
 “ Is she sending him home to me?” 
 
 “ It’s not from the Queen this letter came, 
 Muirne,” says the priest, speaking slowly, 
 like as there would be some impediment on 
 him, “ but from the Governor of the gaol 
 in Dublin.” 
 
 223 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 “ And what does he say ? Is he sending 
 him home to me ? ” 
 
 The priest didn’t speak for a minute. It 
 seemed to me that he was trying to mind 
 certain words, and the words, as you would 
 say, going from him. 
 
 “ Muirne,” says he at last, “ he says that 
 poor Coilin died yesterday.” 
 
 At the hearing of those words, Muirne 
 burst a-laughing. The like of such laughter 
 I never heard. That laughter was ringing 
 in my ears for a month after that. She 
 made a couple of terrible screeches of 
 laughter, and then she fell in a faint on 
 the floor. 
 
 She was fetched home, and she was on 
 her bed for a half year. She was out of 
 her mind all that time. She came to her- 
 self at long last, and no person at all would 
 think there was a thing the matter with 
 her, — only the delusion that her son isn’t 
 returned home yet from the fair of Uachtar 
 Ard. She does be expecting him always, 
 standing or sitting in the door half the day, 
 and everything ready for his home-coming. 
 She doesn’t understand that there’s any 
 change on the world since that night. “ That’s 
 
 224 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 the reason, Coilin,” says my father to me, 
 that she didn’t know the railway was 
 coming as far as Burnt House. Times 
 she remembers herself, and she starts keening 
 like you saw her. ’Twas herself that made 
 yon keen you heard from her. May God 
 comfort her, says my father,” putting an 
 end to his story. 
 
 “And daddy,” says I, “did any letter 
 come from the Queen after that ? ” 
 
 “There didn’t, nor the colour of one.” 
 
 “ Do you think, daddy, was it Coilin that 
 killed the lord ? ” 
 
 “ I know it wasn’t,” says my father. “ If 
 it was he’d acknowledge it. I’m as certain 
 as I’m living this night that it’s the black 
 man killed the lord. I don’t say that poor 
 Coilin wasn’t present.” 
 
 “ Was the black man ever caught ? ” says 
 my sister. 
 
 “ He wasn’t, muise ,” says my father. 
 “ Little danger on him.” 
 
 “ Where did he belong, the black man, 
 do you think, daddy ?” says I. 
 
 “ I believe, before God,” says my father, 
 “ that it’s a peeler from Dublin Castle was 
 in it. Cuimin O’Niadh saw a man very like 
 
 225 Q 
 
THE KEENING WOMAN 
 
 him giving evidence against another boy in 
 Tuam a year after that.” 
 
 “ Daddy,” says Seaneen suddenly, “when 
 I’m a man I’ll kill that black man.” 
 
 “ God save us,” says my mother. 
 
 My father laid his hand on Seaneen’s 
 head. 
 
 “ Maybe, little son,” says he, “ we’ll all 
 be taking tally-ho out of the black soldiers 
 before the clay will come on us.” 
 
 “ It’s time for the Rosary,” says my 
 mother. 
 
 226 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Old Matthias was sitting beside his door. 
 Anyone going the road would think that 
 it was an image of stone or of marble was 
 in it — that, or a dead person — for he couldn’t 
 believe that a living man could stay so 
 calm, so quiet as that. He had his head 
 high and an ear on him listening. It’s 
 many a musical sound there was to listen 
 to, for the person who’d have heed on 
 them. Old Matthias heard the roar of the 
 waves on the rocks, and the murmur of the 
 stream flowing down and over the stones. 
 He heard the screech of the heron-crane 
 from the high, rocky shore, and the lowing 
 of the cows from the pasture, and the bright 
 laughter of the children from the green. 
 But it wasn’t to any of these he was listen- 
 ing that attentively — though all of them 
 were sweet to him — but to the clear sound 
 of the bell for Mass that was coming to him 
 on the wind in the morning stillness. 
 
 All the people were gathered into Mass. 
 Old Matthias saw them going past, in ones 
 
 229 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 and twos, or in little groups. The boys 
 were running and leaping. The girls were 
 chattering merrily. The women were 
 conversing in low tones. The men were 
 silent. Like this, they’d travel the road 
 every Sunday. Like this, Old Matthias 
 would sit on his chair watching them till 
 they’d go out of sight. They went past 
 him this morning as usual. The old man 
 remained looking at them till there was an 
 end to the noise and the commotion, till 
 the last group cleared the top of the church 
 hill, till there was nothing to be seen but 
 a long, straight road stretching out, and it 
 white, till there were none to be found in 
 the village but an odd old person in his bed, 
 or children tricking on the green, and him- 
 self sitting beside his door. 
 
 Old Matthias would not go to the chapel. 
 He hadn’t heard “ the sweet Mass ” for 
 over three score years. He was a strong, 
 active youth the last time he blessed him- 
 self before the people, and now he was a 
 withered, done old man, his share of hair 
 grey-white, furrows in his brow, his 
 shoulders bent. He hadn’t bent his knee 
 before God for the length of those three 
 
 230 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 score years ; he hadn’t put a prayer to his 
 Creator ; he hadn’t given thanks to his 
 Saviour. A man apart, Old Matthias 
 was. 
 
 Nobody knew why he wouldn’t go to 
 Mass. People said that he didn’t believe 
 there was a God in it. Other people said 
 that he committed some terrible sin at the 
 start of his life, and when the priest wouldn’t 
 give him absolution in confession, that a 
 rage of anger came on him, and he swore 
 an oath that he wouldn’t touch priest or 
 chapel while he was living again. Other 
 people said — but this was said only in a 
 whisper by the fireside when the old people 
 would be yarning by themselves after the 
 children had gone asleep — these said that 
 he sold his soul to a certain Great Man 
 that he met once on the top of Cnoc-a’- 
 daimh, and that this person wouldn’t allow 
 him to frequent the Mass. I don’t know 
 is it true or lying these stories are, but I do 
 know that old Matthias wasn’t seen at God’s 
 Mass in the memory of the oldest person 
 in the village. Cuimin O’Niadh — an old 
 man that got death a couple of years before 
 this in his ninetieth year — said that he 
 
 231 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 himself saw him there when he was a lump 
 of a lad. 
 
 It wasn’t thought that Old Matthias was 
 a bad character. He was a man as honest, 
 as simple, as natural as you would meet in 
 a day’s walking. There wasn’t ever heard 
 out of his mouth but the good word. He 
 had no delight in drink or in company, no 
 wish for gold or for property. He was 
 poor, but it’s often he shared with people 
 that were poorer than he. He had pity for 
 the infirm. He had mercy for the wretched. 
 Other men had honour and esteem for him. 
 The women, the children, and the animals 
 loved him ; and he had love for them and 
 for everything that was generous and of 
 clean heart. 
 
 Old Matthias liked women’s talk better 
 than men’s talk. But he liked the talk of 
 boys and girls still better than the talk of 
 men or women. He used say that the 
 women were more discerning than the men, 
 and that the children were more discerning 
 than either of them. It’s along with the 
 young folk he would spend the best part of 
 his idle time. He would sit with them in 
 a corner of the house, telling them stories, 
 
 232 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 or getting stories out of them. They were 
 wonderful, his share of stories. He had 
 the “ Adventures of the Grey Horse ” in 
 grandest way in the world. He was the 
 one old body in the village who had 
 the story of the “ Hen-Harrier and the 
 Wren,” properly. Isn’t it he would put 
 fright on the children, and he reciting “ Fu 
 Fa Feasog ” (The Two-Headed Giant), and 
 isn’t it he would take the laughs out of 
 them discoursing on the doings of the 
 piper in the Snail’s Castle ! And the songs 
 he had ! He could coax an ailing child 
 asleep with his : 
 
 “ Shoheen, sho, and sleep, my pet ; 
 
 The fairies are out walking the glen !” 
 
 or he could put the full of a house of 
 children in fits of laughter with his : 
 
 “ Hi diddle dum, the cat and his mother, 
 That went to Galway riding a drake!” 
 
 And isn’t it he had the funny old ranns ; and 
 the hard, difficult questions ; and the fine 
 riddles ! As for games, where was the 
 person, man, woman, or child could keep 
 “ Lurabog , Ldrabog ,” or “ An Bhuidhean 
 
 2 33 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Bhalbh ” (The Dumb Band) going with him ! 
 
 In the fine time it’s on the side of the 
 hill, or walking the bog, you’d see Old 
 Matthias and his little playmates, he explain- 
 ing to them the way of life of the ants and 
 of the woodlice, or inventing stories about 
 the hedgehog and the red squirrel. Another 
 time to them boating, the old man with an 
 oar, some little wee boy with another one, 
 and maybe a young girl steering. It’s often 
 the people who’d be working near the strand 
 would hear the shouts of joy of the children 
 coming to them from the harbour-mouth, 
 or, it might be, Old Matthias’s voice, and he 
 saying : 
 
 “ Oro ! my curragheen O ! 
 
 And oro ! my little boat ! ” 
 
 or something like it. 
 
 There used come fear on a share of the 
 mothers at times, and they’d say to each 
 other that they oughtn’t let their children 
 spend that much time with Old Matthias, — 
 “ a man that frequents neither clergy nor 
 M ass.” Once a woman of them laid bare 
 these thoughts to Father Sean. It’s what 
 the priest said : 
 
 2 34 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 “ Don’t meddle with the poor children,’" 
 says he. “ They couldn’t be in better 
 company.” 
 
 “ But they tell me he doesn’t believe in 
 God, Father.” 
 
 “ There’s many a saint in heaven to-day • 
 that didn’t believe in God some time of his 
 life. And, whisper here. If Old Matthias 
 hasn’t love for God — a thing that neither 
 you nor I know — it’s wonderful the love he 
 has for the cleanest and most beautiful thing 
 that God created, — the shining soul of 
 the child. Our Saviour Himself and the 
 most glorious saints in heaven had the same 
 love for them. How do we know that it 
 isn’t the children that will draw Old Matthias 
 to the knee of our Saviour yet? ” 
 
 And the story was left like that. 
 
 On this Sunday morning the old man 
 remained listening till the bell for Mass 
 stopped ringing. When there was an end 
 to it he gave a sigh, as the person would 
 that would be weary and sorrowful, and he 
 turned to the group of boys that were sport- 
 ing themselves on the plot of grass — the 
 “ green ” Old Matthias would call it — at 
 the cross-roads. Old Matthias knew every 
 
 235 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 curly-headed, bare-footed child of them. 
 He liked no pastime at all better than 
 to be sitting there watching them and 
 listening to them. He was counting them, 
 seeing which of his friends were in it and 
 which of them were gone to Mass with the 
 grown people, when he noticed among them 
 a child he never saw before. A little, brown 
 boy, with a white coat on him, like was on 
 every other boy, and he without shoes or 
 cap, as is the custom with the children of 
 the West. The face of this boy was as 
 bright as the sun, and it seemed to Old 
 Matthias that there were, as it would be, 
 rays of light coming from his head. The 
 sun shining on his share of hair, maybe. 
 
 There was wonder on the old man at 
 seeing this child, for he hadn’t heard that 
 there were any strangers after coming to the 
 village. He was on the point of going 
 over and questioning one of the little lads 
 about him, when he heard the stir and 
 chatter of the people coming home from 
 Mass. He didn’t feel the time slipping by 
 him while his mind was on the tricks of the 
 boys. Some of the people saluted him going 
 past, and he saluted them. When he gave 
 
 236 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 an eye on the group of boys again, the 
 strange boy wasn’t among them. 
 
 The Sunday after that, Old Matthias w r as 
 sitting beside his door, as usual. The people 
 were gathered west to Mass. The young 
 folk were running and throwing jumps on 
 the green. Running and throwing jumps 
 along with them was the strange child. 
 Matthias looked at him for a long time, for 
 he gave the love of his heart to him on 
 account of the beauty of his person and the 
 brightness of his countenance. At last he 
 called over one of the little boys : 
 
 “ Who’s yon boy I see among you for a 
 fortnight back, Coilin ? ” says he — “ he there 
 with the brown head on him, — but have a 
 care that it’s not reddish-fair he is : I don’t 
 know is it dark or fair he is, and the way 
 the sun is burning on him. Do you see 
 him now — that one that’s running towards 
 us?” 
 
 “ That’s Iosagan,” says the little lad. 
 
 “ Iosagan ? ” 
 
 “ That’s the name he gives himself.” 
 
 “ Who are his people? ” 
 
 “ I don’t know, but he says his father’s 
 a king.” 
 
 237 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 “ Where does he live? ” 
 
 “ He never told us that, but he says that 
 it’s not far from us his house is.” 
 
 “ Does he be along with you often ? ” 
 
 “ Aye, when we do be spending time to 
 ourselves like this. But he goes from us 
 when a grown person is present. Look ! 
 he’s gone already ! ” 
 
 The old man looked, and there was no 
 one in it but the boys he knew. The child, 
 the little boy called Iosagan, was missing. 
 The same moment, the noise and bustle of 
 the people were heard returning from 
 Mass. 
 
 The next Sunday everything fell out 
 exactly as it fell on the two Sundays before 
 that. The people gathered west as usual, 
 and the old man and the children were left 
 by themselves in the village. The heart of 
 Old Matthias gave a leap in his middle 
 when he saw the Holy Child among them 
 again. 
 
