Class. 
 
 T5 :> 
 
 ■^ r ij 
 
 BooL_uM- 
 
 A 
 
 Copiglitl?- 
 
 COFKRICHT DEPO«r. 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
By FRANCIS CARLIN 
 MY IRELAND. Poems, $1.50 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 Publishers New York 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 POEMS BY 
 
 FRANCIS CARLIN 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 1920 
 
.^?^* 
 
 f*/^ 
 
 ^^* f^ 
 
 K^ 
 
 Copyright, ig2o 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 MAV 24 1920 
 
 .sro 
 
 ©CLA571081 
 
For permission to set any of these poems to music, com- 
 posers should apply to the author through the publishers. 
 The author's thanks, for the privilege of reprinting 
 certain poems in this volume, are due to the editors of 
 the Books and the Book-World of the N. Y. Sun, America, 
 Philadelphia Public Ledger, Boston Transcript, Ave Maria, 
 the Boston Piloty New Republic, Irish World and the 
 Smart Set. F. C. 
 
The book that has its beginning here 
 
 is inscribed to the 
 
 National Guardian Angel of the Gael, 
 
 from Whose wings the Poets gather 
 
 unworldly Music; 
 by Whose sword each Generation 
 
 has been Knighted; 
 and Whose breath is on the ancient 
 fire of Faith. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Cairn of Stars 3 
 
 Whom Should I Meet 5 
 
 The Changeling 6 
 
 Cow-Time 7 
 
 A Girl's Song 8 
 
 The Spendthrift 9 
 
 The Black Swans 10 
 
 White Fire 11 
 
 Mac Diarmod's Daughter 12 
 
 The Newsmonger 13 
 
 The Two Riddles 15 
 
 Lese Majeste 16 
 
 The Holiday 17 
 
 The Two Brothers 18 
 
 The Calf-Boy 19 
 
 The Market Town 20 
 
 Virgins 22 
 
 The Berry-Blossom 23 
 
 The Seventh Son 25 
 
 Ballad of Hackettstown 26 
 
 Lough Fanny 29 
 
 The Ruined Wonder 30 
 
 A Munster Marriage 31 
 
 Pegeen 32 
 
 Letter-Blocks 33 
 
 Goslings 34 
 
 The Buried Bell 35 
 
 The Corn-Spirit 36 
 
 [vii] 
 
' CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Above and Below 37 
 
 The Twin Angels 38 
 
 An Irish Madonna 39 
 
 The Home Song : . . 40 
 
 The Blue Moon 41 
 
 The Knights 42 
 
 It Is Written 43 
 
 The Orator 44 
 
 The Kitchen Nook 45 
 
 The Tailors 46 
 
 The Hay-Maker's Lullaby 47 
 
 Crickets 48 
 
 The Convoy 49 
 
 For a God-Child 50 
 
 The Lithograph 51 
 
 The Shamrock. 53 
 
 The Master of St. Enda's 54 
 
 Song of the Spalpeen 55 
 
 The Fox-Hunt 56 
 
 The Yellow Stirabout 58 
 
 The Elements 59 
 
 The Connacht Face 60 
 
 The Upper Door 61 
 
 The Reaper's Occupation Rhyme 62 
 
 Fodder 63 
 
 Sums 65 
 
 Modernism 67 
 
 The Symbolists 68 
 
 The Raveled Edge 69 
 
 The Haggard Pond 70 
 
 Place-Names 71 
 
 [ viii ] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Slide-Cars. .- 72 
 
 The Land-Grabber 73 
 
 Newtownstewart Castle 74 
 
 The Goat-Footed Gentry 75 
 
 White Walls ']^ 
 
 Mottoes 78 
 
 The Queen of Kerry 79 
 
 The Coming of the Fairies 81 
 
 The Two Nests 83 
 
 The Muster 84 
 
 The Chimney-Star 87 
 
 The Blind Hen 89 
 
 The Queen 90 
 
 Mulling the Beer 91 
 
 The Mimicker 92 
 
 Ballyshunock 93 
 
 Tipsy Thoughts 95 
 
 The Spook 96 
 
 The Rivals 97 
 
 April and July 99 
 
 Off to the Mass 100 
 
 Westport in Mayo loi 
 
 The Cold Courtship 103 
 
 The Two Mice 104 
 
 The Grey Plume 105 
 
 The Argument 107 
 
 'Tis a Pity 109 
 
 The Ferns no 
 
 Looking Forward in 
 
 The Convent's Call 112 
 
 The Lonely Woman's Acre 113 
 
 [ixl 
 
' CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Cuckoo-Clock 114 
 
 The Poor Man 115 
 
 The Bird-Catchers 117 
 
 Joy to You 119 
 
 The Collie 120 
 
 The Herdsman's Son 121 
 
 The Awakening 122 
 
 O Girl Unknown 123 
 
 Shep 124 
 
 The Long Beard 125 
 
 The Beggar's Blessing 127 
 
 Blowing the Fire 129 
 
 The Fortune-Seekers 130 
 
 Ballad of the Butter 131 
 
 The Moon-Glade 135 
 
 The Frozen Brook 137 
 
 When Alone 138 
 
 The Virgin Kiss 139 
 
 Notes 141 
 
 [x] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 Among the hills that kneel around 
 A giant summit's ancient mound, 
 I stood, one night, below a cairn 
 Of stars on cloudy Mullaghairn. 
 
 And there, amazed, I saw a strange, 
 Pale Host descend the mountain range, 
 As the Years, like spectral Slingers, passed 
 The cairn on which Their stars were cast. 
 
 And as I wondered who, of all 
 Your Lovers, lay beneath the pall; 
 A Star of Hope fell on it, hurled 
 From heathery crags above the world. 
 
 Then suddenly, as come the streaks 
 Of dawn between two mountain peaks, 
 Another Year came up to fling 
 A Star of Freedom from His sling. 
 
 Then came the morning, Ireland; 
 But not before the fading hand 
 Of the pale Star-Slinger crowned the heap, 
 In a dream that would not let me sleep. 
 [3] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 At last the day came up to me; 
 
 But not before the alchemy 
 
 Of Fate had changed the Songs I threw, 
 
 As silver sparks, on the Lover, who, 
 
 For all these marvels, slumbered on. 
 O Ireland of the Dream of Dawn, 
 When I shall rest without a theme 
 In sleep that shall not let me dream. 
 
 May some young Singer, warm of word 
 Beside the Twilight's shallow Ford, 
 Cast silver stones on heedless clay 
 A thousand years from yesterday! 
 
 Nor is the wish too bold for one 
 Whose love was kindled at the sun; 
 For one whose fire shall yet be white 
 As embers on the hearth of Night. 
 
 But 0! that I might claim a spark 
 From off that mound, built up to mark 
 Some long-forgotten Lover's bones — 
 A cairn of stars instead of stones. 
 
 [4l 
 
WHOM SHOULD I MEET 
 
 Whom should I meet at the dawn, at the dawn, 
 Whom should I meet at the dawning, 
 
 But the King of the Wee Folk, and faith, he had on 
 The jewels that I would be pawning. 
 
 "Why do you think such a wish, such a wish; 
 
 Why do you wish for my wealth, boy ? 
 With the stirabout waiting for you in a dish. 
 
 You are wealthy enough with your health, boy." 
 
 Whom should I meet in the night, in the night, 
 
 And I with the dew of my sorrow, 
 But the Good People's harper who played with delight 
 
 On the harp I endeavored to borrow. 
 
 "Why do you ask such a boon, such a boon; 
 
 Why are you wishing to play, boy,^ 
 With a song for the morning, a whistle for noon, 
 
 And a dream for the rest of the day, boy!" 
 
 Whom shall I meet at the dawn, at the dawn, 
 
 Whom shall I meet in the morning.^ 
 Troth! silly am I, for the Fairies are gone 
 
 With the wisdom that I would be scorning. 
 [Si 
 
THE CHANGELING 
 
 Would ye have me here for long, 
 Little brother, little brother, 
 
 Would ye have me here at all 
 
 If ye were strong? 
 
 For a Fairy-Woman's song 
 
 Sends me off to dreams of mother — 
 Would ye save me, little brother? 
 
 Och! try. 
 
 Would ye take me from the llss, 
 Little sister, little sister, 
 
 To our mother at the hob, 
 
 And out of this ? 
 
 For the Fairy-Nurse's kiss 
 
 Does be on me since I've missed her — 
 Would ye take me, little sister? 
 
 Och! come. 
 
 'Tis yourself should know it, too, 
 Heedless mother, heedless mother, 
 
 For I'm Eithne whom They stole 
 
 From Rossnacoo 
 
 When They left the changeling, who 
 Doesn't look at all like brother — 
 Would ye call me from Them, mother? 
 
 Och, do! 
 
 [6] 
 
COW-TIME 
 
 Calling the dog, with a whistle, 
 To bring the cows to the stall, 
 
 I lopped the head off a thistle 
 And a star began to fall. 
 
 Whose was the hand to pluck It 
 From the other stars in the sky- 
 
 O surely He Who struck it 
 Was not as thoughtless as I ! 
 
 [7] 
 
A GIRL'S SONG 
 
 One night we sat, my love and I, 
 
 At the side of my father's hob, 
 While a cricket sang to his bosom-mate 
 
 Till her wings began to throb; 
 And my love, he told me the fiery tale 
 
 That made my light heart leap — 
 O if 'twere not for the dreamy Gael 
 
 Sure the world would go to sleep. 
 
 One day we walked, my love and I, 
 
 Through the fields of my father's land, 
 While a black-bird sang, to his bosom-mate, 
 
 What we both could understand; 
 And my love, he told me the flowery tale 
 
 That the mind of me shall keep — 
 O if 'twere not for the singing Gael 
 
 Sure the world would go to sleep. 
 
 One morn we stood, my love and I, 
 
 (And och ! his tears were warm) 
 While a bee flew off without a mate 
 
 O'er the hedge of my father's farm; 
 And my love, he told me the parting tale 
 
 That left me here to weep — 
 O if 'twere not for the sorrowing Gael 
 
 Sure the world would go to sleep. 
 [8] 
 
THE SPENDTHRIFT 
 
 I know a bright meadow and four bushy fences 
 With blossoms that hide in the dark of the haw; 
 
 But their fragrance and beauty are lost to the senses 
 Of one who is always away from Ardstraw. 
 
 And there, on a summit beside an old high-way, 
 Are two mossy towers I knew as a lad; 
 
 But the road and the ruins lie not upon my way, 
 For all the desires the heart of me had. 
 
 O Field, guinea-golden, your hedges of honey 
 Are far from my world and the labor thereof; 
 
 But while the rich bees have no business with money, 
 I'll squander my thoughts on the flowers I love. 
 
 And while the cold walls of that castle are standing 
 In which, as a boy, all my fancies began, 
 
 I'll squander my dreams on the mountain command- 
 ing 
 That view of Ardstraw I would see as a man. 
 
 [9] 
 
THE BLACK SWANS 
 
 The swans of the sea, 
 
 With their billowy breasts, 
 Would come to me 
 Were I to be 
 On the shores of Sligo 
 
 At their rocky nests. 
 
 And swans would pass, 
 With their bosoms black 
 
 As the wavy grass 
 
 Of the wet morass. 
 
 Were I in Sligo, 
 
 On a turf-cart's track. 
 
 O swans that glide 
 To your shores afar; 
 
 Wan dreams, beside 
 
 Your whiteness, ride 
 
 To the bogs of Sligo 
 
 Where the black swans are. 
 
 10] 
 
WHITE FIRE 1 
 (For the Duke of Abercorn) 
 
 White fire, my Lord, once warmed Your Grace's row 
 Of tumbled homes in which wool-tufted briers 
 Are growing, at the hearth-stones, where the fires 
 
 Were red in Ulster cabins long ago. 
 
