"^ 
 
 RISH MIST 
 D SUNSHINE 
 
 PR 
 
 i)0O7 
 
 i9oi 
 
 A BOOK OF BALLADS 
 
 JAMES B. BOLLARD 
 
 (SLIAV-MA-MON) 
 

 GD{pghtN»_19JI 
 
 COPSRIGVIT DEPOSIT. 
 
 C^Cr'^^ W| 
 
5^ ^ 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
PHOTO BY LYONDE, TORONTO 
 
Irish Mist & Sunshine 
 
 A "BOOK OF "BALLADS 
 
 By 
 
 JAMES "B, T>OLLARD 
 
 {SUa.<v-nci-mon) 
 
 With a.n introduction by 
 William (XBrien, M. P. 
 
 <BOSTON 
 
 Richard G* badger & Company 
 
 (^Incorporated) 
 
 Toronto: W, E, "Blake 
 t90t 
 
1"' . 
 
 Copyright 1900 by ' 
 
 %cha.rd G, Ba.dger & Company 
 {Incorporated) 
 
 cAU "mghts lieser^bed 
 
 91406 
 
 Library of Congress 
 
 Two Copies RFrFiv«^o 
 DEC 20 '900 
 
 FIRST COPY 
 
 2nd Copy Deiivered to 
 
 ORDER DIVISION 
 »AN 10 1901 
 
t- 
 
 Dedication 
 
 To my Brother 
 
 The "Rev, WILLIAM "DOLLARD 
 
 Church of the Holy Rosary 
 
 SL Stephen, N. B, 
 
 a. louver of Ireland and her literature, ^whose 
 teachings and encouragement ha<ve aUways 
 been my greatest aid, this book of Irish <verse 
 is affectionately aedicated. 
 
 The Author 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Preface by William O'Brien, M. P., 9 
 
 Rhyme of the Still Hunters, 15 
 
 Ballad of the Coista Gann Kown, 27 
 
 The Cruise of the Blue Maureen, 31 
 
 The Bridge of Ormonde, 39 
 
 When the Shadow's on the Heather, 41 
 
 The Hanging of Myles Lehane, 44 
 
 The Fairy Stolen, 54 
 
 On Kenmare Head, 57 
 
 Cnoc-Maol-Dhoun, 60 
 
 Lament for Gill Ceannaigh, 63 
 
 Ballad of the Banshee, 66 
 
 The Red Walls of Limerick, 69 
 
 Lav--Laidhir Abu, 72 
 
 The March of the North Cork, 75 
 
 The Pikemen, 79 
 
 Song of the Little Villages, 83 
 
 The Sweet River Suir, 87 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The Irish priest who is also a poet commands 
 a range of emotions which are inaccessible and 
 almost inconceivable to the decadent versi- 
 fiers who have made the phrase "The Minor 
 Poets'' a term of contempt. There is, as in 
 the great days of poetry, something of the di- 
 vine in his calling. He is privileged, as is no 
 other man, to enter the Holy of Holies of the 
 Irish soul, which contains a virgin mine of 
 passion, pathos, mirth and tragedy still await- 
 ing the poet's alchemic touch. The surpris- 
 ing thing is that so few Irish priests have yet 
 turned to account for the enrichment of liter- 
 ature the wealth of human interest and feel- 
 ing which lies around the poet-priest in the 
 wildest mountain parish. The brooks that 
 babble around his daily path make music, and 
 there is no cabin whose blue peat-smoke per- 
 fumes the moors around his chapel that could 
 not yield up its little lyric or its tale of deep 
 and haunting pathos. Two Irish priests are 
 at this moment setting the example of what 
 men who combine literary ardour with a pas- 
 9 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 sionate love of their people can do to give the 
 world some glimpse of the charms of the true 
 Irish temperament, horizon, and spirit-world. 
 Father P. A. Sheehan's famous book, ^'My 
 New Curate" gives perhaps the boldest as well 
 as the truest picture ever painted of the Irish 
 priest and of his people, in habit as they live. 
 Father Dollard, the author of this book of ly- 
 rics treats Irish life and sentiment through the 
 more glowing medium of verse, and with the 
 intensified passion of an exile from his native 
 land. The grass-grown Irish villages, whose 
 very names set his thoughts to music, appear 
 to him through an enchanted atmosphere of 
 recollections and regrets which gives a touch 
 of consecration too often lost for those to 
 whom the dull realities suggest no more than 
 the yellow primrose did to Peter Bell. 
 