 He rose. He went over and he stood 
 near Him. After a time, standing without 
 a move, he stretched his two hands towards 
 Him, and he spoke in a low voice : 
 
 “ Iosagan ! 
 
 238 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 The Child heard him, and He came 
 towards him, running. 
 
 “ Come here and sit on my knee for a 
 little while, Iosagan.” 
 
 The Child put His hand in the thin, 
 knuckly hand of the old man, and they 
 travelled side by side across the road. Old 
 Matthias sat on his chair, and drew Iosagan 
 to his breast. 
 
 “ Where do You live, Iosagan ? ” says he, 
 speaking low always. 
 
 “ Not far from this My House is. Why 
 don’t you come on a visit to Me? ” 
 
 “ I’d be afraid in a royal house. It’s told 
 me that Your Father’s a King.” 
 
 “ He is High-King of the World. But 
 there is no need for you to be afraid of Him. 
 He is full of mercy and love.” 
 
 “ I fear I haven’t kept His law.” 
 
 “ Ask forgiveness of Him. I and My 
 Mother will make intercession for you.” 
 
 “ It’s a pity I didn’t see You before this, 
 Iosagan. Where were You from me? ” 
 
 “ I was here always. I do be travelling 
 the roads, and walking the hills, and plough- 
 ing the waves. I do be among the people 
 when they gather into My House. I do be 
 
 2 39 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 among the children they do leave behind 
 them playing on the street.” 
 
 “ I was too timid — or too proud — to go 
 into Your House, Iosagan ; but I found You 
 among the children.” 
 
 “ There isn’t any time or place that 
 children do be amusing themselves that I 
 am not along with them. Times they see 
 Me; other times they do not see Me.” 
 
 “ I never saw You till lately.” 
 
 “ The grown people do be blind.” 
 
 “ And it h as been granted me to see You, 
 Iosagan ? ” 
 
 “ My Father gave Me leave to show Myself 
 to you, because you loved His little 
 children.” 
 
 The voices were heard of the people 
 returning from Mass. 
 
 “ I must go now from you.” 
 
 “Let me' kiss the border of Your coat, 
 Iosagan.” 
 
 “ Kiss it.” 
 
 “ Shall I see You again ? ” 
 
 “ You will.” 
 
 “ When?” 
 
 “ This night.” 
 
 With that word He was gone. 
 
 240 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 “ I will see Him this night ! ” says Old 
 Matthias, and he going into the house. 
 
 • ••••••• 
 
 The night came wet and stormy. The 
 great waves were heard breaking with a 
 booming roar against the strand. The trees 
 round the chapel were swaying and bending 
 with the strength of the wind. (The 
 chapel is on a little hill that falls down 
 with a slope to the sea.) Father Sean was 
 on the point of closing his book and saying 
 his Rosary when he heard a noise, as it 
 would be somebody knocking at the door. 
 He listened for a spell. He heard the 
 noise again. He rose from the fire, went to 
 the door, and opened it. A little boy was 
 standing on the door-flag — a boy the priest 
 didn’t mind ever to have seen before. He 
 had a white coat on him, and he without 
 shoes or cap. The priest thought that 
 there were rays of light shining from his 
 countenance, and about his head. The 
 moon that was shining on his brown, comely 
 head, it’s like. 
 
 “ Who have I here ? ” says Father Sean. 
 
 “ Put on you as quickly as you’re able, 
 
 241 R 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 Father, and strike east to the house of 
 Old Matthias. He is in the mouths of 
 death. ” 
 
 The priest didn’t want the second word. 
 
 “ Sit here till I ’m ready,” says he. But when 
 he came back, the little messenger was gone. 
 
 Father Sean struck the road, and he didn’t 
 take long to finish the journey, though the 
 wind was against him, and it raining heavily. 
 There was a light in Old Matthias’s house 
 before him. He took the latch from the 
 door, and went in. 
 
 “ Who is this coming to me?” says a voice 
 from the old man’s bed. 
 
 “ The priest.” 
 
 “ I’d like to speak to you, Father. Sit 
 here beside me.” The voice was feeble, and 
 the words came slowly from him. 
 
 The priest sat down, and heard Old 
 Matthias’s story from beginning to end. 
 Whatever secret was in the old body’s 
 heart it was laid bare to the servant of God 
 there in the middle of the night. When 
 the confession was over, Old Matthias 
 received communion, and he was anointed. 
 
 “ Who told you that I was wanting you, 
 Father?” says he in a weak, low voice, when 
 
 242 
 
IOSAGAN 
 
 everything was done. “ I was praying God 
 that you’d come, but I hadn’t any messenger 
 to send for you.” 
 
 “ But, sure, you did send a messenger to 
 me ?” says the priest, and great wonder on him. 
 
 “ I didn’t.” 
 
 “ You didn’t ? But a little boy came, 
 and he knocked at my door, and he said to 
 me that you were wanting my help ! ” 
 
 The old man sat up straight in the bed. 
 There was a flashing in his eyes. 
 
 “ What sort was the little boy was in it, 
 Father ? ” 
 
 “ A gentle little boy, with a white coat 
 on him.” 
 
 “ Did you take notice was there a haze 
 of light about his head?” 
 
 “ I did, and it put great wonder on me.” 
 
 Old Matthias looked up, there came a 
 smile on his mouth, and he stretched out 
 his two arms : 
 
 “ Iosagan ! ” says he. 
 
 With that word, he fell back on the bed. 
 The priest went hither to him softly, and 
 closed his eyes. 
 
 243 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
 It’s in yon little house you see in the glen 
 below you, and you going down the road 
 from Gortmore to Inver, that my Priest 
 lives. Himself and his mother, and his little 
 sister, and his little, small, wee brother, — 
 those are the family in it. The father died 
 before Taimeen, the youngest child of them, 
 was born. There’s no time I do be in 
 Rossnageeragh but I spend an evening or 
 two along with them, for the Priest and 
 Maireen (the little sister) and Taimeen are 
 the dearest friends I have. A soft, youngish- 
 looking woman the Priest’s mother is ; she’s 
 a bit headstrong, maybe, but if she is itself 
 she’s as kind-hearted a woman as is living, 
 after that. ’Twas she told me this story 
 one evening that I was on a visit to her. 
 She was washing the Priest, meanwhile, 
 before the fire : a big tub of water laid on 
 the floor beside her, the Priest and his share 
 of clothes stripped from him, and she rub- 
 bing and scrubbing every inch of his body. 
 I have my doubts that this work agreed too 
 
 247 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
 well with the Priest, for now and again he’d 
 let a screech out of him. With every 
 screech his mother would give him a little 
 slap, and after that she’d kiss him. It’s 
 hard for a mother to keep her hand off a 
 child when she has him bare ; and ’twould 
 be harder than that for a mother, as loving 
 as this mother, to keep her mouth from a 
 wee, red moutheen as sweet as Paraig’s 
 (Paraig’s my Priest’s name, you know). I 
 ought to say that the Priest was only eight 
 years old yet. He was a lovely picture, 
 standing there, and the firelight shining on 
 his well-knit body and on his curly head, 
 and dancing in his grey, laughing eyes. 
 When I think on Paraig, it’s that way I see 
 him before me, standing on the floor in the 
 brightening of the fire. 
 
 But in regard to the story. About a 
 year before this it is it fell out. Nora (the 
 mother) was working about the house. 
 Maireen and Taimeen were amusing them- 
 selves on the floor. “ Fromso Framso ” they 
 had going on. Maireen was trying to teach 
 the words to Taimeen, a thing that was 
 failing on her, for Taimeen hadn’t any talk 
 yet. You know the words, I suppose? — 
 
 248 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
 they’re worth learning, for there’s true 
 poetry in them : 
 
 “ Fromso Fra ms 0, — 
 
 A woman dancing, 
 
 That would make sport, 
 
 That would drink ale, 
 
 That would be in time 
 
 Here in the morning ! ” 
 
 Nora wanted a can of water to make tea. 
 It was supper-time. 
 
 “ Where’s Paraig, Maireen ? ” says she. 
 “ He’s lost this half-hour.” 
 
 “ He went into the room, mameen.” 
 
 “ Paraig!” says the mother, calling 
 loudly. 
 
 Not a word from within. 
 
 “ Do you hear, Paraig? ” 
 
 Never a word. 
 
 “ What’s wrong with the boy ? Paraig, 
 I say ! ” says she, as loud as it was in her 
 head. 
 
 “ I’ll be out presently, mama,” says a 
 voice from the room. 
 
 “ Hurry with you, son. It’s tea-time, 
 and devil a tear of water have I in the 
 house.” 
 
 249 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
 Paraig came out of the room. 
 
 “ You’re found at last. Push on down 
 with you, — but what’s this? Where did 
 you get that shirt, or why is it on you ? 
 What were you doing? ” 
 
 Paraig was standing in the door, like a 
 stake. A shirt was fastened on him over 
 his little coat. He looked down on himself. 
 His face was red-burning to the ears. 
 
 “ I forgot to take it off me, mama,” says 
 he. 
 
 “ Why is it on you at all? ” 
 
 “ Sport I was having.” 
 
 66 Take it off you this minute ! The rod 
 you want, yourself and your sport ! ” 
 
 Paraig took off the shirt without a word 
 and left it back in the room. 
 
 “ Brush down to the well now and get a 
 can of water for me, like a pet.” Nora 
 already regretted that she spoke as harshly 
 as that. It’s a woman’s anger that isn’t 
 lasting. 
 
 Paraig took the can and whipped off with 
 it. Michileen Enda, a neighbour’s boy, 
 came in while he was out. 
 
 “ It beats me, Michileen,” says Nora, 
 after a spell, “ to make out what Paraig does 
 
 250 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
 be doing in that room the length of the 
 evening. No sooner has he his dinner 
 eaten every day than he clears off in there, 
 and he’s lost till supper-time.” 
 
 “ Some sport he does have on foot,” says 
 Michileen. 
 
 “ That’s what he says himself. But it’s 
 not in the house a lad like him ought to be 
 stuck on a fine evening, but outside in the 
 air, tearing away.” 
 
 “ 4 A body’s will is his delight,’ ” says 
 Michileen, reddening his pipe. 
 
 “ One apart is Paraig, anyhow,” says 
 Nora. “ He’s the most contrary son you 
 ever saw. Times, three people wouldn’t 
 watch him, and other times you wouldn’t 
 feel him in the house.” 
 
 Paraig came in at this, and no more was 
 said on the question. He didn’t steal away 
 this time, but instead of that he sat down on 
 the floor, playing “ Fromso Framso ” with 
 Maireen and Taimeen. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 The dinner was on the table when Paraig 
 came home from school the next evening. 
 He ate his share of stirabout and he drank 
 
 251 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
 his noggin of milk, thankfully and with 
 blessing. As soon as he had eaten and 
 drunk, he took his satchel of books and west 
 with him into the room, as was his habit. 
 
 The mother didn’t let on that she was 
 giving any heed to him. But, after a couple 
 of minutes, she opened the door of the room 
 quietly, and stuck the tip of her nose inside. 
 Paraig didn’t notice her, but she had a view 
 of everything that was going on in the room. 
 
 It was a queer sight. Paraig was stand- 
 ing beside the table and he dressed in the 
 shirt again. Outside of this, and back over 
 his shoulders, he was fixing a red bodice of 
 his mother’s, that she had hanging on the 
 wall. When he had this arranged properly, 
 he took out the biggest book he had in his 
 satchel — the “ Second Book ” it was, I 
 believe — he opened it, and laid it before 
 him on the table, propped against the look- 
 ing-glass. 
 
 It’s then began the antics in earnest. 
 Paraig stood out opposite the table, bent his 
 knee, blessed himself, and began praying 
 loudly. It’s not well Nora was able to 
 understand him, but, as she thought, he had 
 Latin and Gaelic mixed through other, and 
 
 252 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
 an odd word that wasn’t like Latin or Gaelic. 
 Once, it seemed to her, she heard the words 
 “ Fro?nso Framso ,” but she wasn’t sure. 
 Whatever wonder was on Nora at this, it 
 was seven times greater the wonder was on 
 her when she saw Paraig genuflecting, beat- 
 ing his breast, kissing the table, letting on 
 he was reading Latin prayers out of the 
 “ Second Book,” and playing one trick odder 
 than another. She didn’t know rightly 
 what he was up to, till he turned round and 
 said : 
 
 “ Do minus v obis cum ! ” 
 
 “ God save us ! ” says she to herself when 
 she saw this. “ He’s pretending that he’s 
 a priest and he reading Mass ! That’s the 
 Mass vestment he’s wearing, and the little 
 Gaelic book is the book of the Mass ! ” 
 
 It’s no exaggeration to say that Nora 
 was scared. She came back to the kitchen 
 and sat before the fire. She didn’t know 
 what she ought to do. She was between 
 two advices, which of them would be seem- 
 liest for her — to put Paraig across her knee 
 and give him a good whipping, or to go 
 on her two knees before him and beg his 
 blessing ! 
 
 253 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
 “ How do I know,” says she to herself, 
 “ that it’s not a terrible sin for me to let him 
 make a mimic of the priest like that ? But 
 how do I know, after that, that it’s not a 
 saint out of heaven I have in the house? 
 And, sure, it would be a dreadful sin to lay 
 hand on a saint ! May God forgive it to 
 me, it’s often I laid the track of my fingers 
 on him already ! I don’t know either way. 
 I’m in a strait, surely ! ” Nora didn’t sleep 
 a wink that night with putting this question 
 through other. 
 