 For once, the evicted chimney-winds, that blow 
 The embers of the stars in watery mires, 
 Blew o'er the wreck that housed my old grand-sires 
 
 And the ashes, deep in dust, began to glow. 
 
 The walls were thatched with twilight, but the clay 
 Of the weedy floor retained within the house 
 The traces of old cradle-marks, where I 
 Have heard, my Lord, the wings of crickets play; 
 The squeak of what is now a meadow-mouse. 
 And the croon of a rocking thorn-bough's lullaby. 
 
 [11] 
 
MAC DIARMOD'S DAUGHTER 
 
 There is much to be said 
 
 For Mac Diarmod's young daughter, 
 And much to be sung 
 
 Were a poet about; 
 Since her eye is a mirror 
 
 Of Ulster's Blackwater, 
 When ripples shine over 
 
 The dark-dappled trout. 
 
 And much might be said 
 
 For his daughter's fair dower 
 Of heifers and bullocks 
 
 And meadowy grass; 
 But my head might be hanging 
 
 From Omagh gaol's tower, 
 For all the concern 
 
 That the heart of her has. 
 
 So I'll not spend a thought 
 
 On Mac Diarmod's young daughter, 
 But much might be sung 
 
 Of her land and her looks; 
 Since her fields are the fairest 
 
 Near Ulster's Blackwater, 
 And her eyes are dark-dappled 
 
 Like trout in the brooks. 
 
 [12] 
 
THE NEWSMONGER » 
 
 A simple man, who yet may be 
 Conspicuous in Eternity, 
 Came up the long borheen and he 
 Had a beggar's bag behind him. 
 
 Meal he had from Kilnabrock, 
 With the meal he had from Ballinlock, 
 And the meal he gathered in Derryknock 
 Was mixed with the meal from Carrick. 
 
 He was known afar and near, but "Jim" 
 Was the only name we had on him. 
 Or "Jimmy the Blind", for he was dim 
 By day and dark in the evening. 
 
 Talk he had from Cloontymore, 
 And gossip he had from Mullangore, 
 And the tales he had from Knockanore 
 Were mixed with the tales from Roosky. 
 
 "And would ye have a bowl of tea?" 
 Said the farmer's wife, "for I'm sure that ye 
 Are as dry as a traveller ought to be, 
 On the road that leads to nowhere." 
 [13] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 "Tea I had in Gortnagirn, 
 A turkey's egg In Ballydurn, 
 And the butter I got from an Achill churn 
 Was laid on the bread from Mullagh; 
 
 So I've had my 'nough, good woman, dear; 
 But the longing is on me for to hear 
 The ways of the country, far and near, 
 In the news that is on the paper." 
 
 "Well, a tinker died in Thomastown, 
 An eagle was shot in the County Down, 
 And a Waterford hound has taken renown 
 And the cup and all from the English." 
 
 "Faith, the news is small enough to-day," 
 Said Jimmy the Blind, as he shuffled away, 
 "And for all the editor had to say 
 He might as well be in Limbo." 
 
 News he had of every birth. 
 And every wake or wedding of mirth. 
 And I'd give the guinea that I am worth 
 For a stick and a bag behind me. 
 
 14] 
 
THE TWO RIDDLES 
 
 The Moon and Stars" and "Raking the Fire" 
 
 Here is a riddle, children, 
 
 I heard in Lurgybeg; 
 And the guessers, to-morrow morning, 
 
 Shall have the white hen's egg. 
 
 Coming home for the supper, 
 
 I saw a table spread 
 With a cloth that was full of crumhlings 
 
 And a broken hannock of bread. 
 
 And here is another riddle 
 
 I heard in Killybegs; 
 And the guesser, to-morrow morning. 
 
 May choose from all of the eggs. 
 
 Squatting upon my hunkers 
 
 Before I went to bed, 
 'Tis I who saw the Living 
 
 Being buried by the Dead. 
 
 So here are the riddles, children, 
 
 I heard beyond the Strule; 
 And the guesser, to-morrow morning, 
 
 May carry an egg to school. 
 [15] 
 
LESE majest:^: 
 
 Here, the robins are all 
 
 As large as the rooks in Cooley, 
 And the daisies grow as tall 
 
 As the thistles in Gillygooly. 
 
 "Hush," said my heart, "or chant 
 Of your native land; 'tis your duty." 
 
 "Ah! but my wee thoughts want 
 The little things and their beauty." 
 
 [i6] 
 
THE HOLIDAY 
 
 He died in his sleep, and he'll have his fill 
 Of Slumber before he can thank the men, 
 
 Who buried him yesterday over in Kill 
 At a quarter of ten. 
 
 Yet it might have been nearer eleven, when he 
 Was crossed by the spades in the Church's way; 
 
 Though the time did not matter to him, but we 
 Were free for the day. 
 
 ri7] 
 
THE TWO BROTHERS 
 
 Who has heard 
 The WincTs grief , 
 For this dead bird 
 And this dead leaf? 
 
 They seemed to be 
 
 Alike at first, 
 
 For in a tree 
 
 They both were nursed^ 
 
 They seemed to be 
 Alike at last, 
 When from a tree 
 The twain were cast. 
 
 They seemed to be 
 Arrayed in red. 
 As from a tree 
 Each fluttered, dead. 
 
 Who has heard 
 The Wind^s grief, 
 For this dead bird 
 And this dead leaf! 
 [18] 
 
THE CALF-BOY 
 
 'Tis pleasant here to be herding calves 
 
 And thev on the upland grasses, 
 For the beetle's tune is trailed across 
 
 The wind in the mountain passes; 
 And the crickets sing when the day is done, 
 
 As they do be singing nightly, 
 On hills that seem like the hearth of the sun 
 
 While the clouds are flaming brightly. 
 
 But I wish the heifers were brave and strong 
 
 And they In the valley's clover, 
 And I to be going off to the fields 
 
 With the tea and the crows and Rover; 
 For all the cows on the grass In the glen 
 
 Are out on their own resources, 
 And I would be listening once again 
 
 To the voices of men with horses. 
 
 ti9] 
 
THE MARKET TOWN 
 
 When I was ill in the long ago 
 
 That lately seems so nigh, 
 They placed a mirror before me so 
 
 I could see the passersby; 
 Market women and trading men, 
 
 Children and ballad-singers, 
 Farmers coming to town, and then 
 
 The noisy auction-ringers 
 
 With their '^Hark, ye! Hark ye! 
 At twelve o^clock in Ballinaree — 
 Twenty acres of turbary land 
 To he sold at the fall of the hand.^"* 
 
 Again I'm buried deep in bed, 
 
 But in this looking-glass 
 I see the folk who passed instead 
 
 Of those who now may pass; 
 Market women and trading men, 
 
 Children and auction-ringers, 
 Farmers coming to town, and then 
 
 The welcome ballad-singers 
 [20] 
 
THE MARKET TOWN 
 
 With their ^^ Hark, ye! Hark, ye! 
 The Blushing Rose of Ballinaree — 
 Twenty verses of a ballad made 
 For the best of the Dublin trade.'''' 
 
 Maybe a moon in another sky 
 
 Shall be as a mirror so 
 It might reflect the world which I 
 
 Would still desire to know; 
 Market women and trading men, 
 
 Children and ballad-singers, 
 Farmers coming to town, and then 
 
 The rambling notice-ringers 
 
 With their '"''Hark, ye! Hark, ye! 
 At twelve o' the clock in Ballinaree — 
 A ploughing match with a guinea^ s prize 
 For the skill of your hands and eyes" 
 
 [21] 
 
VIRGINS 
 
 It was after hearing the parish priest 
 
 On the Gospel of the Wedding Feast 
 
 In Cana, of the Wine and Water — 
 
 And I on the road with MacSorley's daughter — 
 
 That a snowy bud on a hawthorn bush, 
 Aware of the sun, began to flush; 
 While the sunny beauty of blushing water 
 Came over the cheeks of MacSorley's daughter. 
 
 [22j 
 
THE BERRY-BLOSSOM 
 
 Agnes Lawlor walks alone, 
 
 And they say what she desires 
 
 Is as fair as the berry-blossom known 
 To be among the briers. 
 
 But when she comes to the Chapel-gate, 
 
 I'll have a word or two 
 With, "Agnes, girl, 'tis you'd be late 
 
 If I had walked with you." 
 
 And maybe she shall answer me 
 
 With the humor of the heart: 
 "If I were going to Mass with ye 
 
 'Tis early I would start." 
 
 Or maybe she might answer me 
 
 With the humor of the soul : 
 "And if I were coming from Mass with ye 
 
 The silence would be droll." 
 
 For the words of Agnes scarcely could 
 
 Be warmer than they are, 
 But the fear is on me that she would 
 
 Not travel with me far; 
 [23] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 Since Agnes Lawlor walks alone 
 
 On her Communion morns, 
 Bedecked with a Berry-Blossom known 
 
 To have been among the thorns. 
 
 I24I 
 
THE SEVENTH SON 
 
 Old Tim has neither field nor farm; 
 But they do be saying he has a charm 
 Against the painful worms that gnaw 
 The nerves within an aching jaw. 
 
 And he showed me once a folded scrap 
 Of writing, hidden in his cap, 
 That clears the barn and dairy-shelf 
 Of rats, when chanted by himself. 
 
 And he also has another one, 
 From the seventh son of a seventh son, 
 By which he stops the living flood 
 Of animal and human blood. 
 
 So as I said, the heart of Tim 
 Has not a care at all for him; 
 While I would give my worth to find 
 A charm to change a woman's mind. 
 
 i2Sj 
 
BALLAD OF HACKETTSTOWN 
 
 Among the times that cannot be 
 
 Recalled by any one, 
 The wisest man in Hackettstown 
 Had a semi-witted son. 
 
 And young Thomaus from boyhood grew 
 
 To a blind and silly man. 
 Being dark of sight and as small of wit 
 
 As when his life began. 
 
 One night, while sitting by the road 
 
 That climbs above Portlaw, 
 He felt the presence and the fear 
 
 Of a thing he never saw. 
 
 And suddenly, and suddenly, 
 
 He knew the sense of sight; 
 For the whitest thing in all the world 
 
 Is seen by all at night. 
 
 And suddenly, and suddenly, 
 
 His cloudy mind grew clear. 
 For many things were known to him 
 
 When he began to fear. 
 
 I26j 
 
BALLAD OF HACKETTSTOWN 
 
 So coming to his father's hob 
 
 With knowledge in his eyes, 
 The wisest man in Hackettstown 
 
 Had a son who was as wise. 
 
 Next morning when the Hght was high 
 
 The father told Thomaus; 
 "I'd have you go and see the world 
 
 From here to Carroll's Cross." 
 
 And off he went along the fields 
 
 With the wonder in his mind, 
 But as he strode beneath the sun 
 
 He chanced to look behind. 
 
 "God save my soul! " he cried with fear, 
 
 As he saw his shadow there; 
 "Tis little I thought that Life and Death 
 
 Were such a friendly pair." 
 
 And coming home to his father's hob 
 
 With wisdom in his eyes, 
 The wisest man in Hackettstown 
 
 Was son to the man thought wise. 
 
 "O what have you seen?" the father cried. 
 
 "Tis surely Death I saw 
 This morning and but yester-night 
 
 On the road outside Portlaw." 
 [271 
 
THE' CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 " For the whitest thing in all the world 
 
 Is Death abroad at night; 
 And the darkest thing in all the world 
 
 Is Death in the living light." 
 
 "But how do you know these things at all?" 
 
 Said the father to the son. 
 "I know" said he, "that the shade of Death 
 
 And the shade of Life are one." 
 
 And saying so, his mind and sight 
 
 Went daft and dark away; 
 According to the wisest man 
 
 In Hackettstown to-day. 
 