 Here and there a verse may be as frankly 
 unadorned as the peasant cabins themselves 
 in their homely cloaks of thatch, but every 
 line rings true to life and home and with the 
 tone as heartmoving as the Angelus which 
 holds Millet^s peasants in its spell. Father 
 
 lO 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Bollard moreover possesses the quality which 
 alone is wanting among the perfections of the 
 "New Curate" namely, a wholehearted sym- 
 pathy with the national yearning of his peo- 
 ple. The simple explanation to me at least of 
 the dismal fate of all the more or less Angli- 
 fied "New Curate's'^ projects for conquering 
 the inveterate stagnation of the village life 
 around him is his failure to appreciate the as- 
 pirations which are the people's terrestrial 
 breath of life and the political conditions 
 which set young men either tippling with Jem 
 Deady, or learning the goose-step by moonlight 
 under the command of the village tailor. 
 Father Dollard understands the tailor as well 
 as the tippler and sees perfectly how a healthy 
 national enthusiasm could regulate the ex- 
 cesses of both and render Irish life as full of 
 manly energy as it is of national charm and 
 poetic sensibility. His lyrics have done very 
 much indeed to discourage the unnatural He- 
 gira from their native land which has tempted 
 such myriads of the race from their wholesome 
 mountain glens into the contamination of the 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 factories and the city slums in stranger lands. 
 Nobody can well read his verses without feel- 
 ing a breath of healthy air pass through the 
 lungs, and a pleasant twitching at the heart 
 such as effects one who in dreams in a distant 
 clime, hears the sound of the chapel bell of his 
 young days floating on his ears. Irish priests 
 with the gifts of Father Sheehan and Father 
 Bollard in their several kinds can do more to 
 revive the power of the poet in its ancient 
 Greek sense than the most misty-minded of the 
 dilettanti who arrogate to themselves the cred- 
 it of what is called the "Gaelic Revival." 
 They are indeed makers and teachers, and their 
 books leave us with cheerfuller belief in our 
 kind. 
 
 WILLIAM O'BRIEN. 
 Mallow Cottage, 
 
 Westport, Ireland, 
 
 September 12, 1900. 
 
 12 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 RHYME OF THE STILL HUNTERS. 
 
 (A Ballad of lar-Connaught.) 
 
 It was the Gauger Regan Buie 
 
 That pensive came to bask, 
 One sunny day by Galway Bay, 
 
 And sat on an empty cask. 
 
 A Gauger old and stern was he. 
 
 Grim foe to fresh poteen, 
 Had sought the still o'er vale and hill ; 
 
 Full steady his scent I ween. 
 
 He lit his pipe and he puffed a puff. 
 
 He spat on the salty tide. 
 He gazed on the blue-black Connaught Hills 
 
 Then drooped his head and sighed: 
 
 "Now, Regan Buie, what sight dost see 
 On the lonesome Connaught Hills?" 
 
 I see on Kylimore's swelling slopes 
 The smoke of whiskey stills. 
 
 15 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 I feel the peat spring to my feet, 
 
 I scent the gorse clad waste, 
 I long again for crag and glen 
 
 Where mountain rivers raced. 
 
 Full dim my sight that once was light, 
 
 My bones are stiff and sore. 
 But the Connaught Hills are calling now, 
 
 And it's off I'd be once more. 
 
 Oh, off again with the mountain men; 
 
 I knew them one and all — 
 Jack Joyce that kept round Knockaniss, 
 
 And Teig at Balnagal; 
 
 And Maelmorra Lynch, of Dalystown: 
 But the i keenest rogue drew breath 
 
 Was Dhiarmid Koe, of Ballinasloe, 
 Sly fox and game to death. 
 
 'Twas many a day we went his way, 
 
 Full sure to find his lair 
 In the Boughta Hills where smoked his 'stills 
 
 On the bounds of County Clare. 
 
 i6 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 And many a night, a woeful sight, 
 
 My men and I slunk home. 
 While down from the shadowy mountain cliffs 
 
 His mocking voice would come: — 
 
 "Ho, Regan Buie you're far to see 
 
 "My pearly mountain dew, 
 "I'll send you a pint with never a stint, 
 
 "First run and tested true. 
 
 "But haste you now from the mountain tracks: 
 
 "Go hame to Galway Town 
 "And say when there that I beat you fair 
 
 "For all your name's renown." 
 
 We wandered there when fields were fair 
 
 And the furze a flame of gold : 
 We sought again for the outlaw's den 
 
 When winter winds blew cold. 
 
 One day at last we followed fast; 
 
 The trail was straight and true; 
 Close was the chase till a cliff's dark face 
 
 Concealed him from our view. 
 
 17 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 High and low for a hiding place 
 We searched and searched again, 
 
 Till we found a rift in the granite cliff, 
 The door of Dhiarmid's den. 
 
 Oh chill that cave as a churchyard vault; 
 
 Our hearts had need be bold; 
 Black was its mouth, but the womb within 
 
 Was blacker a hundredfold. 
 