 The next morning, as soon as Paraig was 
 cleared off to school, Nora put the lock on the 
 door, left the two young children under the 
 care of Michileen’s mother, and struck 
 the road to Rossnageeragh. She didn’t stop 
 till she came to the parish priest’s house 
 and told her story to Father Ronan from 
 start to finish. The priest only smiled, but 
 Nora was with him till she drew a promise 
 from him that he’d take the road out to her 
 that evening. She whipped home then, 
 satisfied. 
 
 The priest didn’t fail her. He struck in 
 to her in the evening. Timely enough, 
 Paraig was in the room “ reading Mass.” 
 
 254 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
 “ On your life, don’t speak, Father ! ” 
 says Nora. “ He’s within.” 
 
 The two stole over on their tiptoes to the 
 room door. They looked inside. Paraig 
 was dressed in the shirt and bodice, exactly 
 as he was the day before that, and he pray- 
 ing piously. The priest stood a spell looking 
 at him. 
 
 At last my lad turned round, and setting 
 his face towards the people, as it would be : 
 
 “ Orate fratres” says he, out loud. 
 
 While this was saying, he saw his mother 
 and the priest in the door. He reddened, 
 and stood without a stir. 
 
 “ Come here to me,” says Father Ronan. 
 
 Paraig came over timidly. 
 
 “ What’s this you have going on? ” says 
 the priest. 
 
 “ I was reading Mass, Father,” says Paraig. 
 He said this much shyly, but it was plain he 
 didn’t think that he had done anything out of 
 the way — and, sure, it’s not much he had. 
 But poor Nora was on a tremble with 
 fear. 
 
 “ Don’t be too hard on him, Father,” 
 says she. “ He’s only young.” 
 
 The priest laid his hand lightly on the 
 
 2 55 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
 white head of the little lad, and he spoke 
 gently and kindly to him. 
 
 “ You’re too young yet, Paraigeen,” says 
 he, 44 to be a priest, and it’s not granted to 
 anyone but to God’s priest to say the Mass. 
 But whisper here to me. Would you like 
 to be serving Mass on Sunday? ” 
 
 Paraig’s eyes lit up and his cheek reddened 
 again, not with shyness this time but with 
 sheer delight. 
 
 44 Ora , I would, Father,” says he ; 14 I’d 
 like nothing at all better.” 
 
 44 That will do,” says the priest. 44 I see 
 you have some of the prayers already.” 
 
 44 But, Father, a mhuirnin ” — says Nora, 
 and stopped like that, suddenly. 
 
 44 What’s on you now? ” says the priest. 
 44 Breeches nor brogues he hasn’t worn 
 yet ! ” says she. 44 I think it early to put 
 breeches on him till — ” 
 
 The priest burst out laughing. 
 
 44 I never heard,” says he, 44 that there 
 was call for breeches. We’ll put a little 
 cassock out over his coat, and I warrant it’ll 
 fit him nicely. As for shoes, we’ve a pair 
 that Martin the Fisherman left behind him 
 when he went to Clifden. We’ll dress you 
 
 256 
 
THE PRIEST 
 
 right, Paraig, no fear,” says he. And like 
 that it was settled. 
 
 When the priest was gone, the mother 
 stooped down and kissed her little son. 
 
 “ My love you are ! ” says she. 
 
 Going to sleep that night, the last words 
 she said to herself were : “ My little son 
 will be a priest ! And how do I know,” 
 says she, closing her eyes, “ how do I know 
 that it’s not a bishop he might be by-and- 
 byf ” 
 
 2 57 
 
 s 
 

 
BARBARA 
 
BARBARA 
 
 Barbara wasn’t too well-favoured, the best 
 day she was. Anybody would admit that 
 much. The first cause of it, — she was pur- 
 blind. You’d say, to look at her, she was 
 one-eyed. Brideen never gave in that she 
 was, however. Once when another little 
 girl said, out of sheer spite on them both, 
 that Barbara had only “ one blind little eye, 
 like the tailor’s cat,” Brideen said angrily 
 that Barbara had her two eyes as good as 
 anybody, but it’s how she’d have one eye 
 shut, for the one was enough for her (let it 
 be blind), to do her share of work. How- 
 ever it was, it couldn’t be hidden that she 
 was bald ; and I declare a bald head isn’t a 
 nice thing in a young woman. Another 
 thing, she was a dummy ; or it would be 
 more correct for me to say, that she didn’t 
 ever speak with anybody, but with Brideen 
 only. If Brideen told truth, she had a tasty 
 tongue of Irish, and her share of thoughts 
 were the loveliest in the world. It’s not 
 well she could walk, for she was one-legged, 
 
 261 
 
BARBARA 
 
 and that one leg itself broken. She had two 
 legs on a time, but the dog ate one of them, 
 and the other was broken where she fell 
 from the top of the dresser. 
 
 But who’s Barbara, say you, or who’s 
 Brideen ? Brideen is the little girl, or, as 
 she’d say herself, the little slip of a woman, 
 that lives in the house next the master’s, — 
 on the left-hand side, I think, going up the 
 road. It’s likely you know her now? If 
 you don’t, I can’t help you. I never heard 
 who her people were, and she herself said to 
 me that her father has ne’er a name but 
 “ Daddy.” As for Barbara, — well, it’s as good 
 for me to tell you her adventures and travels 
 from start to finish. 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF BARBARA HERE. 
 
 One day when Brideen’s mother got up, 
 she gave their breakfasts to Brideen and to 
 her father, to the dog, to the little cat, to 
 the calves, to the hens, to the geese, to the 
 ducks, and to the little robin redbreast that 
 would come to the door at breakfast-time 
 every morning. When she had that much 
 
 262 
 
BARBARA 
 
 done, she ate her own breakfast. Then she 
 began readying herself for the road. 
 
 Brideen was sitting on her own little stool 
 without a word out of her, but she putting 
 the eyes through her mother. At long last 
 she spoke : 
 
 “ Is mama going from Brideen ? ” 
 
 “ She’s not, a stoir. Mama will come 
 
 again in the evening. She’s going to 
 Galway.” 
 
 “ Is Brideen going there, too ? ” 
 
 “ She’s not, a chuid . The road’s too long, 
 and my little girl would be tired. She’ll 
 stay at home making sport for herself, like 
 a good little girl would. Won’t she stay ? ” 
 “ She will.” 
 
 “ She won’t run out on the street ? ” 
 
 “ She won’t.” 
 
 “ Daddy’ll come in at dinner-time, and 
 ye’ll have a meal together. Give mama a 
 kiss, now.” 
 
 The kiss was given, and the mother was 
 going. Brideen started up. 
 
 “ Mama ! ” 
 
 “ What is it a ruin ? ” 
 
 “Won’t you bring home a fairing to 
 Brideen ? ” 
 
 263 
 
BARBARA 
 
 “ I will, a chuid. A pretty fairing.” 
 
 The mother went off, andBrideen remained 
 contented at home. She sat down on her 
 little stool. The dog was curled before the 
 fire, and he snoring. Bridecn woke him up, 
 and put a whisper in his ear : 
 
 “ Mama will bring home a fairing to 
 Brideen ! ” 
 
 “ WufF! ” says the dog, and went asleep to 
 himself again. Brideen knew that “ Wuff ! ” 
 was the same as “ Good news ! ” 
 
 The little cat was sitting on the hearth. 
 Brideen lifted it in her two arms, rubbed its 
 face to her cheeks, and put a whisper in its 
 ear : 
 
 “ Mama will bring home a fairing to 
 Brideen ! ” 
 
 “ Mec-ow ! ” says the little cat. Brideen 
 knew that “ Mee-ow ! ” was the same as 
 “ Good news ! ” 
 
 She laid the little cat from her, and went 
 about the house singing to herself. She made 
 a little song as follows : 
 
 “ O little dog, and O little dog ! 
 
 Sleep a while till my mama comes ! 
 
 O little cat, and O little cat ! 
 
 264 
 
BARBARA 
 
 Be purring till she comes home ! 
 
 O little dog, and O little cat ! 
 
 At the fair O ! my mama is, 
 
 But she’ll come again in the little 
 evening O ! 
 
 And she’ll bring home a fairing 
 with her ! ” 
 
 She tried to teach this song to the dog, 
 but it’s greater the wish the dog had for 
 sleep than for music. She tried to teach 
 it to the little cat, but the little cat thought 
 its own purring sweeter. When her father 
 came in at midday, nothing would do her 
 but to say this song to him, and make him 
 to learn it by heart. 
 
 The mother returned home before even- 
 ing. The first word Brideen said was : 
 
 “ Did you bring the fairing with you, 
 mama ? ” 
 
 “ I did, a chilis lc” 
 
 “ What did you bring with you ? ” 
 
 “ Guess ! ” The mother was standing 
 in the middle of the floor. She had her 
 bag laid on the floor, and her hands behind 
 her. 
 
 “ Sweets ? ” 
 
 265 
 
BARBARA 
 
 44 No ! ” 
 
 44 A sugar cake ? ” 
 
 46 No, muise ! I have a sugar cake in my 
 bag, but that’s not the fairing,” 
 
 44 A pair of stockings ? ” Brideen never 
 wore shoes or stockings, and she had been 
 long coveting them. 
 
 44 No, indeed ! You’re too young for 
 stockings a little while yet.” 
 
 44 A prayer book?” There’s no need 
 for me to say that Brideen wasn’t able to 
 read (for she hadn’t put in a day at school 
 in her life), but she thought she was. 44 A 
 prayer book ? ” says she. 
 
 44 Not at all ! ” 
 
 44 What is it, then ? ” 
 
 44 Look ! ” 
 
 The mother spread out ner two hands, 
 and what did she lay bare but a little doll ! 
 A little wooden doll that was bald, and it 
 purblind ; but its two cheeks were as red as 
 a berry, and there was a smile on its mouth. 
 Anybody who’d have an affection for dolls, 
 he would give affection and love to it. 
 Brideen’s eyes lit up with joy. 
 
 44 Ora , isn’t it pretty ! Ara y mama, heart, 
 where did you get it ? Ora 6 ! I’ll have 
 
 266 
 
BARBARA 
 
 a child of my very own now, — a child of 
 my very owneen own ! Brideen will have 
 a child ! ” 
 
 She snatched the little doll, and she squeezed 
 it to her heart. She kissed its little bald 
 head, and its two red cheeks. She kissed 
 its little mouth, and its little snub nose. 
 Then she remembered herself, raised her 
 head, and says she to her mother : 
 
 “ Kith ! ” (like that Brideen would say 
 “ Kiss.”) 
 
 The mother stooped down till the little 
 girl kissed her. Then she must kiss the 
 little doll. The father came in at that 
 moment, and he was made do the same. 
 
 There wasn’t a thing making Brideen 
 anxious that evening but what name she’d 
 christen the doll. Her mother praised 
 “ Molly ” for it, and her father thought 
 the name “ Peggy ” would be apt. But 
 none of these were grand enough, it seemed 
 to Brideen. 
 
 “ Why was I called Brideen, daddy ? ” 
 says she after supper. 
 
 “ The old women said that you were like 
 your uncle Padraic, and since we couldn’t 
 christen you c Padraic,’ you were christened 
 
 267 
 
BARBARA 
 
 ‘ Brigid,’ as that, we thought, was the thing 
 nearest it.” 
 
 “ Do you think is she here” (the doll), 
 “like my uncle Padraic, daddy ?” 
 
 “ O, not like a bit. Your uncle Padraic 
 is fair-haired, — and, I believe, he has a 
 beard on him now.” 
 
 “ Who's she like, then ? ” 
 
 “ Muise , ’twould be hard to say, girl ! — 
 ’twould be hard, that.” 
 
 Brideen meditated for a while. Her 
 father was stripping her clothes from her in 
 front of the fire during this time, for it was 
 time for her to be going to sleep. When 
 she was stripped, she went on her knees, 
 put her two little hands together, and she 
 began like this : 
 
 “ O Jesus Christ, bless us and save us ! O 
 Jesus Christ, bless daddy and mama and 
 Brideen, and keep us safe and well from 
 accident, and from the harm of the year, if 
 it is the will of my Saviour. O God, bless 
 my uncle Padraic that’s now in America, 
 and my Aunt Barbara — .” She stopped, 
 
 suddenly, and put a shout of joy out 
 of her. 
 
 “ I have it ! I have it, daddy ! ” says she. 
 
 268 
 
BARBARA 
 
 “ What have you, love ? Wait till you 
 finish your share of prayers.” 
 
 “ My Aunt Barbara 1 She’s like my 
 Aunt Barbara ! ” 
 
 “ Who’s like your Aunt Barbara ? ” 
 
 “ The little doll ! That’s the name I’ll 
 give her ! Barbara !” 
 
 The father let a great shout of laughter 
 before he remembered that the prayers 
 weren’t finished. Brideen didn’t laugh, at 
 all, but followed on like this : 
 
 “ O God, bless my Uncle Padaric that’s 
 now in America, and my Aunt Barbara, 
 and (this is an addition she put to it 
 herself), and bless my own little Barbara, 
 and keep her from mortal sin ! Amen, 
 O Lord ! ” 
 
 The father burst laughing again. Brid- 
 een looked at him, and wonder on her. 
 
 “ Brush off, now, and in into your bed 
 with you ! ” says he, as soon as he could 
 speak for the laughing. “ And don’t for- 
 get Barbara ! ” says he. 
 