 [28] 
 
LOUGH FANNY 
 
 Well remembered, by one who sees 
 Lough Fanny's pool In his memories, 
 Is the phantom moon that stumbled o'er 
 The ripples I shall see no more. 
 
 And now, that I recall the scene, 
 It seems to me there should have been 
 Some dubious stars left in and o'er 
 That lake, where I shall see no more 
 
 A well remembered moon, nor these 
 Small doubtful stars, the memories 
 Of which I left among and o'er 
 The reeds that I shall hear no more. 
 
 [29 
 
THE RUINED WONDER ^ 
 
 I met himself above the hills 
 
 Where noisy waters flow, 
 From the stony mountain's busy rills 
 
 To the idle bogs below; 
 And he showed me where a Fairy Prince 
 
 Had built a palace, which 
 Has been a ruined wonder, since 
 
 His Lordship dug a ditch. 
 
 The talk he had lit up a face 
 
 Where memories strove to shine, 
 And he seemed to be as out of place 
 
 As a poet herding swine; 
 For the talk of him was on the things 
 
 And dreams that lie unknown 
 Between the fern of the Fairy Kings 
 
 And the rod of the Foreign Throne. 
 
 God rest himself, O'Doherty, 
 
 Who held the little crook 
 Of an April fern while telling me 
 
 Of Abercorn, the Duke; 
 And of Donnell Gorm, the Fairy Prince, 
 
 Who built a palace, which 
 Has been a ruined wonder, since 
 
 His Lordship dug a ditch. 
 [30] 
 
A MUNSTER MARRIAGE 
 
 Going up to Cappyquin, 
 
 Going up to Cappy; 
 They who ride to Cappyquin 
 
 Forever shall be happy. 
 Well I mind the riding up 
 
 In a railway's crowded carriage, 
 The whiskey of the wedding cup 
 
 And the wishes on the marriage. 
 
 Riding up to Mellary, 
 
 Riding to the altar, 
 Riding up to Mellary, 
 
 Who is he would falter! 
 Well I mind the jaunting, far 
 
 Away from Cappy Station; 
 The bride upon the jaunting car 
 
 And the Canon's dispensation. 
 
 Going off from Cappyquin, 
 
 Going off from Cappy, 
 They who ride from Cappyquin 
 
 On honey-moons are happy; 
 Well I mind the hats they had, 
 
 Going off to Cork with laughter; 
 And my lonely cap, in Ballyvad, 
 
 On the salty morning after. 
 [31] 
 
PEGEEN 
 
 I saw Pegeen, 
 
 With her hair in a shower, 
 Dancing as Hght 
 
 As the rain on a flower. 
 
 But the same Pegeen, 
 
 In her habit last Monday, 
 
 Was lying as still 
 
 As the snow on a Sunday, 
 
 [32] 
 
LETTER-BLOCKS 
 
 He who plays with words 
 Can build them into Trees, 
 
 Where gay black-letter Birds 
 May warble as they please 
 
 In the leafy nooks 
 
 Of printed books, 
 
 And I am playing with these. 
 
 But I remember well 
 
 When letter-blocks, by me, 
 Were strangely made to spell 
 
 With their G and O and D; 
 And I'd give my rhymes 
 To be in the times 
 
 When I played with Poetry, 
 
 33] 
 
GOSLINGS 
 
 Goslings o' mine, ye have treasures untold 
 In the gold of your back; 
 
 So beware of the hawk that Is supple and bold 
 In his airy attack. 
 
 And guinea-bright feathers, O goslings o' mine, 
 Now shine on your breast. 
 
 From which the grey weasel would suckle red wine 
 In his hedge-hidden nest. 
 
 O goslings o' mine, 'tis the young fox that schemes 
 At the streams and the weir, 
 
 While ye are as swans in my slumber^ — as dreams 
 With but fancies to fear. 
 
 [34 
 
THE BURIED BELL 
 
 Off I went from the towns of men 
 To the lonely waters of a little glen, 
 Where they do be saying the Penal People 
 Once hid a bell from their stolen steeple. 
 
 But whether the tale Is true or not, 
 I know the hollow and the watery spot 
 Where the ripples dance to echoes ringing; 
 And this is the why that I am singing. 
 
 [35I 
 
THE CORN-SPIRIT 
 
 Reapers, I never think of you toiling 
 
 Out in the broihng mid-day heat, 
 But what I think of the corn-crakes' troubles 
 On a grassy isle, in a sea of stubbles, 
 
 As you circle around to their last retreat. 
 
 Binders, I never think of you binding 
 
 Out in the blinding August sun, 
 But what I think of the young larks' troubles 
 On a grassy spot, in a field of stubbles. 
 
 Where they all remain while the corn-crakes run. 
 
 Nestlings, I never think of you lying 
 
 Out in the dying harvest grain. 
 But what I think of the Corn-Sprite's troubles 
 On the green of oats in the grey of stubbles, 
 
 While the bounds grow less, because of the Slain. 
 
 August, I never think of you shining 
 
 Above the whining of moon-mad hounds, 
 But what I think of that Spirit's troubles; 
 And She abroad in a place of stubbles. 
 
 As the Soul of the Dead, where the sheaves are 
 mounds. 
 
 [36] 
 
ABOVE AND BELOW 
 
 The flying wild-ducks sing a sound 
 Like the noise of bees that hive in the ground; 
 While the bleat of the lofty snipe is like 
 The piteous cry of a goat in a dike. 
 
 And maybe the strains of the Angels are 
 Like the singing bells of Castlebar, 
 Where the tongues of roosting crows rehearse 
 A hullabaloo like a rhymer's curse. 
 
 l37l 
 
THE TWIN ANGELS 
 
 Upon two little graves I know, 
 Two sun-beams fell as the golden snow 
 That tiny breezes drifted up 
 To fill a double butter-cup. 
 
 And on those simple mounds at night 
 These golden cups retain their light; 
 For yellow stars, from a single stem, 
 Look in the dew that shines on them. 
 
 But brighter than a flower or star 
 At these twin graves of children, are 
 Two watchful Angels, waiting for 
 The laugh of him, the smile of her. 
 
 Two lonely Angels, clad and curled 
 As Twins, now waiting in the world 
 To hear the higher Seraphim: 
 "Awaken her! Awaken himl" s 
 
 [38 
 
AN IRISH MADONNA 
 
 As a mother, here in Western Donegal, 
 Ties quiltlets with a knowing cradle-knot 
 On a slumbering baby's feet, that he may not 
 
 Go wandering should the Banshee cry Her call; 
 
 Young Mary swathed the Infant in her shawl 
 And crooning psalms, she laid Him in His cot; 
 While twinklings of a chimney-spark begot 
 
 A dream of star-lit Angels in a stall. 
 
 The door-way flushed a stream of sunny joy 
 To the peasant Babe; but Mary, at the sill, 
 Beheld a form that faced her on a crest — 
 
 Two creels of turf that flanked a mounted boy 
 Who, riding on a donkey, crowned the hill 
 Like cross against the sun's enchanted West, 
 
 l39] 
 
THE HOME SONG 
 
 A Poet sang from out the book 
 That I was reading, where 
 
 The woods were parted by a brook 
 That also sang an air. 
 
 And of the two old songs I heard, 
 I liked the brook's the best; 
 
 Until a finch began a third 
 Above his busy nest. 
 
 'Twas but to me the Poet sung, 
 While the brook sang to an Elf; 
 
 But the finch, I overheard among 
 The woods, sang to himself. 
 
 f4o] 
 
THE BLUE MOON 
 
 Memory Is as blue 
 
 As the small flax-flower's dew, 
 
 The twilight's distant skies 
 
 And your far eyes : 
 
 Blue as the meadows seen 
 
 In reality as green; 
 
 Blue as the broad moon-light 
 
 That is really white. 
 
 Memory is as blue 
 
 As the world that relates to you, 
 
 From the heavens, over all, 
 
 To your blue shawl: 
 
 Blue as the roads that may 
 
 Once more be a dusty grey, 
 
 For one whose sight of mind 
 
 Is color-blind. 
 
 Memory is as blue 
 As the winds that sally through 
 The dark blue shadows, deep 
 In your blue sleep : 
 Blue as your lips, to be 
 That red reality. 
 
 Which I shall meet when the light 
 Of the moon is white. 
 [41] 
 
THE KNIGHTS 
 
 Confirmed as soldiers of the Lord, 
 
 To-day in Ballingap, 
 Are they who wore the wooden sword, 
 
 The belt of rope, the harness strap, 
 
 And paper helmets, on their curls. 
 
 Which, playfully, they broke. 
 These are the soldiers, boys and girls. 
 
 Whom the Bishop knighted with a stroke. 
 
 [42I 
 
IT IS WRITTEN 
 
 Here, Martyrs lie, whose Angels led them on 
 
 To the cloud they rolled from Ireland's Easter Dawn; 
 
 While Freedom wrote for Emmet's waiting grave: 
 "No Power may brand God's image as a slave!" 
 
 Behold his living cenotaph in flame 
 
 On hearth-stones of a Nation — there, his fame. 
 
 ^ 
 
 [43 1 
 
THE ORATOR ' 
 
 I sat within a vast Cathedral's walls, 
 Among the martial people of the Gael 
 Whose regiment, before the altar-rail, 
 
 Placed battle-standards torn by Rebel balls. 
 
 Grey men whose youth had known sad muster-calls 
 Sat rank by rank, and there, in marble mail, 
 St. Michael stood on guard before the Grail 
 
 With a sword of stone from Gothic arsenals. 
 
 And when, at last, the orator had won 
 My fancies from the bugle's silvery blare, 
 Still calling in a faint and lingering sound; 
 The Dead of old whose deeds were grandly done, 
 Were seen, with pike and battle-axe, to share 
 In the glory that a golden voice had crowned. 
 
 44] 
 
THE KITCHEN NOOK^ 
 
 These rosin candles on the shelves 
 Fling little spattering fires about, 
 
 Like stars that scintillate themselves 
 Until they sputter out. 
 
 And since they seem alive with light, 
 I'd rather see their twinkling breath 
 
 Than silent tallow-dips, so white 
 In their smoky dreams of death. 
 
 For every night when Darby lights 
 His black duidin within the nook. 
 
 He puts the talk on ghostly sights, 
 Till the children see a spook 
 
 In the air on which he blows a puff, 
 As though a spirit left his lips; 
 
 So the kitchen nook is queer enough 
 Without the tallow-dips. 
 
 [45 
 
THE TAILORS 
 
 A thorn-tree stands, in the hedge that runs 
 'Tween Rally's sheep and Gleeson's cows, 
 
 Without a flower for all the suns 
 
 That passed above its crooked boughs. 
 
 Yet the barren side of the ancient bush 
 Is white with tufts from woolly sheep, 
 
 While the leafy side conceals a thrush 
 
 Whose songs make dreams within my sleep. 
 
 And of them all, I like the best 
 The song about the Tailor-Elves 
 
 Who, having lined the thrush's nest, 
 Made woolen mantles for Themselves; 
 
 Against the times when Gleeson's corn 
 And Hally's hay shall fill the field 
 
 On either side of the hedge's thorn. 
 Wherein the thrush is still concealed. 
 
 Sure, his song agrees with what I saw; 
 
 But being old, I only mind 
 The tufts of wool upon the haw 
 
 And Winter's brier-broken wind. 
 [46] 
 
THE HAY-MAKER'S LULLABY 
 
 (Behind a cock of hay) 
 
 The ribs of new moons 
 
 Are the rockers that hold 
 My cloud-covered lark, 
 
 And the cradle is rolled 
 By the foot of the Wind, 
 Shoo-ha-loo, Shoo-ha-loo, 
 By the foot of the Wind 
 As I croon you to sleep. 
 
 The ribs of the waves 
 
 Are the rockers that hold 
 My spray-covered gull. 
 