 High and steep were the stony walls 
 
 The roof was lost to view; 
 Ai^ith shuffle and jar like thunder far 
 
 Our footfalls echoed through. 
 
 Spoke Jack Ryan, of Bansha town, 
 
 Who feared not man or ghost; 
 "I hear a tread on the road ahead;" 
 
 And he followed the footsteps fast. 
 
 On through the midnight mirk he went, 
 With never a thought or care; 
 
 But I heard the sound of a torrent's rush, 
 And called to him, "Beware!'' 
 
 i8 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 " 'Ware a trap or an open cleft;" 
 
 My warning came too late; 
 A stumble, a cry that chilled our hearts, 
 
 And quick we knew his fate. 
 
 Thud and thud on the rocky shelves 
 
 We heard his body go, 
 And plunge at last in the raving flood 
 
 A thousand feet below. 
 
 Then flashed a light, and the cave was bright, 
 Wet gleamed each dripping ledge; 
 
 A mighty chasm our pathway barred — . 
 Full close we viewed its edge. 
 
 Heavy and deep in sullen sweep 
 
 W^e heard the flood below, 
 But over its din a voice broke in 
 
 The challenge of Dhiarmid Roe: 
 
 "Ho, Regan Buie on your bended knee 
 
 "Pray God to save your soul; 
 "Your grave is a thousand feet below 
 
 "And never a bell to toll. 
 
 19 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 "Your grave is a thousand feet below— 
 
 "Your children wait at home, 
 "And jour wife shall cry as the days go by 
 
 "For a husband ne'er to come. 
 
 "But think on the home in Galway town 
 
 "And think of child and wife 
 "And make me a solemn promise here, 
 
 "Your word shall buy your life. 
 
 "For never again the mountain men 
 
 "Your stealthy steps must fear. 
 "The crag and glen for the mountain men; 
 
 "The slope for the mountain deer? 
 
 "No more the still you'll hunt and spill, 
 "Or range the gorse lands high; 
 
 "Your word will hold, 'gainst glory and 
 gold;— 
 "Who breaks our law must die!" 
 
 Then stout his challenge I answered back, 
 
 And spoke as man to man: 
 '^y word won't go to Dhiarmid Koe, 
 
 "So work the worst you can. 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 ^'I'll hunt ye again by crag and glen 
 
 (God care for child and wife:) 
 "But, ere I give ye the pledging word 
 
 "I'll part with them and life." 
 
 Then Dhiarmid Roe spoke grave and slow; 
 
 "Your death-knell's sounding now; 
 "No hurrying ball your soul shall call, 
 
 "Grim fear must make you bow. 
 
 "Your grave is deep and your grave is high, 
 
 "Its walls are soundless rock; 
 "And never a soul shall hear you call, 
 
 "Whilst I your suff'rings mock." 
 
 He spoke and the blessed light was gone, 
 
 We groped in darkest gloom; 
 And we heard but the foaming flood below, 
 
 Sounding a knell of doom. 
 
 Blind on our track we floundered back. 
 
 Our folly to bemoan; 
 We felt our way where the passage lay. 
 
 And struck but the solid stone. 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Searched we there in our heart's despair, 
 
 But ever the same we found. 
 Naught but the boiling depths below 
 
 And the iron rock around. 
 
 Oh, deep our grave by a hidden wave, 
 And far from friends and home 
 
 Where never a soul as long years roll 
 To breathe a prayer would come. 
 
 Then cried Ned Power of Parsontown, 
 
 My friend in raid and fray: 
 "We've held the front in many a brunt 
 
 "But this is the end to-day. 
 
 "Oh this is the end and worse to fear — 
 "My curse on Dhiarmid Roe! 
 
 "May all his flinty heart holds dear 
 "Rise up to work him woe." — 
 
 Heavy and slow the crawling hours^ 
 
 And each one seemed a day, 
 In the deadly gloom of that living tomb 
 
 Our live strength ebbed away. 
 
 22 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 And when sweet visions crossed the brain 
 
 Of homes we'd see no more, 
 We heard the drop of the reeking rock 
 
 And the rumbling torrents roar. 
 
 At last a light flashed full and bright; 
 
 'Tw^as sweet as breaking day, 
 And full in the glow stood Dhiarmid Roe 
 
 And mocked us where we lay: 
 
 "Ho, Regan Buie, are the hounds at bay, 
 "Brought up and trapped at last? 
 
 "You've had your fun of many a run, 
 "But your hunting days are past. 
 
 "My curse on ye for stubborn fools! 
 
 "Speak now the word I said; 
 "The riftless rock is all around 
 
 "And the rock roof overhead. 
 
 "I'll send ye back to Galway Town 
 "Where wife and children wait. 
 
 *^he time goes by and the end is nigh — 
 "Speak now or speak too late." 
 