 “ Little fear ! ” West with her into the 
 room, and into the bed with her with a 
 leap. Be sure she didn’t forget Barbara. 
 From that night out Brideen wouldn’t 
 
 269 
 
BARBARA 
 
 go to sleep, for gold nor for silver, without 
 Barbara being in the bed with her. She 
 wouldn’t sit to take food without Barbara 
 sitting beside her. She wouldn’t go out 
 making fun to herself without Barbara 
 being along with her. One Sunday that 
 her mother brought her with her to Mass, 
 Brideen wasn’t satisfied till Barbara was 
 brought, too. A neighbour woman wouldn’t 
 come in visiting, but Barbara would be 
 introduced to her. One day that the priest 
 struck in to them, Brideen asked him to 
 give Barbara his blessing. He gave his 
 blessing to Brideen herself. She thought 
 it was to the doll he gave it, and she was 
 full-satisfied. 
 
 Brideen settled a nice little parlour for 
 Barbara on top of the dresser. She heard 
 that her Aunt Barbara had a parlour (in 
 Uachtar Ard she was living), and she thought 
 that it wasn’t too much for Barbara to have 
 a parlour as good as anybody. My poor 
 Barbara fell from the top of the dresser one 
 day, as I have told already, and one of her 
 legs was broken. It’s many a disaster over 
 that happened her. Another day the dog 
 grabbed her, and was tearing her joint from 
 
 270 
 
BARBARA 
 
 joint till Brideen’s mother came to help her. 
 The one leg remained safe with the dog. 
 She fell into the river another time, and 
 she had like to be drowned. It’s Brideen’s 
 father that came to her help this journey. 
 Brideen herself was almost drowned, and 
 she trying to save her from the river- 
 bank. 
 
 If Barbara wasn’t too well-favoured the 
 first day she came, it stands to nature it’s 
 not better the appearance was on her after 
 putting a year by her. But ’twas all the 
 same to Brideen whether she was well- 
 favoured or ill-favoured. She gave the 
 love of her heart to her from the first 
 minute she laid an eye on her, and it’s 
 increasing that love was from day to day. 
 Isn’t it the two of them used to have the 
 fun when the mother would leave the house 
 to their care, times she’d be visiting in a 
 neighbour’s house ! They would have the 
 floor swept and the plates washed before 
 her, when she’d return. And isn’t it on 
 the mother would be the wonder, mor 
 ’ eadh ! 
 
 “ Is it Brideen cleaned the floor for her 
 mama ? ” she’d say. 
 
 271 
 
BARBARA 
 
 “ Bridccn and Barbara,” the little girl 
 would say. 
 
 “ Muise , I don't know what I’d do, if it 
 weren't for the pair of you !” the mother 
 would say. And isn't it on Brideen would 
 be the delight and the pride ! 
 
 And the long days of summer they would 
 put from them on the hillside, among the 
 fern and flowers ! — Brideen gathering daisies 
 and fairy-thimbles and buttercups, and Bar- 
 bara reckoning them for her (so she'd say) ; 
 Brideen forever talking and telling tales 
 that a human being (not to say a little doll) 
 never heard the likes of before or since, 
 and Barbara listening to her ; it must be 
 she'd be listening attentively, for there 
 wouldn't come a word out of her mouth. 
 
 It's my opinion that there wasn't a little 
 girl in Connacht, or if I might say it, in 
 the Continent of Europe, that was more 
 contented and happy-like, than Brideen was 
 those days ; and, I declare, there wasn't 
 a little doll under the hollow of the sun 
 that was more contented and happy-like than 
 Barbara. 
 
 That's how it stood till Niamh Goldy- 
 Head came. 
 
 272 
 
BARBARA 
 
 II 
 
 Niamh Goldy-Head was a native of 
 Dublin. A lady that came to Gortmore 
 learning Irish promised before leaving that 
 she’d send some valuable to Brideen. And, 
 sure, she did. One day, about a week after 
 her departure, Bartly the Postman walked in 
 into the middle of the kitchen and laid a 
 big box on the floor. 
 
 “ For you, young woman,” says he to 
 Brideen. 
 
 “ Ara , what’s in it, Bartly ? ” 
 
 “ How do I know? A fairy, maybe.” 
 
 “ O bho ! Where did you get it? ” 
 
 “ From a little green maneen, with a 
 long blue beard on him, a red cap on his 
 nob, and he riding a hare.” 
 
 “ Ora , daddy ! And what did he say to 
 you, Bartly ? ” 
 
 “ Devil a thing did he say only, ‘ Give 
 this to Brideen, and my blessing,’ and off 
 with him while you’d be winking.” 
 
 I am doubtful if this story of Bartly ’s 
 
 273 T 
 
BARBARA 
 
 was all true, but Brideen believed every 
 word of it. She called to her mother, where 
 she was inside in the room tidying the place 
 after the breakfast. 
 
 “ Mama, mama, a big box for Brideen ! 
 A little green maneen, with a long blue 
 beard on him, that gave it to Bartly the 
 Postman ! ” 
 
 The mother came out and Bartly gathered 
 off. 
 
 “ Mameen, mameen, open the box quick ! 
 Bartly thinks it’s maybe a fairy is in it ! 
 Hurry, mameen, or how do we know he 
 won’t be smothered inside in the box? ” 
 
 The mother cut the string. She tore the 
 paper from the box. She lifted the lid. 
 What should be in it, lying nice and comfort- 
 ably in the box, like a child would be in a 
 cradle, but the grandest and the beautifullest 
 doll that eye ever saw ! There was yellow- 
 golden hair on it, and it falling in ringleted 
 tresses over its breast and over its shoulders. 
 There was the blush of the rose on its cheek. 
 It’s the likeness I’d compare its little mouth 
 to — two rowanberries ; and ’twas like pearls 
 its teeth were. Its eyes were closed. There 
 was a bright suit of silk covering its body, 
 
 274 
 
BARBARA 
 
 and a red mantle of satin over that outside. 
 There was a glittering necklace of noble 
 stones about its throat, and, as a top on all 
 the wonders, there was a royal crown on 
 its head. 
 
 “ A Queen ! ” says Brideen in a whisper, 
 for there was a kind of dread on her before 
 this glorious fairy. “ A Queen from Tir- 
 na-nOg ! Look, mama, she’s asleep. Do 
 you think will she waken? ” 
 
 “ Take her in your hand,” says the 
 mother. 
 
 The little girl stretched out her two 
 hands timidly, laid them reverently on the 
 wonderful doll, and at last lifted it out of 
 the box. No sooner did she take it than 
 the doll opened its eyes, and said in a sweet, 
 weeny voice : 
 
 “ Mam — a ! ” 
 
 46 God bless us ! ” says the mother, mak- 
 ing the sign of the cross on herself, 44 she 
 can talk ! ” 
 
 There was a queer edge in Brideen’s 
 eyes, and there was a queer light in her 
 features. But I don’t think she was half as 
 scared as the mother was. Children do be 
 expecting wonders always, and when a 
 
 275 
 
BARBARA 
 
 wonderful thing happens it doesn’t put as 
 much astonishment on them as it does on 
 grown people. 
 
 “ Why wouldn’t she talk ? ” says Brideen. 
 “Can’t Barbara talk? But it’s sweeter 
 entirely this voice than Barbara’s voice.” 
 My grief, you are, Barbara ! Where 
 were you all this time ? Lying on the floor 
 where you fell from Brideen’s hand when 
 Bartly came in. I don’t know did you 
 hear these words from your friend’s mouth. 
 If you did, it’s surely they’d go like a stitch 
 through your heart. 
 
 Brideen continued speaking. She spoke 
 quickly, her two eyes dancing in her head: 
 
 “ A Queen this is,” says she. “ A fairy 
 Queen ! Look at the fine suit she’s wear- 
 ing ! Look at the mantle of satin is on 
 her ! Look at the beautiful crown she has ! 
 She’s like yon Queen that Stephen of the 
 Stories was discoursing about the other 
 night, — the Queen that came over sea from 
 Tir-na-nOg riding on the white steed. 
 What’s the name that was on that Queen, 
 mama ? ” 
 
 “ Niamh of the Golden Head.” 
 
 “ This is Niamh Goldy-Head ! ” says the 
 
 276 
 
BARBARA 
 
 little girl. “ I’ll show her to Stephen the 
 first other time he comes ! Isn’t it he will 
 be glad to see her, mama? He was angry 
 the other night when my daddy said there 
 are no fairies at all in it. I knew my daddy 
 was only joking.” 
 
 I wouldn’t like to say that Niamh Goldy- 
 Head was a fairy, as Brideen thought, but 
 I’m sure there was some magic to do with 
 her ; and I’m full-sure that Brideen herself 
 was under a spell from the moment she 
 came into the house. If she weren’t, she 
 wouldn’t leave Barbara lying by herself on 
 the floor through the evening, without 
 saying a word to her, or even remembering 
 her, till sleep-time ; nor would she go to 
 sleep without bringing Barbara into the bed 
 with her, as was her habit. It’s with trouble 
 you’d believe it, but it’s the young Queen 
 that slept along with Brideen that night, 
 instead of the faithful little companion that 
 used sleep with her every night for a year. 
 
 Barbara remained lying on the floor, till 
 Brideen’s mother found her, and lifted and 
 put her on top of the dresser where her 
 own little parlour was. Barbara spent that 
 night on the top of the dresser. I didn’t 
 
 2 77 
 
BARBARA 
 
 hear that Brideen or her mother or her 
 father noticed any lamenting from the 
 kitchen in the middle of the night, and, to say 
 truth, I don’t think that Barbara shed a tear. 
 But it’s certain she was sad enough, lying 
 up yonder by herself, without her friend’s 
 arm about her, without the heat of her 
 friend’s body warming her, without man or 
 mortal near her, without hearing a sound 
 but the faint, truly-lonesome sounds that do 
 be heard in a house in the dead time of the 
 night. 
 
 278 
 
BARBARA 
 
 III 
 
 It’s sitting or lying on the top of the 
 dresser that Barbara spent the greater 
 part of the next quarter. ’Twas seldom 
 Brideen used speak to her ; and when she 
 would speak, she’d only say, 44 Be a good 
 girl, Barbara. You see I’m busy. I must 
 give attention to Niamh Goldy-Head. She’s 
 a Queen, you know, and she must be 
 attended well.” Brideen was getting older 
 now (I believe she was five years past, or, 
 maybe, five and a-half), and she was rising 
 out of a share of the habits she learned at 
 the start of her babyhood. It’s not 44 Bri- 
 deen ” she’d call herself now, for she knew ' 
 the meaning that was in the little word 
 44 I,” and in those little tails 44 am ” and 
 44 am not” when they’re put after 44 1.” She 
 knew, too, that it’s great the respect and 
 the honour due to a Queen, over what is due 
 to a poor, little creatureen like Barbara. 
 
 I’m afraid Barbara didn’t understand this 
 story at all. She was only a little wooden 
 
 279 
 
BARBARA 
 
 doll, and, sure, ’twould be hard for its likes 
 to understand the heart of a girl. It was 
 plain to her that she was cast to one 
 side. It’s Niamh Goldy-Head would 
 sleep along with Brideen now ; it’s Niamh 
 Goldy-Head would sit beside her at 
 meal-time ; its Niamh Goldy-head would 
 go out on the hill, foot to foot with 
 her, that would lie with her among the 
 fern, and would go with her gathering 
 daisies and fairy-thimbles. It’s Niamh 
 Goldy-Head she’d press to her breast. It’s 
 Niamh Goldy-Head she’d kiss. Some other 
 body to be in the place you’d be, some other 
 body to be walking with the person you’d 
 walk with, some other body to be kissing 
 the mouth you’d long to kiss, — that’s the 
 greatest pain is to be suffered in this world ; 
 and that’s the pain was in Barbara’s heart 
 now, torturing her from morning till night, 
 and tormenting her from night till morning. 
 
 I suppose it’ll be said to me that it’s not 
 possible for these thoughts, or any other 
 thoughts, to be in Barbara’s heart, for 
 wasn’t she only a wooden toy, without 
 feeling, without mind, without understand- 
 ing, without strength ? My answer to 
 
 280 
 
BARBARA 
 
 anybody who’d speak like this to me would 
 be : — How do we know ? How do you or I 
 know that dolls, and wooden toys, and the 
 tree, and the hill, and the river, and the 
 waterfall, and the little blossoms of the 
 field, and the little stones of the strand 
 haven’t their own feeling, and mind, and 
 understanding, and guidance ? — aye, and the 
 hundred other things we see about us? I 
 don’t say they have ; but ’twould be daring for 
 me or for anybody else to say that they haven’t. 
 The children think they have ; and it’s my 
 opinion that the children are more dis- 
 cerning in things of this sort than you or I. 
 
 One day that Barbara was sitting up 
 lonesomely by herself in her parlour, Brideen 
 and Niamh Goldy-Head were in earnest 
 conversation by the fireside ; or, I ought to 
 say, Brideen was in earnest conversation with 
 herself, and Niamh listening to her ; for 
 nobody ever heard a word out of the Queen’s 
 mouth but only “ Mam-a.” Brideen’s mother 
 was outside the door washing. The father 
 was setting potatoes in the garden. There 
 only remained in the house Brideen and the 
 two dolls. 
 