 And the cradle is rolled 
 By the touch of the Tide, 
 Hush-a-hoo, Hush-a-hoo, 
 By the touch of the Tide 
 As I sing you to sleep. 
 
 O the bent willow-boughs 
 
 Are the rockers that hold 
 My leaf-covered bird, 
 
 And the cradle is rolled 
 By the swing of the Tree, 
 Lu-la-loo, Lu-la-loo, 
 By the swing — let me see — 
 Why, the baby's asleep! 
 [47] 
 
CRICKETS 
 
 The homely crickets, out of doors 
 
 With a sound for a song, 
 Are often heard on the kitchen floors 
 
 Of Doonnalong. 
 
 It is how they come to the hob and crook, 
 
 But Hke one who begs 
 Between a pair of crutches that look 
 
 Like a pair of legs. 
 
 And they as black as mortal sin; 
 
 But their songs are the prayers 
 They do be saying, when I latch them in 
 
 And go off, upstairs. 
 
 Masha, many crickets do often come 
 
 When the door is ajar; 
 But, thanks be to God, they are never dumb 
 
 As some beggars are. 
 
 [48] 
 
THE CONVOY ^ 
 
 Fairy Tree, 
 
 The Cavalcade, 
 That went with Ethna Carhery, 
 
 Has not returned to your gentle shade! 
 
 Buds of the furze, 
 
 Were you not the golden plumes they wore 
 While thorns were tiny spurs ? 
 
 Birds of the gorse, 
 
 Were you not the winged mounts that bore 
 Them off upon their course? 
 
 Winds in the whin, 
 
 Are you not as echoes waiting for 
 Their music to begin? 
 
 Fairy Tree, 
 
 The Cavalcade, 
 That went with Ethna Carhery, 
 
 Has not returned to your gentle shade! 
 
 149 
 
FOR A GOD-CHILD 
 (D. F. G.) 
 
 David Francis, boy of mine 
 By the right of laws Divine, 
 Every night before you nod 
 Please remember me to God. 
 
 David was the youth by whom 
 The Giant Gentile met his doom. 
 Harps he had, and verses, too; 
 He, who sang and danced like you. 
 
 Francis was an humble saint 
 Whom the artists love to paint, 
 Being beautifully pure; 
 He, the Patron of the Poor. 
 
 Naught of Francis can I claim 
 Save the honor of his name; 
 Naught of David came to me 
 Save the gift of minstrelsy. 
 
 So I ask you, boy of mine 
 By the right of laws Divine, 
 Every night before you nod 
 Please remember me to God. 
 [sol 
 
THE LITHOGRAPH 
 "St. Francis Preaching to the Birds." 
 
 Whenever Fra Angelica 
 
 Began to make a tint. 
 He mixed his oil with Prayer^ although 
 Lithographers can only show 
 
 His colors in a print. 
 
 A lithograph, a poor affair 
 Made bright with inky paint, 
 
 Lights up old Moira's kitchen where 
 It minds her of a saint. 
 
 She bought it at a Mission stall 
 
 And having had it blest, 
 'Twas hung upon the chimney-wall 
 
 That holds a swallow's nest. 
 
 "Tis old St. Francis," Moira said, 
 
 The other night to me; 
 "And the hoop of gold around his head 
 
 Is a sign of sanctity." 
 
 ISi] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 "But why they painted crows with him, 
 
 And left the Angels out, 
 Is more than I can tell, but Tim, 
 
 The sheep-boy knows, no doubt." 
 
 "They do be saying his mind is weak — 
 That the Fairies left him loose — 
 
 But that he often tries to speak 
 To the birds is no excuse." 
 
 "And I think he has the knowledge that 
 Is neither learned nor taught; 
 
 The gift of freely getting what 
 Is neither sold nor bought." 
 
 "And faith, I'll ask him just for fun. 
 Why the saint, so near the crows. 
 
 Should have a staff and not a gun; 
 For surely, Timmie knows." 
 
 Whenever Fra Angelica 
 
 Began to make a tint, 
 He mixed his oil with Prayer; and so. 
 Lithographers may only show 
 
 His colors in a prints 
 
 52] 
 
THE SHAMROCK 
 
 Blessed he the shamrock^ s vine 
 That Nature wears to he a sign 
 And symbol of Her Cause Divine. 
 
 Blessed be the Sire and He 
 Who died for us, and blessed be 
 The Love Who binds the Trinity. 
 
 Blessed be the Lord of All 
 Whose forest lies within the wall 
 O'er which the starry blossoms fall. 
 
 Blessed be the Royal Son 
 
 Whose thorn-tree shades His Father's dun 
 
 Though red with starry drops of sun. 
 
 Blessed be the Truth Who wrought 
 That star-shaped leaf — a Triune Thought 
 Which fell in woods where Patrick taught. 
 
 Blessed be the Flower and He 
 
 Of the Scarlet Dew, and blessed be 
 
 The Vine Who binds the Trinity. 
 
 Blessed he the shamrock's vine 
 That Nature wears to he a sign 
 And symhol of Her Cause Divine. 
 [S3] 
 
THE MASTER OF ST. ENDA'S 
 
 Cuchulain said from his chariot, 
 As he rode on his grave in the glen: 
 
 "I was a Child with children, 
 And I was a Man with men." 
 
 And Padraic Pearse might have uttered 
 'Tween his grave and the firing squad: 
 " I was a Youth with youngsters, 
 And I was a Man with God." 
 
 [54] 
 
SONG OF THE SPALPEEN 
 
 (At the English Harvest) 
 
 There's naught In this world that shall keep me from 
 going 
 Back home to my darling In far Donegal; 
 For I'll have the will (when I'm done with the mow- 
 ing) 
 Of salmon that leap o'er the broad water-fall. 
 
 And O that the mowing were done, were done! 
 
 And O that the mowing were ended ! 
 And I and the gold on my way, with the sun, 
 
 To the West where there's need for to spend it. 
 
 J' 
 Yet, after the reaping, the Saxon potatle 
 
 May keep me awhile from my Heart and a Half; 
 
 But the ship will be supple that brings me to Katie 
 
 Who'll lift me clean out of myself with a laugh. 
 
 And O that the digging were done, were done 1 
 
 And O that the digging were over! 
 And I to be going the way of the sun 
 
 To the West as a home-coming rover. 
 
THE FOX-HUNT 
 
 In Ballyshunock House, before 
 Large weighty platters on a rack 
 
 With pewter mugs, a closet door 
 Had a picture dangling from a tack. 
 
 'Twas but a common-colored print 
 Of hunting men in jackets red; 
 
 Long yellow bugles, and the tint 
 Of bluish brightness over-head. 
 
 While a snarl was on the eager snout 
 Of every hound; and on my soul, 
 
 'Twas a sight to see the fox about 
 Three inches from a rocky hole! 
 
 For once, while standing mouth agape. 
 
 And thinking out the means whereby 
 He might have made a clean escape, 
 Old Bill the Half-Wit, coming nigh. 
 
 Cheered on the chase; and then, to me: 
 "I wonder if they caught him, boy!" 
 
 And though I am as old as he 
 Was then, I still retain the joy 
 [56] 
 
THE FOX-HUNT 
 
 Of knowing-, that dull-minded Bill 
 
 Was as much concerned about the fox, 
 
 As the man who had the heart and skill 
 To paint a hole among the rocks. 
 
 [57] 
 
THE YELLOW STIRABOUT 
 
 A riddle I have, and what did I see ? 
 
 A slave forbidden the light of the sun, 
 And she with a glossy quern at her knee 
 
 Grinding corn in a dun. 
 
 The burnished quern was her only light, 
 
 And the meal was scattered by whiffs of wind 
 
 In a dun as dark as it is to-night — 
 Why, children, you all are blind! 
 
 Now, the slave was Night and the mill, in the dark, 
 Was the moon from which the Stars blew out. 
 
 Like the sputtering flakes of meal that spark 
 From the yellow stirabout. 
 
 [S8] 
 
THE ELEMENTS 
 
 Fire, Water, Earth and Air, 
 Shall You not be Everywhere, 
 As You are even now with me, 
 When I am where I hope to be? 
 
 Fire-Beauty, shall You bless 
 My Purgatorial bitterness? 
 Water-Beauty, shall I look 
 Upon a Paradisic brook? 
 
 Beauty of the Earth, shall You 
 
 Be on the green neath Heaven's blue? 
 
 Beauty of the Air, shall I 
 
 Behold such winds as now blow by? 
 
 O Fire, Water, Air and Earth! 
 My hope assumes Your second Birth 
 Above, for Nature's beauties fail 
 To gratify the astounded Gael. 
 
 [59] 
 
THE CONNACHT FACE 
 
 It makes me glad to see the Grace 
 Of God upon a Peasant's face; 
 
 But were my words what they might be 
 I would be gladder, being free 
 
 To act the Artist, putting down 
 Angelic sheen and Human frown, 
 
 So that some Poet might portray 
 The Almighty Moulder's softest clay; 
 
 Or that in poems he might draw 
 A Samson of the Ass's Jaw 
 
 With the quiet fires of a race 
 
 That smoulder on the Connacht face. 
 
 [60] 
 
THE UPPER DOOR 
 
 "Open a half of the door," said she 
 
 Who was ill and sorely so; 
 "Open the half of the door for me, 
 The upper half, that I may see 
 
 The crooked nest of the crow." 
 
 "Open the half of the door," she said, 
 
 "The upper half of the door; 
 And let ye lift me up on the bed 
 That I may see the over-head 
 
 Of the out-of-doors once more." 
 
 "Let ye open the upper door," she sighed. 
 
 And she with a distant stare; 
 And as the door was opened wide 
 To another world, the woman died 
 
 With a breeze, from wings, in her hair. 
 
 [6il 
 
THE REAPER'S OCCUPATION RHYME 
 
 As I followed the reaper along, 
 
 While binding the corn on the way, 
 I was singing a modern song 
 
 That was made for a man In a play. 
 But the rhyme of the reaper was made 
 
 To the swing and the swish of the notes 
 From the clink of a reaping-hook's blade — 
 
 A music as old as the oats. 
 
 Sure, who could be binding the grain 
 
 As fast as It falls from the knife 
 Of a reaper who sings a refrain 
 
 That Is set to the Music of Life? 
 A reaper, with modern men, 
 
 Whose pleasure is part of his wage — 
 O ril never go binding again 
 
 With a song that was made for the stage. 
 
 62] 
 
FODDER 
 
 'Twas the night we sat up at the grating 
 
 That I heard it told by the fire, 
 While Larry and I were a-waiting 
 
 For the cow to calve in the byre. 
 
 And maybe I do not remember 
 
 The whole of the story, but I 
 Recall that each twinkling ember 
 
 Was as red as a bull's wicked eye. 
 
 "The night that is in it," said Larry, 
 And he with his heels on the hob, 
 
 "Reminds me that little things tarry 
 In the mind like a face in a fob." 
 
 "And I'm thinking" said he, "of the reaping 
 In the times when your father would get 
 
 The sheaf of the corn he'd be keeping 
 In the rafters away from the wet." 
 
 "And the first sheaf of oats — for the cow, Sir, 
 That was first for to calve in the stall — 
 
 Had the kernels all roasted; but now, Sir, 
 We are not superstitious at all." 
 [63 1 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 So at that we went out, never marking 
 That no fodder was warmed at the fire, 
 
 While the stars o'er the haggard were sparking 
 Like the eyes of a bull in a byre. 
 
 [64I 
 
SUMS 
 
 When the Master said to little Jane, 
 "How many days does a week contain?" 
 She answered, "Seven." But Christy, who, 
 Was figuring sums he could not do. 
 