 It’s like the little girl was tired, for she’d 
 
 28 T 
 
BARBARA 
 
 spent the morning washing (she’d wash the 
 Queen’s sheet and blanket every week). It 
 was short till sleep came on her. It was 
 short, after that, till she dropped her head 
 on her breast and she was in deep slumber. I 
 don’t rightly understand what happened after 
 that, but, by all accounts, Brideen was falling 
 down and down, till she was stretched on 
 the hearth-flag within the nearness of an 
 inch to the fire. She didn’t waken, for 
 she was sound asleep. It’s like that Niamh 
 Goldy-Head was asleep, too, but, how- 
 ever, or whatever, the story is, she didn’t 
 stir. There wasn’t a soul in the house to pro- 
 tect the darling little child from the death that 
 was faring on her. Nobody knew her to be 
 in peril, but only God and — Barbara. 
 
 The mother was working without, and 
 she notithinking that death was that near the 
 child of her heart. She was turning a 
 tune to herself, and lifting it finely, when 
 she heard a “ plop a sound as if some- 
 thing was falling on the floor. 
 
 “ What’s that, now?” says she to herself. 
 “ Something that fell from the wall, it’s a 
 chance. It can’t be that Brideen meddled 
 with it ? ” 
 
 282 
 
BARBARA 
 
 In with her in a hurry. It’s barely the 
 life didn’t drop out of her, with the dint of 
 fright. And what wonder ? Her darling 
 child was stretched on the hearth, and her 
 little coateen blazing in the fire ! 
 
 The mother rushed to her across the 
 kitchen, lifted her in her arms, and pulled 
 the coat from her. She only just saved 
 her. If she’d waited another little half- 
 moment, she was too late. 
 
 Brideen was awake now, and her two 
 arms about the neck of her mother. She 
 was trembling with the dint of fear, and, 
 sure enough, crying, though it isn’t too 
 well she understood the story yet. Her 
 mother was “ smothering her with kisses 
 and drowning her with tears.” 
 
 “ What happened me, mama ? I was 
 dreaming. I felt hot, and I thought I was 
 going up, up in the sky, and that the sun 
 was burning me? What happened me?” 
 “ It’s the will of God that my stoirin wasn’t 
 burnt, — not with the sun, but with the fire. 
 O, Brideen, your mother’s little pet, what 
 would I do if they’d kill you on me ? 
 What would your father do ? ’Twas God 
 spoke to me coming in that minute ! — I 
 
 283 
 
BARBARA 
 
 don’t know what sort of noise I heard? Il 
 it weren’t for that, 1 mightn’t have come 
 in at all.” 
 
 She looked round her. Everything was 
 in its own place on the table, and on the 
 walls, and on the dresser, — but stay ! In 
 front of the dresser she took notice of a 
 thing on the floor. What was it ? A little 
 body without a head — a doll’s body. 
 
 “ Barbara fallen from the dresser again,” 
 says the mother. “ My conscience, it’s she 
 saved your life to you, Brideen.” 
 
 “Not falling she did it at all!” says 
 the little girl, “ but it’s how she saw I was 
 in danger, and she threw a leap from the 
 top of the dresser to save me. O, poor 
 Barbara, you gave your life for my sake ! ” 
 
 She went on her knees, lifted the little 
 corpse of the doll, and kissed it softly and 
 fondly. 
 
 “Mama,” says she, sadly, “since Niamh 
 Goldy-IIead came, I’m afraid I forgot poor 
 Barbara, and it’s greater the liking I put in 
 Niamh Goldy-Head than in her ; and see, 
 it’s she was most true to me in the end. 
 And she’s dead now on me, and I won’t be able 
 to speak with her ever again, nor to say to 
 
 284 
 
BARBARA 
 
 her that I’d rather her a thousand times, — 
 aye, a hundred thousand times — than 
 Niamh.” 
 
 “ It’s not dead she is at all,” says the 
 mother, “ but hurted. Your father will 
 put the head on her again when he comes in 
 “ If I’d fall from the top of the dresser, 
 mama, and lose my head, would he be able 
 to put it on me again ? ” 
 
 “ He wouldn’t. But you’re not the same 
 as Barbara.” 
 
 “ I am the same. She’s dead. Don’t 
 you see she’s not moving or speaking?” 
 
 The mother had to admit this much. 
 Nothing would convince Brideen that 
 Barbara wasn’t killed, and that it wasn’t to 
 save her she gave her life. I myself wouldn’t 
 say she was right, but I wouldn’t say she 
 wasn’t. I can only say what I said before : 
 How do I know ? How do you know ? 
 
 Barbara was buried that evening on the 
 side of the hill in the place where she and 
 Brideen spent those long days of summer 
 among the fern and the flowers. There 
 are fairy-thimbles growing at the head of 
 the grave, and daisies and buttercups plenti- 
 fully about it. 
 
 285 
 
BARBARA 
 
 Before going to sleep that night, Brideen 
 called over to her mother. 
 
 “ Do you think, mama,” says she, “ will 
 I see Barbara in heaven ? ” 
 
 “ Maybe, by the King of Glory, you 
 might, ” says the mother. 
 
 “Do you think will I, daddy?” says she 
 to her father. 
 
 “ I know well you will,” says the father. 
 
 Those were the Adventures and Tragic 
 Fate of Barbara up to that time. 
 
 286 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 A conversation that took place between 
 Eoineen of the Birds and his mother, one 
 evening of spring, before the going under 
 of the sun. The song-thrush and the 
 yellow-bunting that heard it, and (as I 
 think) told it to my friends the swallows. 
 The swallows that told the story to me. 
 
 “ Come on in, pet. It’s rising cold.” 
 
 “ I can’t stir a while yet, little mother. 
 I’m waiting for the swallows.” 
 
 “ For what, little son ? ” 
 
 “ The swallows. I’m thinking they’ll 
 be here this night.” 
 
 Eoineen was high on the big rock that 
 was close to the gable of the house, he 
 settled nicely on top of it, and the white 
 back of his head against the foot of the 
 ash-tree that was sheltering him. He had 
 his head raised, and he looking from him 
 southward. His mother looked up at him. 
 It seemed to her that his share of hair was 
 yellow gold where the sun was burning on 
 his head. 
 
 289 
 
 u 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 “ And where are they coming: from, 
 
 child ? ” 
 
 “ From the Southern World — the place 
 it does be summer always. I’m expecting 
 them for a week.” 
 
 “ And how do you know that it’s this 
 night they’ll come ?” 
 
 “I don’t know, only thinking it. ’Twould 
 be time for them to be here some day now. 
 I mind that it was this day surely they 
 came last year. I was coming up from the 
 well when I heard their twittering — a sweet, 
 joyful twittering as they’d be saying : 
 c We’ve come to you again, Eoineen ! News 
 to you from the Southern World!’ — and 
 then one of them flew past me, rubbing his 
 wing to my cheek.” 
 
 There’s no need to say that this talk put 
 great wonder on the mother. Eoineen 
 never spoke to her like that before. She 
 knew that he put a great wish in the 
 birds, and that it’s many an hour he used 
 spend in the wood or by the strand-side, 
 “ talking to them,” as he’d say. But she 
 didn’t understand why there should be that 
 great a wish on him to see the swallows 
 coming again. She knew by his face, as 
 
 290 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 well as by the words of his mouth, that he 
 was forever thinking on some thing that 
 was making him anxious. And there came 
 unrest on the woman over it, a thing that’s 
 no wonder. “ Sure, it’s queer talk from 
 a child,” says she in her own mind. She 
 didn’t speak a breath aloud, however, but 
 she listening to each word that came out of 
 his mouth. 
 
 “ I’m very lonely since they left me in 
 the harvest,” says the little boy again, like 
 one that would be talking to himself. 
 “ They had that much to say to me. 
 They’re not the same as the song-thrush 
 or the yellow-bunting that do spend the 
 best part of their lives by the ditch-side in 
 the garden. They do have wonderful 
 stories to tell about the lands where it does 
 be summer always, and about the wild seas 
 where the ships are drowned, and about the 
 lime-bright cities where the kings do be 
 always living. It’s long, long the road 
 from the Southern World to this country. 
 They see everything coming over, and they 
 don’t forget anything. I think long, want- 
 ing them.” 
 
 “ Come in, white love, and go to sleep. 
 
 291 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 You’ll be perished with the cold if you stay 
 out any longer.” 
 
 “ I’ll go in presently, little mother. I 
 wouldn’t like them to come, and I not to 
 be here to give them welcome. They 
 would be wondering.” 
 
 The mother saw that it was no good 
 to be at him. She went in, troubled. 
 She cleaned the table and the chairs. She 
 washed the vessels and the dishes. She 
 took the brush, and she brushed the floor. 
 She scoured the kettle and the big pot. She 
 trimmed the lamp, and hung it on the 
 wall. She put more turf on the fire. She 
 did a hundred other things that she needn’t 
 have done. Then she sat before the fire, 
 thinking to herself. 
 
 The “piper of the ashes” (the cricket) 
 came out, and started on his heartsome 
 tune. The mother stayed by the hearth- 
 side, pondering. The little boy stayed on 
 his airy seat, watching. The cows came 
 home from the pasture. The hen called 
 to her her chickens. The blackbird and 
 the wren, and the other little people of 
 the wood went to sleep. The buzzing of the 
 flies was stopped, and the bleating of the 
 
 292 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 lambs. The sun sank slowly till it was close 
 to the bottom of the sky, till it was 
 exactly on the bottom of the sky, till it was 
 under the bottom of the sky. A cold wind 
 blew from the east. The darkness spread 
 on the earth. At last Eoineen came in. 
 
 “ I fear they won’t come this night,” 
 says he. “ Maybe, with God’s help, they 
 might come to-morrow.” 
 
 The morning of the next day came. 
 Eoineen was up early, and he watching out 
 from the top of the rock. The middle of 
 day came. The end of day came. The 
 night came. But, my grief ! the swallows 
 did not come. 
 
 “ Maybe we might see them here to- 
 morrow,” says Eoineen, and he coming in 
 sadly that night. 
 
 But they didn’t see them. Nor did they 
 see them the day after that, nor the day 
 after that again. And it’s what Eoineen 
 would say every night and he coming in : 
 
 “ Maybe they might be with us to- 
 morrow.” 
 
 293 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 II 
 
 There came a delightful evening in the 
 end of April. The air was clear and cool 
 after a shower of rain. There was a wonder- 
 ful light in the western heavens. The birds 
 sang a strain of music in the wood. The 
 waves were chanting a poem on the strand. 
 But loneliness was on the heart of the boy 
 and he waiting for the swallows. 
 
 There was heard, suddenly, a sound that 
 hadn’t been heard in that place for more 
 than a half-year. A little, tiny sound. A 
 faint, truly-melodious sound. A pert, joy- 
 ous twittering, and it unlike any othei 
 twittering that comes from the mouth of a 
 bird. With fiery swiftness a small black 
 body drove from the south. It flying high 
 in the air. Two broad, strong wings on it. 
 The shaping of a fork on its tail. It cutting 
 the way before it, like an arrow shot from a 
 bow. It swooped suddenly, it turned, rose 
 again, swooped and turned again. Then it 
 made straight for Eoineen, it speaking at 
 
 294 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 the top of its voice, till it lay and nestled in 
 the breast of the little boy after its long 
 journey from the Southern World. 
 
 “ O, my love, my love you are ! ” says 
 Eoineen, taking it in his two hands and 
 kissing it on the little black head. “ Wel- 
 come to me from the strange countries ! 
 Are you tired after your lonely journey over 
 lands and over seas? Ora , my thousand, 
 thousand loves you are, beautiful little 
 messenger from the country where it does 
 be summer always ! Where are your 
 companions from you ? Or what happened 
 you on the road, or why didn’t ye come 
 before this ? ” 
 
 While he was speaking like this with the 
 swallow, kissing it again and yet again, and 
 rubbing his hand lovingly over its blue-black 
 wings, its little red throat and its bright, 
 feathered breast, another little bird sailed 
 from the south and alighted beside them. 
 The two birds rose in the air then, and it is 
 the first other place they lay, in * their own 
 little nest that was hidden in the ivy that 
 was growing thickly on the walls of the 
 house. 
 
 “ They are found at last, little mother ! ” 
 
 295 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 says Eoineen, and he running in joyfully. 
 “ The swallows are found at last ! A pair 
 came this night — the pair who have their 
 nest over my window. The others will be 
 with us to-morrow. ” 
 
 The mother stooped and drew him to 
 her. Then she put a prayer to God in a 
 whisper, giving thanks to Him for sending 
 the swallows to them. The flame that was 
 in the eyes of the boy, it would put delight 
 on the heart of any mother at all. 
 
 It was sound the sleep of Eoineen that 
 night. 
 
 The swallows came one after another 
 now — singly at first, in pairs then, and at 
 last in little flocks. Isn’t it they were glad 
 when they saw the old place again ! The 
 little wood and the brook running through 
 it ; the white, sandy beach ; the ash-trees 
 that were close to the house ; the house 
 itself and the old nests exactly as they left 
 them half a year before that. There was no 
 change on anything but only on the little 
 boy. He was quieter and gentler than 
 he used to be. He was oftener sitting than 
 
 296 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 running with himself about the fields, as 
 was his habit before that. He wasn’t heard 
 laughing or singing as often as he used be 
 heard. If the swallows took notice of this 
 much — and I wouldn’t say they didn’t — it’s 
 certain that they were sorry for him. 
 