 Put up his hand and caught the eye 
 Of the teacher. "Six," was his reply. 
 Master Mulligan stroked his cheek: 
 "Seven days are in a week 
 
 And little Jane is right in this; 
 But let us hear you name them, Chris." 
 "Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday — three; 
 Thursday, Friday and Saturday — see, 
 
 Said forward Christy, "six is right!" 
 And we laughed, we did, with all our might 
 Till the master rapped his desk with vim. 
 "How dare ye put the fun on him!" 
 
 Said he, and then; "But you forgot 
 To add in Sunday, did you not.?" 
 And Chris replied, " Sure, I thought they were 
 All summed with the days of Heaven, Sir." 
 [65] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 The Master pondered. "Tis what I think 
 Ye may all take out your pens and ink." 
 And walking up to the board, he set 
 The copy-line I remember yet: 
 
 " Time is a part of Eternity; 
 Now that we Are, we must ever Be" 
 But as for Christy, he never knew 
 That his thoughts were foolish enough to be true. 
 
 [66] 
 
MODERNISM 
 
 A'ly heavy word and a hard rhyme 
 
 On the foolish girls, 
 
 And they at the putting up of the curls 
 Before their courting time. 
 
 Och! but the world and the world's ways 
 
 Have tricks and to spare, 
 
 With the girls at the putting up of the hair 
 Before they are wearing stays. 
 
 My heavy word and a hard tongue 
 
 On the youth in their haste. 
 
 I would see the fluffy wind at the waist 
 Of a girl and she to be young. 
 
 [67] 
 
THE SYMBOLISTS 
 
 I heard old Ned the Rhymer say: 
 
 "Since I've not been to college, 
 I'd give this Moon of mine away 
 
 In exchange for the Star of Knowledge." 
 
 And so I added to his line: 
 
 (Which is a rhymer's duty) 
 "'Tis I would give this Moon of mine 
 
 In exchange for the Star of Beauty." 
 
 "Och, hold your tongues!" the bar-maid cried, 
 
 As we started off for Drimmin. 
 "Sure, men like ye should be satisfied 
 
 Since your wives are honest women." 
 
 [68] 
 
THE RAVELED EDGE 
 
 That which is in disorder, 
 
 Scattered upon the skies, 
 Forms the stellar border 
 
 Of methodical Paradise; 
 
 Whereon perhaps, hereafter, 
 
 At the edge of Eternity, 
 I shall listen to broken laughter 
 
 Being tired of harmony. 
 
 For that which is in disorder 
 Has neither rule nor rhyme, 
 
 Like the stars at Heaven's border 
 And the troubled laughter of Time. 
 
 [69] 
 
THE HAGGARD POND 
 
 That distant beauty, out beyond 
 The reach of any dream of mine, 
 
 Is near enough to this haggard pond, 
 The dung-hill and the swine. 
 
 For after all, I need not take 
 A cock's step further on to see 
 
 That a strange clean sky is on this lake 
 Beside the piggery. 
 
 [70] 
 
PLACE-NAMES 
 
 They tell me there are men who know 
 The names of places on the sky; 
 
 And that there is a map to show 
 The parts In which they lie. 
 
 But the only places, I can name 
 
 In the heavens, are the Moon and Sun; 
 
 For the many stars are all the same 
 On their purple hills, to one 
 
 Who knows each place-name on the way 
 From Ballyard to Killycloon; 
 
 Where Moor Lough is the sun, by day, 
 That pales into a moon. 
 
 l7i] 
 
THE SLIDE-CARS 
 
 We gathered the turf in the dusky bog 
 And, hauling it home on sliding cars, 
 
 We left the moor with its murky fog 
 And the mountain-side with its stars. 
 
 But it seems to me, as I sit and poke 
 The burning earth from that mountain fen, 
 
 That we brought the fog and the stars, as smoke 
 And sparks going back again 
 
 To a misty bog that holds the heat 
 
 Of a mountain stacked with burning stars. 
 
 Faith, it seems to me that we hauled both peat 
 And dreams on the sliding cars. 
 
 [72] 
 
THE LAND-GRABBER 
 
 Grey-blooded Gaels there are 
 
 Whose blood was red — 
 The grey-blooded Ones who are lying as still 
 As the stones, on the side of a hill, 
 
 Above the dead. 
 
 Grey-blooded Gaels there are 
 
 Whose blood is cold — 
 The grey-blooded Ones who are living, and live 
 For that which their foe may give 
 
 Of land or gold. 
 
 O red-blooded Gaels, I heard 
 
 A wee girl say: 
 '^Ould Ford the Grabber left us, Sir, 
 On the roadj^ and I've heard the purr 
 
 Of her kitten to-day. 
 
 [73 1 
 
NEWTOWNSTEWART CASTLE 
 
 "O the House of O'Neill is thatched with stars," 
 Sang a road-side rhymer on Castle Brae, 
 
 Where a castle stood before the wars 
 From which James ran away. 
 
 And while I heard the old man sing 
 
 That the house of O'Neill was thatched with light, 
 I gazed on the ruins where James, the King, 
 
 Found rest for a single night. 
 
 Where the King had slept with a coward's dream 
 In the towers he burned to their ancient ground 
 
 On the morning after, beside the stream 
 Of the Strule where his guns are found. 
 
 And gazing long on the ruins that 
 
 Were roofed with sparks when the walls were 
 flames, 
 I threw a coin in the singer's hat 
 
 And a curse at the Crown of James. 
 
 [74 
 
THE GOAT-FOOTED GENTRY 
 
 The Master says there lived In Greece 
 A queer goat-footed gentleman, 
 
 Who played the pipes and held a lease 
 Of all the woods as Mister Pan. 
 
 A Lord he was among his folk 
 And a poet of the Nature School, 
 
 Who saw the Highest In an oak 
 And Heaven In a moony pool. , 
 
 And the other day when we had read 
 Two pleasant jingles that appear 
 
 In the Second Book, the Master said; 
 "The author, also, was a Peer." 
 
 "Lord Byron was the name on him 
 And the gift of Song was on him, too; 
 
 And faith, he had a crooked limb 
 
 That wore a strange goat-footed shoe,' 
 
 "And children, dear. It surely seems 
 That when the God of Nature makes 
 
 A genius, to express His dreams 
 Abroad among the oaks and lakes; 
 [75] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 He always leaves a token of 
 His justice. Did ye ever mark 
 
 That the nearest song to God's Above 
 Is in the common-colored lark?" 
 
 And so he talked and talked away; 
 
 But I do be thinking now, as then, 
 That he might have had much more to say 
 
 About the queer goat-footed men. 
 
 [76] 
 
WHITE WALLS 
 
 She will close the under and the upper door; 
 For the turf is dying on the kitchen floor 
 And the rush-light goes, from the growing dark 
 Of the room, as a ghostly spark. 
 
 She will part the curtains of the poster-bed 
 And going to sleep, with something said 
 Concerning Death, there shall be no 
 Grey fear where she shall go. 
 
 For when this worn old woman shall rake 
 The ashy fire for to-morrow's sake, 
 She will go away from this wall, lime-lit, 
 And the shadow that stirs on it. 
 
 [77] 
 
MOTTOES 
 
 When the Master wrote across my slate 
 The letters shaped like copper-plate, 
 I used to try with an honest will 
 To imitate his hand and skill. 
 
 Though after a while, I came to see 
 That the thoughts he wrote meant more to me 
 Than the beautiful script that ran like vines 
 Above the ruins in awkward lines. 
 
 But to follow the perfect form of what 
 He wrote was a little task to that 
 Of trying to live according to all 
 The mottoes he set on slate and wall. 
 
 So, choosing the easier task, I made 
 An effort to write with the Master's aid; 
 But the years were on me before I heard 
 That Christ had hardly written a word. 
 
 [78] 
 
THE QUEEN OF KERRY " 
 
 When vanity vexes 
 
 The sense of the eye, 
 The girls from the mountains 
 
 Come into their own; 
 And 'tis you 
 Had the meekness 
 So blue 
 In your eye 
 
 That my thoughts of you, cailin. 
 Have builded a throne 
 
 For the Queen of the Kingdom of Kerry. 
 
 When flattery angers 
 
 The sense of the ear, 
 The rhymers of Erinn 
 
 Shall lose their renown; 
 And though 
 You seem heedless 
 I know 
 You would hear, 
 
 So my thoughts of you, cailin. 
 Have tinkered a crown 
 
 For the Queen of the Kingdom of Kerry. 
 [79] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 O the past, I am certain, 
 
 Has lingered in Gort 
 Since I left you beyond 
 
 The wide, numerous waves; 
 But I've wrought 
 At your jewels 
 And thought 
 Of your court 
 
 Till my thoughts of you, cailin, 
 Are vassals and slaves 
 
 To the Queen of the Kingdom of Kerry. 
 
 [80] 
 
THE COMING OF THE FAIRIES 
 
 Young Oweny sat with his kilted legs 
 
 In front of my foreign cloth, 
 And we had finished the brown hen's eggs 
 
 That were boiled by his sister Cauth. 
 
 A rustling fire was on the floor 
 Neath a chimney built on a tree, 
 
 And the brown hen stood on a half o' the door 
 Blinking at Oweny and me. 
 
 Over the empty bowl and cup 
 
 We had our talk, and soon 
 The boy picked all the egg-shells up 
 
 And stabbed them with a spoon. 
 
 'Twas such a strong determined stroke 
 
 That the hen flew off, amazed. 
 "Why did you break the shells you broke?" 
 
 Said I, while Oweny gazed 
 
 At me as though I should have known; 
 
 And I in my foreign cloth, 
 The colored kilts on the legs of Owen 
 
 And a laugh on the mouth of Cauth. 
 [8i] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 "And didn't your mother tell you, Sir, 
 To smash the shells? That's queer! 
 
 Sure, 'tis I who thought that the Wee Folk were 
 In the States as well as here." 
 
 "You see, They came to Ireland 
 
 A shocking long time ago. 
 In the shells of eggs, you understand, 
 
 And each one had to row 
 
 His own wee boat across the whole 
 
 Deep world, the people say; 
 So, in every shell, we smash a hole 
 
 In the fear They might sail away." 
 
 And here am I with the memory 
 
 Of the egg-shells — each a half — 
 That were almost wrecked in the mind of me, 
 
 By echoes blown from a laugh. 
 
 [82] 
 
THE TWO NESTS 
 
 The wonder was on me in Curraghmacall, 
 
 When I was as tall as the height of your knee, 
 
 That the wren should be building a hole in the wall 
 Instead of a nest in a tree. 
 
 And I still do be thinking it strange, when I pass 
 A pasture that has to be evenly ploughed, 
 
 That the lark should be building a hole in the grass 
 Instead of a nest in a cloud. 
 
 [831 
 
THE MUSTER 
 
 And do you not as free men stand 
 
 On Irish land now all but free; 
 Or do you wait at a Triumph-Gate 
 
 Erected to Liberty? 
 
 Then you should know the Time is here; 
 
 For the distant cheer grows loud at last, 
 As the Dublin Men march back again 
 
 With a Nation's mustered Past. 
 
 "Shoulder Arms" and "Forward, March"— 
 And under the Arch Triumphal, stride 
 
 Great Spirits set on foot and yet 
 Their Generals well might ride ! 
 
 Bugles cry with mellow throats 
 
 And the mystical notes of muffled strings, 
 Soaring free to Victory 
 
 Make echoes between Her wings. 
 
 Over Them all is Victory's wing, 
 
 And the Victors bring both pike and sword, 
 With a banner green and gold, between 
 
 The flags of the Yellow Ford. 
 [84] 
 
THE MUSTER 
 
 Over Them ail — the Tribes of Erne, 
 The Munster Kern, the Connaght Men 
 
 And Leinster's Clanns; for each dead Man's 
 Dim Shadow moves again. 
 
 Over Them all — the Hero-Hordes 
 
 And Chieftain-Lords who onward stride 
 
 As Spirits set on foot, and yet 
 The Chaplains well might ride. 
 
 For, rising up from out the graves 
 
 Of unfettered Slaves and Chiefs and Kings, 
 The Host comes on to that streak of dawn 
 
 Now warming Victory's wings. 
 
 Rory Oge comes proudly forth, 
 
 And O'Neill of the North, in Italy, 
 
 Has called his Men from Aileach's glen 
 At the Soul-Shout of the Free. 
 
 While young O'Donnell, long in Spain, 
 And haughty Shane of the glances fierce 
 
 Come down the Wind, with the Shadow-Kind 
 Led on by Padraic Pearse. 
 
 Hail! Leader of the lingering Dead 
 Who strangely tread this living world ! 
 
 We shout to You as Free Men who 
 Uphold what You unfurled, 
 [8Sl 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 In Ireland of the Waiting Years, 
 
 Where the distant cheers grow loud at last, 
 As the Dublin Men march back again 
 
 With a Nation's mustered Past. 
 
 [86] 
 
THE CHIMNEY-STAR 
 
 The greyest things in my mother's house 
 Are grandfather's beard, and a careful mouse 
 That comes from behind the kitchen door 
 For the crumbs my kitten forgets on the floor. 
 
 And the brightest things in the kitchen are 
 A tuppenny light, and a timid star 
 That hides away until I sit 
 Beneath the chimney to look at it. 
 
 Yet what I like the best of all 
 Are the pewter platters against the wall; 
 For mother has promised the plates to me 
 When I am the woman I hope to be. 
 
 But the chimney-star was promised to Jim. 
 "Just wait till you're married," said she to him; 
 And he at the fire where mother has cried 
 Down tears a-plenty since Jimmie died. 
 
 O I wish that grandfather's beard were blue 
 And the mouse were gayly colored, too; 
 And I wish that the woman I'll be were big 
 Enough to be dancing my wedding jig! 
 [87] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 For there do be times when the tuppenny light 
 And the star we have are not as bright, 
 As when Jimmie and I would watch the door 
 And the crumbs our kitten forgot on the floor. 
 
 [88] 
 
THE BLIND HEN 
 
 A blind hen walked through the open door 
 
 From the earth of a haggard wild with worms, 
 
 But she seemed to know that the earthen floor 
 Had nothing that crawls nor squirms. 
 
 For she neither pecked nor scratched the clay 
 Of the kitchen's ground, where Pegg McGirr 
 
 Has fed her by hand since the dreadful day 
 That a brown hawk swooped on her. 
 
 "Faith, the tale concerning the tempered wind 
 And the naked sheep, is as true as true," 
 
 Said I to Pegg, "for this hen, now blind, 
 Is helped by the Lord through you." 
 
 "Well, it may be so at that," said she — 
 
 And a thought grew bright in the eye of Pegg— 
 
 "But as for myself, I do always be 
 Concerned with the blind hen's egg." 
 
 [89] 
 
THE QUEEN 
 
 God forbid 
 
 That the dignity, 
 Of the greatness hid 
 
 In Humility, 
 Should ever be seen 
 
 As a shade of Pride 
 Cast by that Queen 
 
 Of Grace I spied. 
 On a mountain tall 
 
 Near Westport Town, 
 Clad in a shawl 
 
 And a shoddy gown! 
 
 l9o] 
 
MULLING THE BEER 
 
 He sits In the Pub as a thinker 
 Of flowery thoughts, that control 
 
 The yellowish flame of the clinker 
 And the bluish coal. 
 
 For the fancies in him have the power 
 To change every flicker and spark, 
 
 To the bud of the gorse and the flower 
 Of the flax in the dark : 
 
 And though they all come at the mulling 
 Of his beer, as a matter of course. 
 
 They never relate to flax-pulling, 
 Nor to cutting of gorse. 
 
 t9i 
 
THE MIMICKER 
 
 A fool, when I asked him, muttered 
 The remembered sounds he took 
 
 From the talk of a brook that stuttered, 
 And the lisp of a mountain pool 
 
 Near Tullywisker's cloud. 
 
 "It is wishing they were," said he. 
 
 Then, having recalled the whispers 
 
 Of stars beyond the brook. 
 And the murmurs of Tullywisker's 
 
 Deep watery stars; the fool. 
 As he mimicked them, laughed aloud. 
 "It is courting they were," said he. 
 
 [92I 
 
BALLYSHUNOCK '' 
 
 JoWy Ballyshunock 
 
 Where the heart is always sunny; 
 Jolly Ballyshunock 
 
 Where the bees are brewing honey; 
 Sure, I wouldn't be without ye 
 If I couldn't dream about ye, 
 
 For I'd wake me up 
 
 And take me up 
 Your old horheen once more. 
 
 Hearty Ballyshunock 
 
 With your welcome for the shulers; 
 Hearty Ballyshunock 
 
 With your dairy full of coolers; 
 Sure, I wouldn't be without ye 
 If I couldn't think about ye, 
 
 For I still recall 
 
 The fire and all 
 The boots around the coals. 
 
 Laughing Ballyshunock 
 
 With the smiling morning-glories; 
 Laughing Ballyshunock 
 
 With the merry evening stories; 
 [93] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 Sure, I wouldn't be without ye 
 If I couldn't laugh about ye, 
 
 For each simple, sad 
 
 Occurrence had 
 A humorous surprise. 
 
 Happy Ballyshunock 
 
 Where the thrushes sang to tease me; 
 Happy Ballyshunock 
 
 Where the swallows tried to please me; 
 Sure, I wouldn't be without ye 
 If I couldn't sing about ye, 
 
 For the swallows that 
 
 Can only chat 
 Remain in chimney tops. 
 
 Distant Ballyshunock 
 
 Where the hounds are dreaming of me; 
 Distant Ballyshunock 
 
 Where my soul once sang above me; 
 Sure, I wouldn't be without ye 
 If I couldn't dream about ye, 
 
 For I'd wake me up 
 
 And take me up 
 Your old horheen once more. 
 
 1 94] 
 
TIPSY THOUGHTS 
 
 shadowy Mountains ! 
 
 So far am I off from the hills 
 And their fountains, 
 
 1 do not know whether 
 
 Your purple lies down in their rills, 
 Or aloft on your heather. 
 
 meadowy Island ! 
 
 So far am I off from the low 
 And the high land, 
 
 1 cannot tell whether 
 
 Your heath-cocks arise for to crow 
 In the clumps, or the heather. 
 
 dream-drunken Present! 
 
 So far am I off o'er the brine 
 With the Peasant, 
 
 1 do not know whether 
 
 This purple is bright-beaded wine, 
 Or dew of the heather. 
 
 [9SJ 
 
THE SPOOK 
 
 The most horrible sight I ever saw 
 
 Was the soul o£ a scare-crow, gaunt and queer, 
 Made of Humor, the Shadow of straw 
 
 And a foolish notion of Fear. 
 
 [96] 
 
THE RIVALS 
 
 Low-flying swallows seem to swim 
 Along the waters, that they skim, 
 Endeavoring to pass beyond 
 Their swimming shadows in the pond. 
 
 And thus go I, as I have gone, 
 Along the Way of Life, whereon 
 The Body struggles with the Soul 
 To be the first to reach the Goal; 
 
 As water-swallows seem to race 
 Their shadows to an unknown place, 
 Till comes the dusk that cannot give 
 The light by which their rivals live. 
 
 O that the Soul and Body may 
 Continue for to race their way. 
 Until the shades of Death descend 
 To part the rivals at the end ! 
 
 But as the stars run o'er the night, 
 (When all the swallows cease their flight) 
 And sparkles, swimming in the pond, 
 Take up the race with lights beyond; 
 [97I 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 So may my spirit, shadowed by 
 Her Angel, race across the sky. 
 Endeavoring by pinioned brawn 
 To be the first to fade in Dawn. 
 
 [98 1 
 
APRIL AND JULY 
 
 In with April and out with July: 
 
 Thus do the cuckoos of Monaghan fly. 
 
 In with the shadows and out with the sun, 
 
 And I would that my passage were paid for and done. 
 
 In with Sorrow and out with Joy: 
 
 Thus flew the cuckoos when I was a boy. 
 
 In with the short days, out with the long, 
 
 And I would that a singer could follow his song. 
 
 In with showers and out with the hay: 
 
 Thus shall we come and soon flutter away 
 
 From the Wraith of the Old World — the cuckoo 
 
 and I — 
 Where " Welcome " is sad with its shadow "Goodbye." 
 
 [99] 
 
OFF TO THE MASS 
 
 Off to the Mass at Kilkevin, 
 
 I heard on mv way through the wood 
 A lark singing echoes to Heaven 
 
 And a wren crooning low to her brood; 
 A green plover sung in the beeches, 
 
 A robin cheeped hymns of his own, 
 And a stone-chatter preached, as he preaches 
 
 Each day from his pulpit of stone. 
 
 And kneeling me down at Kilkevin 
 
 With the people assembled in prayer. 
 There was much of the Parish of Heaven 
 
 In the fancies that came to me there; 
 For the white Sabbath morn holds a beauty 
 
 Unique for the spirits of men. 
 But each day of the week and its duty 
 
 Is the same to the lark and the wren. 
 
 {loo] 
 
WESTPORT IN MAYO 
 
 Of all the quiet little towns — 
 
 (O Westport I am singing) 
 Of all the quiet little towns 
 
 That listen to the sea, 
 I'd rather go to Westport Town 
 
 And the steeple bell, once ringing 
 The music of the Angelus 
 
 Unheard before by me. 
 
 'Twas Saturday and I was there — 
 
 (O Westport I am yearning) 
 'Twas Saturday and I was there 
 
 As a pilgrim to the Reek; 
 When suddenly a music burst 
 
 O'er every lane and turning, 
 And when I heard the Angelus 
 
 I knew my faith was weak. 
 
 For out upon the village streets — 
 
 (O Westport I am lonely) 
 For out upon the village streets 
 
 And in the market place, 
 The men began to bless themselves 
 
 And stood uncovered only 
 While welcoming the Angelus : 
 
 "Hail, Mary full of Grace." 
 [loi] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 So of all the quiet little towns — 
 
 (O Westport I am singing) 
 Of all the quiet little towns 
 
 That listen to the sea, 
 I'd rather go to Westport Town 
 
 Where first I heard the ringing 
 Of the ancient Christian Angelus, 
 
 Now bells of Memory. 
 
 [102] 
 
THE COLD COURTSHIP " 
 
 The Wind came in from the lane to warm 
 
 Her shivering Self at the fire, 
 As I, alone on a kitchen fornix 
 
 Was thinking of my Desire. 
 
 I know the saying of Billy the Blind: 
 
 " It has always been reported 
 That only the pigs can see the Wind." 
 
 But never a day he courted. 
 
 And I know the talk of Jim o' the Sprees : 
 
 "Only the pigs and only 
 The old grey pigs can see a breeze." 
 
 But sure, he was never lonely. 
 
 So I fear the people of this town-land 
 
 Know little at all of learning. 
 For at the hob I saw Her stand 
 
 While the shivering flames were burning. 
 
 But I gave Her room on the stool and She, 
 Who had chilled the kitchen fire. 
 
 Had the long loose hair that blew on me 
 In the absence of my Desire. 
 [103] 
 
THE TWO MICE 
 
 Into the glow of my lighted rush 
 
 Came a kitchen-mouse, that ran beneath 
 
 A besom made from the silvery brush 
 Of birches and ashen heath. 
 
 And 'tis what I saw but moony rays 
 On birch and heather that hid a small 
 
 Grey meadow-mouse — till I turned my gaze 
 From a besom against a wall. 
 