 The summer went by. It was seldom 
 Eoineen would stir out on the street, but he 
 sitting contentedly on the top of the rock, 
 looking at the swallows and listening to their 
 twittering. He’d spend the hours like this. 
 ’Twas often he was there from early morn- 
 ing till there came “ tratlinona greine buidhe ,” 
 — the evening of the yellow sun ; and going 
 within every night he’d have a great lot of 
 stories, beautiful, wonderful stories, to tell 
 to his mother. When she’d question him 
 about these stories, he’d always say to her 
 that it’s from the swallows he’d get them. 
 
 297 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 III. 
 
 The priest came in the evening. 
 
 “ How is Eoineen of the Birds this 
 weather, Eibhlin?” says he. (The other 
 boys had nicknamed him “ Eoineen of the 
 Birds ” on account of the love he had for 
 the birds.) 
 
 “ Muise , Father, he wasn’t as well for 
 many a long day as he is since the summer 
 came. There’s a blush in his cheek I 
 never saw in it before.” 
 
 The priest looked sharply at her. He 
 had noticed that blush for a time, and if he 
 did, it didn’t deceive him. Other people 
 had noticed it, too, and if they did, it didn’t 
 deceive them. But it was plain it deceived 
 the mother. There were tears in the priest’s 
 eyes, but Eibhlin was blowing the fire, and 
 she didn’t see them. There was a stoppage 
 in his voice when he spoke again, but the 
 mother didn’t notice it. 
 
 “ Where’s Eoineen now, Eibhlin ? ” 
 
 “ He’s sitting on the rock outside, 4 talking 
 
 298 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 to the swallows,’ as himself says. It’s 
 wonderful the affection he has for those • 
 little birds. Do you know, Father, what 
 he said to me the other day?” 
 
 “ I don’t know, Eibhlin.” 
 
 “ He was saving that it’s short now till 
 the swallows would be departing from us 
 again, and says he to me, suddenly, c What 
 would you do, little mother,’ says he, ‘ if 
 I’d steal away from you with the swallows ? ’ ” 
 
 “ And what did you say, Eibhlin ? ” 
 
 “ I said to him to brush out with him, 
 and not be bothering me. But I’m think- 
 ing ever since on the thing he said, and it’s 
 troubling me. Wasn’t it a queer thought 
 for him, Father, — he going with the 
 swallows ? ” 
 
 “ It’s many a queer thought comes into . 
 the heart of a child,” says the priest. And 
 he went out the door, without saying 
 another word. 
 
 “ Dreaming, as usual, Eoineen?” 
 
 44 No, Father. I’m talking to the 
 swallows.” 
 
 44 Talking to them ? ” 
 
 299 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 “Aye, Father. We do be talking 
 together always.” 
 
 “ And whisper. What do ye be saying 
 to one another ? ” 
 
 “ We do be talking about the countries far 
 away, where it does be summer always, and 
 about the wild seas where the ships do be 
 drowned, and about the lime-bright cities 
 where the kings do be always living.” 
 
 The wonder of his heart came on the 
 priest, as it came on the mother before that. 
 
 “ It’s you do be discoursing on these 
 things, and they listening to you, it’s like?” 
 
 “ No, Father. They, mostly, that do 
 be talking, and I listening to them.” 
 
 “And do you understand their share of 
 talk, Eoineen ? ” 
 
 “ Aye, Father. Don’t you understand 
 it r 
 
 “ Not too well I understand it. Make 
 room for me on the rock there, and I’ll 
 sit a while till >you explain to me what 
 they do be saying.” 
 
 Up with the priest on the rock, and he 
 sat beside the little boy. He put an arm 
 about his neck, and began taking talk out 
 of him. 
 
 3 °° 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 “ Tell me what the swallows do be saying 
 to you, Eoineen.” 
 
 “ It’s many a thing they do be saying 
 to me. It’s many a fine story they do tell to 
 me. Did you see that little bird that went 
 past just now, Father ? ” 
 
 “ I did.” 
 
 “ That’s the cleverest storyteller of them 
 all. That one’s nest is under the ivy that’s 
 growing over the window of my room. 
 And she has another nest in the Southern 
 World — herself and her mate.” 
 
 “ Has she, Eoineen ? ” 
 
 “ Aye — another beautiful little nest 
 thousands and thousands of miles from 
 this. Isn’t it a queer story, Father? — to 
 say that the little swallow has two houses, 
 and we having one only ? ” 
 
 “ It’s queer, indeed. And what sort is 
 the country she has this other house in ? ” 
 
 “ When I shut my eyes I see a lonely, 
 awful country. I see it now, Father ! A 
 lonely, terrible country. There’s neither 
 mountain, nor hill, nor valley in it, but it a 
 great, level, sandy plain. There’s neither 
 wood, nor grass, nor growth in it, but the 
 earth as bare as the heart of your palm. 
 
 3 01 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 Sand entirely. Sand under your feet. Sand 
 on every side of you. The sun scorching 
 over your head. Without a cloud at all 
 to be seen in the sky. It very hot. Here 
 and there there’s a little grassy spot, as it 
 would be a little island in the middle of the 
 sea. A couple of high trees growing on 
 each spot of them. They sheltered from 
 wind and sun. I see on one of these islands 
 a high cliff. A terrible big cliff. There’s 
 a cleft in the cliff, and in the cleft there’s 
 a little swallow’s nest. That’s the nest of 
 my little swallow.” 
 
 “ Who told you this, Eoineen ? ” 
 
 “ The swallow. She spends half of her 
 life in that country, herself and her mate. 
 Isn’t it the grand life they have on that 
 lonely little island in the middle of the 
 desert ! There does be neither cold nor 
 wet in it, frost nor snow, but it summer 
 always. . . . And after that, Father, they 
 don’t forget their other little nest here in 
 Ireland, nor the wood, nor the brook, nor 
 the ash-trees, nor me, nor my mother. Every 
 year in the spring they hear, as it would be, a 
 whispering in their ears telling them that 
 the woods are in leaf in Ireland, and that 
 
 3° 2 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 the sun is shining on the bawn-fields, and 
 that the lambs are bleating, and I waiting 
 for them. And they bid farewell to their 
 dwelling in the strange country, and they 
 go before them, and they make neither stop 
 nor stay till they see the tops of the ash-trees 
 from them, and till they hear the voice of 
 the river and the bleating of the lambs.” 
 
 The priest was listening attentively. 
 
 “ O ! — and isn’t it wonderful the journey 
 they do have from the Southern World ! 
 They leave the big sandy plain behind them, 
 and the high, bald mountains that are on 
 its border, and they go before them till they 
 come to the great sea. Out with them 
 over the sea, Hying always, always, without 
 weariness, without growing weak. They 
 see below' them the mighty-swelling waves, 
 and the ships ploughing the ocean, and 
 the white sails, and seagulls, and the ‘ black 
 hags of the sea ’ (cormorants), and othei 
 wonders that I couldn’t remember. And 
 times, there rise wind and storm, and they 
 see the ships drowning and the waves rising 
 on top of each other and themselves, the 
 creatures, do be beaten with the wind, and 
 blinded with the rain and with the salt water, 
 
 3°3 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 till they make out the land at last. A 
 while to them then going before them, and 
 they looking on grassy parks, and on green- 
 topped woods, and on high-headed reeks, 
 and on broad lakes, and on beautiful rivers, 
 and on fine cities, as they were wonderful 
 pictures, and they looking on them down 
 from them. They see people at work. 
 They hear cattle lowing, and children 
 laughing, and bells ringing. But they don’t 
 stop, but forever going till they come to 
 the brink of the sea again, and no rest to 
 them then till they strike the country of 
 Ireland.” 
 
 Eoineen continued speaking like this for 
 a long time, the priest listening to every 
 word he said. They were chatting till the 
 darkness fell, and till the mother called 
 Eoineen in. The priest went home ponder- 
 ing to himself. 
 
 3°4 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 IV 
 
 August and September went. October 
 was half out. As the days were getting 
 shorter, Eoineen was rising sadder. ’Twas 
 seldom he’d speak to his mother now, but 
 every night before going to sleep he’d kiss 
 her fondly and tenderly, and he’d say : 
 
 “ Call me early in the morning, little 
 mother. It’s little time I have now. They’ll 
 be departing without much delay.” 
 
 A beautiful day brightened in the middle 
 of the month. Early in the morning, 
 Eoineen took notice that the swallows were 
 crowding together on the top of the house. 
 He didn’t stir from his seat the length of 
 that day. Coming in in the evening, says 
 he to his mother : 
 
 “They’ll be departing to-morrow.” 
 
 “ How do you know, white love? ” 
 
 “ They told me to-day. . . . Little 
 
 mother,” says he again, after a spell of silence. 
 “ What is it, little child ? ” 
 
 “ I can’t stay here when they’re gone. I 
 
 3°5 x 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 must go along with them. ... to the 
 country where it does be summer always. 
 You wouldn’t be lonely if I’d go ? ” 
 
 “ O ! treasure, my thousand treasures, 
 don’t speak to me like that ! ” says the 
 mother, taking him and squeezing him to 
 her heart. “You’re not to be stolen from 
 me ! Sure, you wouldn’t leave your little 
 mother, and go after the swallows?” 
 
 Eoineen didn’t say a word, but to kiss her 
 again and again. 
 
 Another day brightened. The little, wee 
 boy was up early. From the start of day 
 hundreds of swallows were gathered together 
 on the ridge of the house. From time to 
 time one or two of them would go off and 
 they’d return again, as if they’d be consider- 
 ing the weather. At last a pair went off 
 and they didn’t return. Another pair went 
 off. The third pair went. They were 
 going one after another then, till there didn’t 
 remain but one little flock only on the horn 
 of the house. The pair that came first on 
 yon evening of spring six months before that 
 were in this little flock. It’s like they were 
 loath to leave the place. 
 
 3°6 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 Eoineen was watching them from the 
 rock. His mother was standing beside him. 
 
 The little flock of birds rose in the air, 
 and they faced the Southern World. Going 
 over the top of the wood a pair turned 
 back, — the pair whose nest was over the 
 window. Down with them from the sky, 
 making on Eoineen. Over with them then, 
 they flying close to the ground. Their 
 wings rubbed a cheek of the little boy, and 
 they sweeping past him. Up with them in 
 the air again, they speaking sorrowfully, 
 and off for ever with them after the other 
 crowd. 
 
 “ Mother,” says Eoineen, “ they’re calling 
 me. c Come to the country where the sun 
 does be shining always, — come, Eoineen, 
 over the wild seas to the Country of Light, 
 ^ come, Eoineen of the Birds!’ I can’t 
 cny them. A blessing with you, little 
 mother, — my thousand, thousand blessings 
 to you, little mother of my heart. I’m 
 going from you . . . over the wild 
 
 seas ... to the country where it does 
 be summer always.” 
 
 He let his head back on his mother’s 
 shoulder and he put a sigh out of him. 
 
 3°7 
 
EOINEEN OF THE BIRDS 
 
 There was heard the crying of a woman in 
 
 that lonely place — the crying of a mother 
 
 keening her child. Eoineen was departed 
 
 along with the swallows. 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 Autumn and winter went by and the 
 spring was at hand again. The woods were 
 in leaf, and the lambs bleating, and the sun 
 shining on the bawn-fields. One glorious 
 evening in April the swallows came. There 
 was a wonderful light at the bottom of the 
 sky in the west, as it was a year from that 
 time. The birds sang a strain of music in 
 the wood. The waves chanted a poem on 
 the strand. But there was no little white- 
 haired boy, sitting on the top of the rock 
 under the shadow of the ash-trees. Inside 
 in the house there was a solitary woman, 
 weeping by the fire. 
 
 “ And, darling little son,” says 
 
 she, “ I see the swallows here again, but I’ll 
 never, never see you here.” 
 
 The swallows heard her, and they going 
 past the door. I don’t know did Eoineen 
 hear her, as he was thousands of miles away 
 in the country where it does be 
 summer always. 
 
 308 
 
POEMS 
 

 
 
LULLABY OF A WOMAN OF 
 THE MOUNTAIN 
 
 Little gold head, my house’s candle, 
 
 You will guide all wayfarers that walk this 
 mountain. 
 
 Little soft mouth that my breast has known, 
 Mary will kiss you as she passes. 
 
 Little round cheek, O smoother than satin, 
 Jesus will lay His hand on you. 
 
 Mary’s kiss on my baby’s mouth, 
 
 Christ’s little hand on my darling’s cheek ! 
 
 House, be still, and ye little grey mice. 
 
 Lie close to-night in your hidden lairs. 
 
 Moths on the window, fold your wings, 
 Little black chafers, silence your humming. 
 
 Plover and curlew, fly not over my house. 
 Do not speak, wild barnacle, passing over 
 this mountain. 
 
 Things of the mountain that wake in the 
 night-time, 
 
 Do not stir to-night till the daylight 
 whitens ! 
 
 3 1 1 
 
A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN 
 KEENS HER SON 
 
 Grief on the death, it ha* blackened my 
 heart : 
 
 It has snatched my love and left me desolate, 
 
 Without friend or companion under the 
 roof of my house 
 
 But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I 
 keening. 
 
 As I walked the mountain in the evening 
 
 The birds spoke to me sorrowfully, 
 
 The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful 
 curlew 
 
 Relating to me that my darling was dead. 
 
 I called to you and your voice I heard not, 
 I called again and I got no answer, 
 f kissed your mouth, and O God how cold 
 it was ! 
 
 Ah, cold is your bed in the lonely churchyard. 
 
 O green-sodded grave in which my child is, 
 Little narrow grave, since you are his bed, 
 
 3 1 2 
 
A WOMAN OF THE MOUNTAIN 
 
 My blessing on you, and thousands of 
 blessings 
 
 On the green sods that are over my treasure. 
 
 Grief on the death, it cannot be denied, 
 
 It lays low, green and withered together, — 
 And O gentle little son, what tortures me is 
 That your fair body should be making clay ! 
 
O LITTLE BIRD 
 
 (A sparrow which I found dead on my doorstep on 
 a day of winter.) 
 
 O little bird ! 
 
 Cold to me thy lying on the flag : 
 Bird, that never had an evil thought, 
 Pitiful the coming of death to thee ! 
 
WHY DO YE TORTURE ME^ 
 
 Why are ye torturing me, O desires of my 
 heart ? 
 
 Torturing me and paining me by day and 
 by night ? 
 
 Hunting me as a poor deer would be hunted 
 on a hill, 
 
 A poor long-wearied deer with the hound- 
 pack after him ? 
 
 There’s no ease to my paining in the loneli- 
 ness of the hills. 
 
 But the cry of the hunters terrifically to be 
 heard. 
 
 The cry of my desires haunting me without 
 respite, — 
 
 O ravening hounds, long is your run ! 
 
 No satisfying can come to my desires while 
 I live. 
 
 For the satisfaction I desired yesterday is no 
 satisfaction, 
 
 And the hound-pack is the greedier of the 
 satisfaction it has got, — 
 
 And forever I shall not sleep till I sleep in 
 the grave. 
 
LITTLE LAD OF THE 
 TRICKS 
 
 Little lad of the tricks, 
 
 Full well I know 
 
 That you have been in mischief : 
 
 Confess your fault truly. 
 
 I forgive you, child 
 Of the soft red mouth : 
 
 I will not condemn anyone 
 For a sin not understood. 
 
 Raise your comely head 
 Till I kiss your mouth: 
 
 If either of us is the better of that 
 I am the better of it. 
 
 There is a fragrance in your kiss 
 That I have not found yet 
 In the kisses of women 
 Or in the honey of their bodies. 
 
 Lad of the grey eyes, 
 
 That flush in thy cheek 
 
 Would be white with dread of me 
 
 Could you read my secrets. 
 
 316 
 
LITTLE LAD OF THE TRICKS 
 
 He who has my secrets 
 Is not fit to touch you : 
 
 Is not that a pitiful thing, 
 Little lad of the tricks? 
 
O LOVELY HEAD 
 
 O lovely head of the woman that I loved, 
 
 In the middle of the night I remember thee: 
 But reality returns with the sun’s whitening, 
 Alas, that the slender worm gnaws thee 
 to-night. 
 
 Beloved voice, that wast low and beautiful, 
 Is it true that I heard thee in my slumbers ! 
 Or is the knowledge true that tortures me ? 
 My grief, the tomb hath no sound or voice ? 
 
LONG TO ME THY 
 COMING 
 
 Long to me thy coming, 
 Old henchman of God, 
 
 O friend of all friends, 
 
 To free me from my pain. 
 
 O syllable on the wind, 
 
 O footfall not heavy, 
 
 O hand in the dark, 
 
 Your coming is long to me. 
 
 3*9 
 
A RANN I MADE 
 
 A rann I made within my heart 
 To the rider, to the high king, 
 
 A rann I made to my love, 
 
 To the king of kings, ancient death. 
 
 Brighter to me than light of day 
 The dark of thy house, tho* black clay ; 
 Sweeter to me than the music of 
 trumpets 
 
 The quiet of thy house and its eternal 
 silence. 
 
 320 
 
TO A BELOVED CHILD 
 
 Laughing mouth, what tortures me is 
 That thou shalt be weeping ; 
 
 Lovely face, it is my pity 
 
 That thy brightness shall grow grey. 
 
 Noble head, thou art proud. 
 
 But thou shalt bow with sorrow ; 
 And it is a pitiful thing I forbode 
 for thee 
 
 Whenever I kiss thee. 
 
 321 
 
 Y 
 
I HAVE NOT GARNERED 
 GOLD 
 
 I have not garnered gold ; 
 
 The fame I found hath perished ; 
 In love I got but grief 
 That withered my life. 
 
 Of riches or of store 
 I shall not leave behind me 
 (Yet I deem it, O God, sufficient) 
 But my name in the heart of a child. 
 
 322 
 
I AM IRELAND 
 
 I am Ireland : 
 
 I am older than the Old Woman of Beare. 
 
 Great my glory : 
 
 I that bore Cuchulainn the valiant. 
 
 Great my shame : 
 
 I am Ireland : 
 
 I am lonelier than the Old Woman of Beare. 
 
 3 2 3 
 
RENUNCIATION 
 
 Naked I saw thee, - 
 O beauty of beauty, 
 And I blinded my eyes 
 For fear I should fail. 
 
 I heard thy music, 
 
 O melody of melody, 
 And I closed my ears 
 For fear I should falter. 
 
 I tasted thy mouth, 
 
 O sweetness of sweetness, 
 And I hardened my heart 
 For fear of my slaying. 
 
 I blinded my eyes, 
 
 And I closed my ears, 
 
 I hardened my heart 
 
 And I smothered my desire. 
 
 I turned my back 
 
 On the vision I had shaped. 
 
 3 2 4 
 
RENUNCIATION 
 
 And to this road before me 
 I turned my face. 
 
 1 have turned my face 
 To this road before me, 
 
 To the deed that I see 
 And the death I shall die. 
 
 3 2 5 
 
THE RANN OF THE LITTLE 
 PLAYMATE 
 
 Young Iosa plays with me every day, 
 
 ( With an or 6 and an iaro ) 
 
 Tig and Pookeen and Hiae-in-the-Hay, 
 
 ( With an or 6 and an iaro) 
 
 We race in the rivers with otters grey, 
 We climb the tall trees where red squirrels 
 play. 
 
 We watch the wee lady-bird fly far away. 
 ( With an or 6 and an iaro and an umbo ero !) 
 
 326 
 
A SONG FOR MARY 
 MAGDALENE 
 
 O woman of the gleaming hair, 
 
 (Wild hair that won men’s gaze to thee) 
 Weary thou turnest from the common 
 stare. 
 
 For the shuiler Christ is calling thee. 
 
 O woman of the snowy side, 
 
 Many a lover hath lain with thee, 
 
 Yet left thee sad at the morning tide, 
 But thy lover Christ shall comfort thee. 
 
 O woman with the wild thing’s heart, 
 Old sin hath set a snare for thee : 
 
 In the forest ways forspent thou art 
 But the hunter Christ shall pity thee. 
 
 O woman spendthrift of thyself. 
 Spendthrift of all the love in thee, 
 
 Sold unto sin for little pelf, 
 
 The captain Christ shall ransom thee. 
 
 O woman that no lover’s kiss 
 (Tho’ many a kiss was given thee) 
 
 Could slake thy love, is it not for this 
 The hero Christ shall die for thee ? 
 
 3 2 7 
 
CHRIST’S COMING 
 
 I have made my heart clean to-night 
 As a woman might clean her house 
 Ere her lover come to visit her : 
 
 0 Lover, pass not by ! 
 
 1 have opened the door of my heart 
 Like a man that would make a feast 
 For his son’s coming home from afar : 
 Lovely Thy coming, O Son ! 
 
 3 2 8 
 
ON THE STRAND OF 
 HOWTH 
 
 On the strand of Howth 
 Breaks a sounding wave ; 
 
 A lone sea- gull screams 
 Above the bay. 
 
 In the middle of the meadow 
 Beside Glasnevin 
 The corncrake speaks 
 All night long. 
 
 There is minstrelsy of birds 
 In Glenasmole, 
 
 The blackbird and thrush 
 Chanting music. 
 
 There is shining of sun 
 On the side of Slieverua, 
 
 And the wind blowing 
 Down over its brow. 
 
 On the harbour of Dunleary 
 Are boat and ship 
 With sails set 
 Ploughing the waves. 
 
 3 2 9 
 
ON THE STRAND OF HOWTH 
 
 Here in Ireland, 
 
 Am I, my brother, 
 And you far from me 
 In gallant Paris, 
 
 I beholding 
 Hill and harbour. 
 
 The strand of Howth 
 And Slieverua’s side. 
 
 And you victorious 
 In mighty Paris 
 Of the limewhite paiaces 
 And the surging hosts ; 
 
 And what I ask 
 Of you, beloved, 
 
 Far away 
 
 Is to think at times 
 
 Of the corncrake’s tune 
 Beside Glasnevin 
 In the middle of the meadow, 
 Speaking in the night ; 
 
 33 ° 
 
ON THE STRAND OF HOWTH 
 
 Of the voice of the birds 
 In Glenasmole 
 Happily, with melody, 
 Chanting music; 
 
 Of the strand of Howth 
 Whei e a wave breaks, 
 
 And the harbour of Dunleary, 
 Where a ship rocks ; 
 
 On the sun that shines 
 On the side of Slieverua, 
 And the wind that blows 
 Down over its brow. 
 
 33 1 
 
THE DORD FEINNE 
 
 ’ Se do bheatha , O woman that wast sorrowful. 
 What grieved us was thy being in chains, 
 Thy beautiful country in the possession ot 
 rogues, 
 
 And thou sold to the Galls, 
 
 Oro\ ’ se do bheatha a bliaile , 
 
 Orb, ’ se do bheatha a bhaile , 
 
 Ore, 'se do bheatha a bhaile , 
 
 Now at summer’s coming ! 
 
 Thanks to the God of miracles that we see, 
 Altho’ we live not a week thereafter, 
 Grainne Mhaol and a thousand heroes 
 
 Proclaiming the scattering of theGalls ! 
 Oro , ’ se do bheatha a bhaile , 
 
 Orb , ’ se do bheatha a bhaile , 
 
 Orb , ’ se do bheatha a bhaile , 
 
 Now at summer’s coming ! 
 
 Grainne Mhaol is coming from over the sea, 
 The Fenians of Fal as a guard about her, 
 Gaels they, and neither French nor Spaniard, 
 And a rout upon the Galls ! 
 
 Orb , 'se do bheatha a bhaile , 
 
 Oro\ 'se do bheatha a bhaile , 
 
 Or<?, 'se do bheatha a bhaile , 
 
 Now at summer’s coming ! 
 
 332 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 I do not grudge them : Lord, I do not grudge 
 My two strong sons that I have seen go out 
 To break their strength and die, they and 
 a few, 
 
 In bloody protest for a glorious thing, 
 
 They shall be spoken of among their people, 
 The generations shall remember them, 
 
 And call them blessed ; 
 
 But I will speak their names to my own heart 
 In the long nights ; 
 
 The little names that were familiar once 
 Round my dead hearth. 
 
 Lord, thou art hard on mothers : 
 
 We suffer in their coming and their going ; 
 And tho’ I grudge them not, I weary, weary 
 Of the long sorrow — And yet I have my joy : 
 My sons were faithful, and they fought. 
 
 333 
 
THE FOOL 
 
 Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak 
 that am only a fool ; 
 
 A fool that hath loved his folly, 
 
 Yea, more than the wise men their books or 
 their counting houses, or their quiet 
 homes, 
 
 Or their fame in men’s mouths ; 
 
 A fool that in all his days hath done never 
 a prudent thing, 
 
 Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if 
 another reaped 
 
 The fruit of his mighty sowing, content 
 to scatter the seed ; 
 
 A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at 
 the end of all 
 
 Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe 
 ears fall to the reaping-hooks 
 
 And the poor are filled that were empty, 
 
 Tho’ he go hungry. 
 
 I have squandered the splendid years that 
 the Lord God gave to my youth 
 In attempting impossible things, deeming 
 them alone worth the toil. 
 
 334 
 
THE FOOL 
 
 Was it folly or grace ? Not men shall 
 iudge me, but God. 
 
 1 have squandered the splendid years : 
 
 Lord, if I had the years 1 would squander 
 them over again, 
 
 Aye, fling them from me ! 
 
 For this I have heard in my heart, that a 
 man shall scatter, not hoard, 
 
 Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought 
 of to-morrow’s teen, 
 
 Shall not bargain or huxter with God ; or 
 was it a jest of Christ’s 
 And is this my sin before men, to have 
 taken Him at His word ? 
 
 The lawyers have sat in council, the men 
 with the keen, long faces, 
 
 And said, “ This man is a fool,” and others 
 have said, “ He blasphemeth 
 And the wise have pitied the fool that hath 
 striven to give a life 
 
 In the world of time and space among the 
 bulks of actual things, 
 
 To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, 
 and that only the heart could hold. 
 
 335 
 
THE FOOL 
 
 O wise men, riddle me this : what if the 
 dream come true ? 
 
 What if the dream come true ? and if 
 millions unborn shall dwell 
 
 In the house that I shaped in my heart, the 
 noble house of my thought ? 
 
 Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked 
 the lives of my kin 
 
 On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do 
 not remember my failures, 
 
 But remember this my faith. 
 
 And so I speak. 
 
 Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my 
 people and say : 
 
 Ye shall be foolish as I ; ye shall scatter, 
 not save ; 
 
 Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what 
 is more than all ; 
 
 Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at 
 H is word. 
 