 [104 
 
THE GREY PLUME 
 
 The long heron feather, 
 
 O'Dogherty wore, 
 Still sweeps o'er the heather 
 
 But not as before; 
 And well may the heron 
 
 Take pride in his plume, 
 With the head of O'Dogherty 
 
 Red in the tomb. 
 
 The valleys are spurning 
 
 Gay flowers, beneath 
 The purple of mourning 
 
 Aloft on the heath; 
 And well may the sorrow 
 
 Of Nature be shown, 
 Though the heron is happy 
 
 In wild Innishowen. 
 
 Bright was the bonnet 
 
 That guided his men. 
 But the grey feather on it 
 
 Fell red in the glen; 
 And well may the Saxon 
 
 Take pride in its fall. 
 While birds wear their plumage 
 
 Above Donegal, 
 [los] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 Ochone, that the feather 
 
 O'Dogherty wore 
 Should sweep o'er the heather, 
 
 But not as before I 
 Och! Och! that the heron 
 
 Should fly with grey plume 
 O'er Cahir O'Dogherty 
 
 Red in his tomb. 
 
 [106I 
 
THE ARGUMENT 
 
 Between the dusty road to Kill 
 And a grey mud-mason wall, 
 
 A couple lived on Harney's Hill 
 When I was small. 
 
 Kind they were in deed and word 
 And as peaceful as the next, 
 
 Until they heard the singing bird 
 That made them vexed. 
 
 "The little robineen," said she, 
 
 "Is early in his bush." 
 "Sure, woman, dear o' dear," said he, 
 
 "It is a thrush." 
 
 'Twas then the woman started that 
 
 Which lasted for a long 
 Warm while of arguing, as to what 
 
 Bird piped the song. 
 
 Four seasons passed away, and then 
 Said he, "Dear woman, dear. 
 
 Do you recall that we heard the wren 
 This day last year.?" 
 [107] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 "You mean the willy-wag-tail," said 
 The wrathful farmer's wife, 
 
 And the old discussion that was dead 
 Came back to life. 
 
 So on that day in every Spring, 
 The arguing couple's words 
 
 Renew the case to which they bring 
 Their different birds. 
 
 And I think I'll go to Harney's Hill 
 With the music of my flute. 
 
 To settle what is surely still 
 A strong dispute. 
 
 For I could end the long discourse, 
 
 By imitating all 
 The birds that sang among the gorse 
 
 When I was small. 
 
 [io8] 
 
'TIS A PITY « 
 
 The Hillock is lonely to-night in the fog 
 With Una away on the Waterford side; 
 
 For O'Hely's Banshee is abroad in the bog 
 With a cry for his clan. 
 
 Since Death has been always the cause of her woe, 
 The white Fairy Woman mourns strangely to-night; 
 
 For O'Hely is childless and with him shall go 
 The red blood of his race. 
 
 'Tis a pity the man has a case that requires 
 The presence of Una to publish his grief; 
 
 For O'Hely's banshee is abroad, and the Cryer's 
 Sole cry is "Ochone." 
 
 [109] 
 
THE FERNS 
 
 Fire o' the Turf, 
 You had little to do 
 When you withered the ferns 
 In the frost on the pane; 
 For dead are the flowers, 
 Once yellow like you. 
 That warmed the lane. 
 
 Grey are the vines 
 In the snow on the sill, 
 Like the sea-wrack that lies 
 In the Winter-white surf; 
 And the lights of the whins 
 Have burnt out on the hill, 
 OFireo' the Turf 1 
 
 [iio] 
 
LOOKING FORWARD 
 
 'Tis few would know the Ballyvad, 
 If the bridge of Ross 
 Were metal-made; 
 And 'tis few would know the Ballyvad, 
 If Carroll's Cross 
 
 Were a place of trade. 
 
 But the river known as the Ballyvad, 
 Neath a bridge of steel 
 May yet flow by; 
 And Carroll's Cross on the Ballyvad 
 May yet appeal 
 
 To the merchant's eye. 
 
 For the boy, now gone from the Ballyvad, 
 Had the youthful knack 
 Of making streams 
 Turn wheels of straw on the Ballyvad; 
 And he may come back 
 To complete his dreams. 
 
 [Ill] 
 
THE CONVENT'S CALL 
 
 Hearts lie hidden because they hold 
 The gems of Love and Love's red gold; 
 But the heart I found was a useless thing- 
 All treasure-trove belongs to the King. 
 
 [112] 
 
THE LONELY WOMAN'S ACRE 
 
 The straining limbs of the horses pull 
 
 The smooth plow 
 And my grassy field, that was beautiful, 
 
 Is broken now. 
 
 Yet after awhile, the beasts shall drag 
 
 A harrow where 
 The seed of corn shall be sown from a bag; 
 
 But what shall scare 
 
 The rooks away from my young shoots green ? 
 
 For the ugliness 
 Of a scare-crow's form was never seen 
 
 In a woman's dress. 
 
 Sure, 'twas neighborly of the men to plow 
 
 My bit of ground ; 
 But a pair of trousers and a hat, somehow, 
 
 Must yet be found. 
 
 [113I 
 
THE CUCKOO-CLOCK 
 
 Said an ancient man who is wasting away 
 
 In the cotter's cabin, next door; 
 " I heard the cuckoo the other day 
 
 As I never heard him before." 
 
 "Why surely you did," said his neighbor who 
 Had her mind on the clock she bought; 
 
 "For Memory sweetened the call with Her two 
 Soft notes of Time and Thought." 
 
 114 j 
 
THE POOR MAN 
 
 With an inexpensive jennet, 
 
 And a creel upon a cart, 
 And a cabin where a linnet 
 
 Often sings to break his heart; 
 It may sound a trifle funny, 
 
 But the truth I here declare: 
 Faith, 'tis not for want of money 
 
 That I'm not a millionaire. 
 
 All the silver in my pocket, 
 
 When I'm coming from the town, 
 Couldn't buy a copper locket 
 
 For to match a muslin gown; 
 But I've heard of golden coffers 
 
 Stated in a marriage plan, 
 So 'tis not for want of offers 
 
 That I'm not a wealthy man. 
 
 There's a party near the village 
 
 Who would make a likely match 
 For, with land too good for tillage. 
 
 Any woman is a catch; 
 But the matches and their makers 
 
 Can go off to other scenes. 
 Since 'tis not for lack of acres 
 
 That I'm not a man of means. 
 [IIS] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 For the gold in Wicklow's ditches 
 
 And the land of Louth, to me, 
 Would be only empty riches 
 
 Wanting Nora MacNamee; 
 But that rose is full of honey 
 
 Which a neighbor's bride shall wear, 
 So 'tis not for want of money 
 
 That I'm not a millionaire. 
 
 I116] 
 
THE BIRD-CATCHERS 
 
 When Sheamus, a lump of a lad like me, 
 Said, "Let us be off to Ballinabwee, 
 With the light of a lantern, to cage the birds 
 That sleep in the hedges," I blest his words. 
 
 And off we went with a kerchief tied 
 O'er the lantern's flame, until we spied 
 Fitzgerald's hedge, then, turning in 
 From the road, we loosened the kerchief pin. 
 
 Down and up and down the ditch. 
 We flashed the sudden light in which 
 The birds awakened, and they as blind 
 As owls in the sun, or bats in the wind. 
 
 And so, before the black-birds knew 
 What was on them at all, we captured two. 
 With a yorlln bright as the yellow flame 
 Incaged by the lantern's iron frame. 
 
 But coming home from Ballinabwee, 
 What did the both of us hear and see 
 That left us cold and afraid to stir. 
 But a woman shrieking with the fright on her ! 
 [117] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 And for long the folk in the parish said 
 That Ballinawee was a place to dread, 
 Because of the fires that, some allege. 
 Are fluttering still at Fitzgerald's hedge. 
 
 But Sheamus and I grew up the years 
 With the secret in us, though it now appears 
 That the age is on him, and from what I hear 
 He thinks, himself, that the place is queer. 
 
 [ii8l 
 
JOY TO YOU 
 
 Joy to you and gladness, 
 
 And that your soul may be 
 As far away from sadness 
 
 As the Star was from the sea, 
 When the Sheep-Boy, the Sheep-Boy, 
 
 Heard Heaven's melody. 
 
 Smiles to you and laughter. 
 
 And also that you may 
 Be merry the morning after 
 
 On good St. Stephen's Day, 
 When the Wren-Boy, the Wren-Boy, 
 
 Shall sing his roundalay. 
 
 Joy to you and gladness, 
 
 And that the mid-night bell 
 May ring away the sadness 
 
 From the stricken Old Year's knell, 
 When the Chimes-Boy, the Chimes-Boy, 
 
 Strikes "Welcome" and "Farewell". 
 
 [119I 
 
THE COLLIE 
 
 The goats, that graze with the cattle, keep 
 In the company of the cows and sheep 
 
 At the coming home to the field and fold — 
 At the coming on of the sleep. 
 
 And as for the dog and I, 'twould seem 
 We chum as two with a single scheme 
 
 At the coming home to the kitchen hearth- 
 At the coming on of the dream. 
 
 For here am I at the fire-side now 
 With a fancy on me, wondering how 
 
 Old Shep can sleep, while barking away 
 At the wandering heels of a cow. 
 
 [120] 
 
THE HERDSMAN'S SON 
 
 One day I wished when the wind was blowing, 
 To go away with the flighty men 
 
 Who know not where they might be going, 
 And come, like Columbus, home again. 
 
 And all at once, the fingering zephyrs 
 Made harps and lyres of the windy air 
 
 Between the horns of the cows and heifers — 
 And all at once I was Otherwhere. 
 
 For I've been off in an alien Distance 
 
 Where Foreign Folk were thumbing strains 
 
 Of Fairy charms; but, with resistance, 
 
 I was sent, like Columbus, home in chains. 
 
 [121] 
 
THE AWAKENING 
 
 The Mind awoke, and gazing out 
 
 She whispered through Her lattice-bars; 
 "Is the darkness of the night about, 
 Or is the day abroad?" No doubt 
 She can always see the stars. 
 
 [122] 
 
O GIRL UNKNOWN 
 
 O Girl unknown, that face of yours 
 So beautifully sweet, endures 
 The search-light of admiring eyes, 
 To their surprise! 
 
 For to myself I said of you : 
 "If such is seen in eyes of blue, 
 Their soul must hide a beauty such 
 As naught might touch." 
 
 But eyes of mine have had their fill 
 Of your frail beauteousness, and still 
 Your Woman failed to realize 
 My Man's surprise. 
 
 [ 123 ] 
 
SHEP 
 
 I knew old Shep a month or so 
 
 Before I liked the dog, although 
 
 He liked me fully in his way 
 
 When first we met; and Shep, to-day, 
 
 Would know me in a crowd of men 
 
 And cattle were I all of ten 
 
 Broad fields away from him. Yet he, 
 
 The symbol of Fidelity, 
 
 Is a friend that cannot realize 
 
 He knows me only with his eyes. 
 
 [124] 
 
THE LONG BEARD 
 
 Scarcely a road at all it was — 
 
 The little way that ran 
 To the home of Danny Keane who wore 
 
 What most becomes a man; 
 And scarcely a face you could see at all 
 
 Through the beard of Galway Dan. 
 
 Out in a cattle fair he stood 
 
 And he with a homely cow; 
 But the man, who wanted to buy the beast, 
 
 By all the powers did vow 
 That though she were not good at the pail, 
 
 She might be yoked to a plow. 
 
 Over the bargain both were stiff, 
 But at last the sale was struck; 
 
 And the beast was sold for eleven pounds 
 With half a crown for luck. 
 
 While Galway Dan, with a satisfied air. 
 At his beard began to pluck. 
 
 Then happened the strangest thing at all — 
 
 A wonderful thing and weird — 
 For the sound of a swarm of bees was heard 
 
 [125] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 And faithj they soon appeared 
 O'er the bulky form of Galway Dan 
 And settled in his beard. 
 