 And for this I will answer, O people, answer 
 here and hereafter, 
 
 O people that I have loved shall we not 
 answer together ? 
 
 33 6 
 
THE REBEL 
 
 I am come of the seed of the people, the 
 people that sorrow. 
 
 That have no treasure but hope, 
 
 No riches laid up but a memory 
 Of an Ancient glory. 
 
 My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage 
 my mother was born, 
 
 I am of the blood of serfs ; 
 
 The children with whom I have played, the 
 men and women with whom I have 
 eaten, 
 
 Have had masters over them, have been 
 under the lash of masters. 
 
 And, though gentle, have served churls ; 
 The hands that have touched mine, the dear 
 hands whose touch is familiar to me. 
 Have worn shameful manacles, have been 
 bitten at the wrist by manacles, 
 
 Have grown hard with the manacles and the 
 task-work of strangers, 
 
 I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am 
 bone of their bone, 
 
 I that have never submitted ; 
 
 I that have a soul greater than the souls of 
 my people’s masters, 
 
 337 
 
 z 
 
THE REBEL 
 
 I that have vision and prophecy and the gift 
 of fiery speech, 
 
 I that have spoken with God on the top of 
 His holy hill. 
 
 And because I am of the people, I understand 
 the people, 
 
 I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am 
 hungry with their desire : 
 
 My heart has been heavy with the grief of 
 mothers, 
 
 My eyes have been wet with the tears of 
 children, 
 
 I have yearned with old wistful men, 
 
 And laughed or cursed with young men ; 
 
 Their shame is my shame, and I have 
 reddened for it, 
 
 Reddened for that they have served, they 
 who should be free, 
 
 Reddened for that they have gone in want, 
 while others have been full, 
 
 Reddened for that they have walked in fear 
 of lawyers and of their jailors 
 
 With their writs of summons and their 
 handcuffs, 
 
 Men mean and cruel ! 
 
 33 8 
 
THE REBEL 
 
 I could have borne stripes on my body 
 rather than this shame of my people. 
 
 And now I speak, being full of vision ; 
 
 I speak to my people, and I speak in my 
 people’s name to the masters of my people. 
 I say to my people that they are holy, that 
 they are august, despite their chains, 
 That they are greater than those that hold 
 them, and stronger and purer, 
 
 That they have but need of courage, and to 
 call on the name of their God, 
 
 God the unforgetting, the dear God that 
 loves the peoples 
 
 For whom He died naked, suffering shame. 
 And I say to my people’s masters : Beware, 
 Beware of the thing that is coming, beware 
 of the risen people, 
 
 Who shall take what ye would not give. 
 
 Did ye think to conquer the people, 
 
 Or that Law is stronger than life and than 
 men’s desire to be free ? 
 
 We will try it out with you, ye that have 
 harried and held, 
 
 Ye that have bullied and bribed, tyrants, 
 hypocrites, liars ! 
 
 339 
 
CHRISTMAS 
 1 9 1 5 
 
 O King that was born 
 To set bondsmen free. 
 In the coming battle, 
 Help the Gael 1 
 
THE WAYFARER 
 
 The beauty of the world hath made me sad, 
 This beauty that will pass ; 
 
 Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great 
 
 j°y 
 
 To see a leaping squirrel in a tree, 
 
 Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk, 
 
 Or little rabbits in a field at evening, 
 
 Lit by a slanting sun. 
 
 Or some green hill where shadows drifted by 
 Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath 
 sown 
 
 And soon would reap ; near to the gate ot 
 Heaven ; 
 
 Or children with bare feet upon the sands 
 Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets 
 Of little towns in Connacht, 
 
 Things young and happy. 
 
 And then my heart hath told me : 
 
 These will pass, 
 
 Will pass and change, will die and be no 
 more, 
 
 Things bright and green, things young and 
 happy ; 
 
 And I have gone upon my way 
 Sorrowful. 
 
 34 ' 
 
APPENDIX 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 THE SINGER 
 
 The following is the version of a passage in this play,, 
 which was with the Author’s manuscript : 
 
 Colm. Is it to die like rats you’d have us because the 
 the word is not given ? 
 
 Cuimin. Our plans are not finished. Our orders are 
 not here. 
 
 Colm. Our plans will never be finished. Our orders 
 may never be here. 
 
 Cuimin. We’ve no one to lead us. 
 
 Colm. Didn’t you elect me your captain ? 
 
 Cuimin. We did, but not to bid us rise out when the 
 whole country is quiet. We were to get the word from 
 the men that are over the people. They’ll speak when 
 the time comes. [The door opens again and Feichin comes in 
 with two or three others .) Am I speaking lie or truth, 
 men ? Colm here wants us to rise out before the word 
 comes. I say we must wait for the word. What do 
 do you say, Feichin, you that’s got a wiser head than 
 these young fellows ? 
 
 Feichin. God forgive me if I’m wrong, but I say we 
 should wait for our orders. 
 
 Cuimin. What do you say, Diarmaid ? 
 
 Diarmaid. I like you, Colm, for the way you spoke 
 so well and bravely ; but I'm slow to give my voice to 
 
 iii 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 send out the boys of th s mountain — our poor little 
 handful — to stand with their poor little pikes against the 
 big guns of the Gall. If we had news that they were 
 rising in the other countrysides ; but we’ve got no news. 
 
 Colm. Master, you haven’t spoken yet. I’m afraid 
 to ask you to speak. 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn. Cuimin is right when he says that 
 we must not rise out until we get the word ; but what do 
 you say, neighbours, if the man that’ll give the word is 
 under the roof of this house ? 
 
 Diarmaid. What do you mean ? 
 
 Maoilsheachlainn ( going to the door of the room and 
 throwing it open). Let you rise out, MacDara, and reveal 
 yourself to the men that are waiting your word ! 
 
 Feichin. Has MacDara come home ? 
 
 MacDara comes out of the room , Maire ni Fhiannachta 
 and Sighle stand behind him in the doorway. 
 
 Diarmaid [starting up). That is the man that stood 
 among the people in the fair of Uachtar Ard ! [He goes 
 up to MacDara and kisses his hand.) I could not get 
 near you yesterday, MacDara, the crowds were so 
 great. What was on me that I didn’t know you ? 
 Sure I ought to have known that sad, proud head. 
 Maire, men and women yet unborn will bless the pains 
 of your first childing. 
 
 Maire [comes forward and takes her son’s hand and kisses 
 it). Soft hand that played at my breast, strong hand that 
 will fall heavy on the Gall, brave hand that will break 
 the yoke ! Men of the mountain, my son, MacDara, 
 is the Singer that has quickened the dead years and the 
 young blood. Let the horsemen that sleep in Aileach 
 rise up to-day and follow him into the war ! 
 
 They come forward , one by one y and kiss his hand . 
 
 Colm and Sighle last . 
 
 Colm. The Gall have marched from Clifden, 
 
 IV 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 MacDara. I wanted to rise out to-day, but these old 
 men think it is not yet time. 
 
 Cuimin. We were waiting for the word. 
 
 MacDara. And must I speak the word ? Old men, 
 you have left me no choice. I had hoped that more 
 would not be asked of me than to sow the secret word 
 of hope, and that the toil of the reaping would be for 
 others. But I see that one does not serve 
 
 IOSAGAN 
 
 Author’s Foreword to losagan agus Sgealta eile y which 
 is here translated by Mr. Joseph Campbell : 
 
 Putting these stories in order, it is no wonder that my 
 thoughts are on the friends that told them to me, and on 
 the lonely place on the edge of Ireland where they live. 
 I see before my eyes a countryside, hilly, crossed with 
 glens, full of rivers, brimming with lakes ; great horns 
 threatening their tops on the verge of the sky in the 
 north-west ; a narrow, moaning bay stretching in from 
 the sea on each side of a “ ross the “ ross ” rising up 
 from the round of the bay, but with no height compared 
 with the nigh-hand hills or the horns far off ; a little 
 cluster of houses in each little glen and mountain gap, 
 and a solitary cabin here and there on the shoulder of 
 the hills. I think I hear the ground-bass of the water- 
 falls and rivers, the sweet cry of the golden plover and 
 curlew, and the low voice of the people in talk by the 
 fireside. . . . My blessing with you little book, to 
 
 Rossnageeragh and to them in it, my friends ! 
 
 It is from the “ patairidhe beaga ,” the “little soft 
 young things ” that Old Matthias used see making 
 
 v 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 sport to themselves on the green that I heard the greater 
 part of the first story. They do be there always, every 
 sunny evening and every fine Sunday morning, running 
 and throwing leaps exactly as they would be when Old 
 Matthias would sit looking on them. I never saw Iosa- 
 gan among them, but it’s like He does be there, for all 
 that. Isn’t His wish to be rejoicing on the earth, and 
 isn’t His delight to be along with His Father’s children ? 
 
 . . . I have told in the story itself the place and the 
 
 time I heard The Priest. It’s well I remember 
 Nora’s little house, and the kindly little woman herself, 
 and the three children. Paraig is serving Mass now, 
 and I hear Taimeen has u Fromsi Framsi ,” by heart. 
 
 It was from Brideen herself that I heard the 
 adventures of Barbara. One evening that we went in 
 on Oilean ni Raithnighe (the Ferny Island), I and she, 
 it was she told it to me, and wc sitting on the brink of' 
 the lake looking over on the Big Rock. She showed 
 me Barbara’s grave the same evening after our coming 
 home, and she took a promise from me that I’d say a 
 prayer for her friend’s soul every night of my life. 
 Brideen will be going to school next year, and she will 
 be able to read the story of Barbara out of this, I hope 
 she will like it. . . . As for Eoineen of the Birds, 
 I don’t know who it was I heard it from, unless it was 
 from the swallows themselves. Yes, I think it was they 
 told it to me one evening that I was stretched in the 
 heather looking at them flying here and there over Loch 
 Eireamhlach. From what mouth the swallows heard 
 the start of the story, I don’t know. From the song- 
 thrush and from that yellow-bunting that have their 
 nests in a ditch of the garden, it’s like. 
 
 To you, sweet friends, people of the telling of my 
 stories, both little and big, I give and dedicate this little 
 book. 
 
 vi 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL NOTE 
 
 The Singer was written in the late Autumn of 1915. 
 Joseph Plunkett was profoundly impressed when he 
 read it. “If Pearse were dead,” he said, “this would 
 cause a sensation. ’’ Mr. Pearse rather deprecated his 
 view that the play was entirely a personal revelation. 
 No Irish MS. is extant. The two poems The Rebel 
 and The Fool also belong to the same period, and are in 
 no sense translations. The same may be said of On 
 the Strand of Howth and The Mother. With the 
 exceptions of Song for Mary Magdalene, Rann of 
 the Little Playmate (both taken from The Master), 
 Christ’s Coming, Christmas 1915, Dord Feinne, 
 and the Wayfarer (written in Kilmainham Jail, May, 
 1916), the remaining Poems are translations of 
 Suantraide agus Goltraide (1914). These twelve poems, 
 Dord Feinne, and Christ’s Coming, are the only 
 poems in this volume originally written in Irish. 
 
 The King was first produced as an open air play 
 upon the banks of the river which runs through 
 the Hermitage, Rathfarnham, by the students of St. 
 Enda’s College. In reference to its subsequent pro- 
 duction at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, 17th May, 
 1913, Mr. Pearse wrote in An Macao?nh , Vol. II., No. 2, 
 1913 : “The play we decided to produce along with 
 The Post Office, was my morality An RIA We 
 had enacted it during the previous summer with much 
 pageantry of horses and marchings, at a place in our 
 grounds where an old castellated bridge, not unlike an 
 
 vii 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 entrance to a monastery, is thrown across a stream. 
 Since that performance I had added some speeches with 
 the object of slightly deepening tbe characterization.” 
 William Pearse played the Abbot’s part. 
 
 The Master was produced Whitsuntide, 1915, 
 at the Irish Theatre, Hardwicke Street, Dublin, with 
 William Pearse as Ciaran. No Irish MS. is extant. 
 Iosagan y the dramatization of the author’s story of 
 the same name, was first acted in Cullenswood House, 
 Rathmines, Dublin, in February, 1910, by St. Enda 
 students. Mr. Pearse writes in An Macaomh, Vol. I., 
 No. 2, 1909: “In Iosagdn I have religiously followed 
 the phraseology of the children and old men in Iar- 
 Connacht from whom I have learned the Irish I speak. 
 I have put no word, no speech into the mouths of my 
 little boys which the real little boys of the parish I have 
 in mind — boys whom I know as well as I know my 
 pupils in S goil Eanna — would not use in the same 
 circumstances. I have given their daily conversation, 
 anglicism, vulgarisms and all ; if I gave anything else 
 my picture would be a false one. Iosagdn is not a 
 play for ordinary theatres or for ordinary players. It 
 requires a certain atmosphere and a certain attitude of 
 mind on the part of the actors. It has in fact been 
 written for performance in a particular place and by 
 particular players. I know that in that place and by 
 those players it will be treated with the reverence due 
 to a prayer.” 
 
 The first six stories here given are translations of An 
 Matair (1916). The last four stories are translations 
 of Iosagdn agus Sgealta eile , some of which were published 
 in An Claideam Soluis in 1905-6, re-published a few 
 years later in book-form. 
 
 
 viii 
 
 D. R. 
 
I 
 
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