 With a laughing shout the busy fair 
 
 Was soon in a hub-a-bub; 
 But someone shook the beard above 
 
 An empty butter tub, 
 And the half a crown, paid down for luck, 
 
 Was spent at the nearest Pub. 
 
 O luck may come in many ways 
 
 And it goes on wings galore; 
 But the luckiest thing in Ireland, 
 
 Since the honied days of yore. 
 Is a swarm of bees, for it brings the luck 
 
 That lasts forevermore. 
 
 'Twas scarcely a road at all that went 
 To the home of Galway Dan ; 
 
 But now the way is wide enough 
 For the carriage of a Khan, 
 
 And many a face in Galway wears 
 What most becomes a man. 
 
 [126] 
 
THE BEGGAR'S BLESSING ^ 
 
 God bless us all, Ma'am, bad and good! 
 God bless us, as He said He would, 
 And may He wither the bramble-wood 
 For every Munster fire. 
 
 With stick in hand for ram or dog, 
 I've wandered over baun and bog 
 And passed the crowded Cross, begog, 
 To sit before your fire. 
 
 Sure, the robineens, with flaming breasts 
 And feathered hearts in cosy nests, 
 Are not so warm as he v/ho rests 
 And sings beside your fire; 
 
 Nor are the larks that occupy 
 The cloudy nooks within the sky, 
 So happy-hearted. Ma'am, as I 
 While dreaming at your fire. 
 
 Though in a camp that brightly glowed, 
 I left the tinkers on the road, 
 Where song was free and porter flowed, 
 To drowse beside your fire; 
 
 [127] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 Because the youth, that kept me gay, 
 Is gone from my four bones to-day, 
 And the tinkers have a quarrelsome way 
 Of sitting at the fire. 
 
 Ah! woman, dear, of all the lanes 
 That lead to farmers' green domains, 
 I'd sooner take the one that gains. 
 For me, this welcome fire. 
 
 That burns in what has proved to be 
 A house of hospitality, 
 And I shall sing, where it pleases me, 
 Of Ballyshunock's fire. 
 
 God bless us all. Ma'am, bad and good! 
 God bless us, as He said He would. 
 And may He wither bramble-wood 
 For every Irish fire. 
 
 [ 128 1 
 
BLOWING THE FIRE 
 
 At the fire-wheel, in the chimney nook, 
 I have blown the coals beneath the crook, 
 While roaming all the world around 
 On a sailing ship in a story book. 
 
 The coals were burning, as they ever burn 
 On the Munster floors, and every turn 
 Of the hearth-machine brought forth the sound 
 Of screws a-whirling at a steamer's stern. 
 
 And the noisy fancy I heard in Kill, 
 While blowing the fire, was with me till 
 I heard the loud reality 
 While sailing off from a lingering hill. 
 
 O surely a score of years is long 
 Enough away from the pot-hook's prong. 
 For one who sees the Queenstown Quay 
 From a sailing ship in a quiet song. 
 
 [129] 
 
THE FORTUNE-SEEKERS 
 
 Leaning over the steamer's rail 
 
 And the leaping foam below, 
 I saw that the sheen of spray was dyed 
 
 And shaped like a bright rain-bow. 
 
 And wondering who might find the bow's 
 Gold band that veined the sea, 
 
 An emigrant ship was seen in the wake 
 Of the West-bound Argosy 
 
 That sailed the sky — the while it bore 
 Sealed orders stamped by Fate — 
 
 With Hope commanding the Sun-lit Ship 
 And Fortune, the Captain's mate. 
 
 1 130] 
 
BALLAD OF THE BUTTER 
 
 Young Phelim stood at the Friars' Gate 
 And asked for the old Lord Abbot; 
 
 Since he would be an humble monk 
 In Augustine's holy habit. 
 
 "Now what do you know of the inside world 
 
 To cause this step uncertain, 
 And what have you done in the outside world 
 
 O'er which you would draw a curtain?" 
 
 " I know full well that your inside world 
 
 Is Augustine's Holy City, 
 And all I did in the outside world 
 
 Was done in rhyme or ditty." 
 
 "Now if that be so," the Prior said, 
 "You must leave the World your lyre; 
 
 For a song profane would ill become 
 The lips of a holy friar." 
 
 "And would you take that gift away 
 Which the Lord to me has given, 
 
 And would you take from me that gift 
 Which I hope to bring to Heaven ?" 
 
 [131] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 "That power I might not take from you 
 Which the Lord placed in King David, 
 
 But your soul is more than a Gaelic gift 
 To the One Who freely gave it." 
 
 "Yet I shall make you a novice, though 
 
 You seem a doubting Thomas, 
 And as to the fate of your rhyming art 
 
 I shall ask no binding promise." 
 
 Young Phelim lived as a novice there 
 And remained as a lowly brother, 
 
 For though he was in the inside World 
 His thoughts were out in the other. 
 
 Now it chanced one day that Phelim begged 
 
 From many a farmer's dairy 
 Small butter-pats, the taste of which 
 
 In the best of farms will vary. 
 
 Off to the Drogheda fair he went, 
 With the gathering, for to sell it; 
 
 And the buyer's auger a sample bore 
 From the tub that he might smell it. 
 
 But a part was the color of pallid cream 
 And a part of it was yellow, 
 
 [132] 
 
BALLAD OF THE BUTTER 
 
 And a part was the color of saffron straw 
 And part of it was mellow. 
 
 Home to his convent Phellm came 
 With the tub that the fair rejected, 
 
 And for many a day the bread was spread 
 With the butter that he collected. 
 
 And many a day, from that strange tub, 
 The Prior's bread was buttered; 
 
 Nor was he heard to complain at all, 
 For a thanks to God he muttered, 
 
 Until, one noon, his toes were seen 
 To twitch within their sandals; 
 
 And what was left in the butter-tub. 
 Was moulded into candles. 
 
 "Now, Brother Phelim," the Prior said, 
 
 " I bid you make some verses 
 In as strong a form as you know how 
 
 With calm sarcastic curses." 
 
 "In as strong a form as you know how. 
 And let him read who chooses." 
 
 So Brother Phelim went off to sit 
 Among the heathen Muses. 
 [133I 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 And when his mirthful task was done 
 It was read to the monks at supper, 
 
 And sent abroad to the farmers' wives 
 From Lower Louth to Upper. 
 
 That night the satire-maker's sleep 
 
 Was troubled, as he lay turning 
 In dreams, while an angel skimmed the cream 
 
 Off his soul for the final churning. 
 
 While the good Old Prior of Louth was heard, 
 
 In his slumber-talk, to mutter 
 A blessing on all rich Gaelic rhyme 
 
 And a curse on the County's butter. 
 
 Och! sorry am I that women burned 
 
 The verse that was freely given 
 By the begging poet, for it is now 
 
 But known to Phelim in Heaven. 
 
 [134] 
 
THE MOON-GLADE 
 
 By Envagh's Lake, where ripples whispered 
 To Silence seen as nocturnal silver, 
 I walked as one who would tread the waters 
 A moon had marked with a path-way straight 
 And dustlessly white. The ribbony end 
 Of the way was lost in distant darkness, 
 From which it ran to my eager feet; 
 And as I rounded the circled flood, 
 The path, that ended before me, moved 
 With the onward steps of one who saw 
 The Grace of God, as a moon-glade, shining 
 In Nature's Soul. Then came the wind 
 That shadowed the ripples sparkling there. 
 And the silvern path was suddenly broken 
 To faded ruins, before dimmed eyes 
 That beheld, with awe, the effects of Evil. 
 
 By Envagh's Lake I wandered, lonely, 
 On a beach that margined a mystery, 
 As one who would walk abroad on waters 
 Like erring Peter, or the sinless petral 
 That bears his name. 
 
 Seen, but unfelt. 
 Like mirrored lire, the moon's white flame 
 Went off to cloisters veiled with cloud; 
 [135] 
 
THE CAIRN OF STARS 
 
 And a rain of reflected stars began 
 
 To strike the darkness with sudden sparks. 
 
 By Envagh's Lake I gazed upon 
 The contrite Soul of Nature, She 
 Whose beauty whispered from silent waters 
 To one who walked in darkness other 
 Than that in which the moon-glade moved. 
 
 [136] 
 
THE FROZEN BROOK 
 
 As when, from skies where frozen splendors gleam, 
 The chilled moon's breath, as white as Winter's dew, 
 Is borne by trembling winds between the two 
 Grey margins of a ripple-moving stream. 
 Till, slowly (as a poet's twilight-theme 
 Grows out of grey and passes into blue) 
 The ashen water, shadowed with the hue 
 Of sappirine, becomes a glossy dream: 
 
 So Time bears on the Winter of our years 
 To Memory's brook, which, color-cold and still, 
 Takes on a frosted sky with stars bedimmed. 
 When old, we but remember what appears 
 As a dreamy distance iced upon the rill 
 O'er which a Summer's swallow-thoughts had 
 skimmed. 
 
 [137I 
 
WHEN ALONE 
 
 When, alone, I hear the breezes 
 Whistling reels and rounded jigs, 
 
 'Tis myself remembers something, 
 Something more than dancing twigs. 
 
 For I met her at the cross-roads. 
 And I asked her with a glance, 
 
 While the leaves were taking partners 
 With their shadows for a dance. 
 
 So we jigged it with the shadows 
 And we danced it with the leaves. 
 
 Till the wrens were housed in hedges 
 And the swallows sought their eaves. 
 
 Then, with feet that were as supple 
 As the fiddler's nimble hand, 
 
 She went off, while laughing glances 
 Which I failed to understand, 
 
 Till I heard a rustling laughter 
 Hushed with kisses in a bough — 
 
 Och! 'twas then I minded something 
 That should be a memory now. 
 [138] 
 
THE VIRGIN KISS 
 
 That I may sing "Farewell" 
 To Nature, when I hear 
 
 The sky, within a moon-like shell, 
 Murmuring at my ear. 
 
 That I may say "Good-bye" 
 To Erinn, with the breath 
 
 About to be anointed by 
 The virgin kiss of Death. 
 
 And O that I may take 
 
 My whispering leave of You, 
 
 America, as I awake 
 To find my dreams come true! 
 
 [139] 
 
NOTES 
 
NOTES 
 
 ^ White Fire. In Killydart, a town-land in the domain 
 of the Duke of Abercorn. 
 
 ^ The Ruined Wonder. A Fairy palace, in the same do- 
 main, on Bessy Bell Mountain, Tyrone. 
 
 ^The Orator. Rev. Matthew C. Gleeson, U. S. N., in 
 St. Patrick's Cathedral on the 50th. anniversary of the 
 departure of the 69th Regiment for the Civil War, April 
 23, 1861. 
 
 ^ Ethna Carbery. The Irish poet, Anna Johnston Mac- 
 Manus, who "closed her eyes on Ireland of her heart's 
 love", April 12, 1902. 
 
 ^ Cailin. i. e. a girl. 
 
 ^ The Hillock. Knockshigowna i. e. Cnoc-Sidhe-Eabhna, 
 the hill of Una's fairy palace near Ballingarry in Tipper- 
 ary. Una was the guardian spirit of certain Munster clans. 
 
 '^ baun. i. e. badhun, an enclosure or a field for cattle. 
 
 ^ borheen. i. e. bohereen, a little road. 
 
 ^ duidin. a smoking-pipe with a short stem. 
 
 ^° borheen. i. e. bohereen, a little road, 
 shuler. i. e. suibhloir, a traveller. 
 
 ^^ form. i. e. forma, cL bench or seat. 
 
 145] 
 
The book that has its ending here was put together for 
 the glory of God, and the honor of Ireland; and it is I, 
 Francis Carlin, who put an end to the finishing of it on 
 the feast-day of Mobhi who was of Glasnevin. 
 
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