 23 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Up spoke Ned Power of Parsontown: 
 
 "Your pardon, Regan Buie: 
 "The word your pride forever would hide 
 
 "I'll speak for you and me. 
 
 "Oh, never again by heath and glen 
 (God pay thee, Dhiarmid Roe!) 
 
 "Were a whiskey still on every hill, 
 "On the outlaw's track we'll go. 
 
 "Were a whiskey still on every hill, 
 "And a scent to make one reel, 
 
 "Oh ! never again on the mountain men 
 "Like blooded sleuths we'll steal. 
 
 "Tho' many an outlaw roam unhanged, 
 
 "Of high and low degree, 
 "To Dhiarmid Roe the palm must go, 
 
 "The Chief of rascals he." 
 
 Then smiled that rascal, Dhiamid Roe, 
 
 A wicked smile to see, 
 And said : "This day is the day indeed, 
 
 "And worth a world to me." 
 
 24 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 ''The day that I baffled Regan Buie 
 "And brought his boasting low, 
 
 "A pint I'll brew of the mountain dew 
 "To treat ye ere ye go." 
 
 He bound our eyes and he led us on, 
 
 And when we looked again, 
 We saw the prize we had hunted long, 
 
 The daring outlaw's den. 
 
 Busy and neat, in all complete, 
 
 Vat and worm and still. 
 The mountaineer for many a year 
 
 Had worked them all at will. 
 
 Then Dhiarmid Roe: "Now ere ye go 
 "Ye'll test my mountain dew." 
 
 And loud he laughed as the potent draught 
 Our shaking frames thrilled through. 
 
 Oh, gay his laugh and merry his chaff. 
 As he showed the homeward way, 
 
 And "Regan Buie in the years to be 
 "You'll never rue this day. 
 
 25 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 "Oh, come again to the mountain men, 
 
 "A Government spy no more: 
 "Their friendship true I'll warrant you 
 
 "And welcoming hearts galore." 
 
 He said and we looked our last on him, 
 
 Then turned our faces home; 
 But every year to my cottage here 
 
 A stealthy cask doth come. 
 
 And writ in the ancient Gaelic tongue 
 
 This legend you may see: 
 "Sweet mountain dew, from Dhiarmid Roe, 
 
 To the Ganger, Regan Buie." 
 
 Oh, mellow and true that mountain dew. 
 
 Old heart and brain it thrills. 
 I see as I saw in days of old, 
 
 the wind-swept Connaught Hills; 
 
 I feel the peat beneath my feet; 
 
 I smell the heathery waste; 
 I long again for the crag and glen 
 
 where thundering torrents raced. 
 
 26 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 BALLAD OF THE COISTA GANN KOWN.» 
 
 This terrible phantom is heard passing from 
 one graveyard to another, at the midnight hour, 
 "by the peasantry of the South of Ireland. 
 
 "Black Mall Moran, dare you cross the lone 
 
 mountain, 
 A brand on your brow and a murder on your 
 
 soul, 
 Ah! what shall you say when the Lord calls 
 
 upon you, 
 For the red blood you squandered, and the life 
 
 that you stole?" 
 
 "If the Lord called upon me I should reck not 
 
 His summons, 
 Though He flung down my body to deep pits 
 
 of Hell; 
 My strong hand has crushed out his life, whom 
 
 I hated, 
 My long-nourished vengeance I have sated it 
 
 well." 
 
 *Coista Gann Ceann — Literally, "Coach without heads." 
 27 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 "Black Niall Moran, 'tis a blasphemy spoken, 
 
 Lone, lone the long road athwart the moun- 
 tains brown — , 
 
 Oh, 'ware you the graveyards whose portals 
 now open 
 
 And the dread, headless horses of the Coista 
 Gann Kown." 
 
 A curse in the midnight, and a loud laugh of 
 
 scorn, 
 A murderer plunges in the black jaws of night, 
 The high gallows threatened and the pale 
 
 breaking morn, 
 Far out over ocean should see him in flight. 
 
 But fearful his journey, the dreary winds af- 
 fright him. 
 
 Sobbing, hopeless sobbing amid the branches 
 sere 
 
 From the wood-sheltered cairn, where his vic- 
 tim lies staring, 
 
 The Banshee's awesome ullagon comes to his 
 ear. 
 
 28 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Ullagon! Ullagon! the wailing winds repeat 
 
 it, 
 Ullagon! Ullagon! the hollow hills reply! 
 A rustle in the murky gloom, — the winging of 
 
 a demon! 
 A voice in the valley — 'tis a lost spirit's cry! 
 
 Black Niall Moran, where now your bold 
 vaunting 
 
 Your brow's damp with terror. — God spare 
 your guilty soul. 
 
 Hark! o'er the din of your scared bosom's 
 panting, 
 
 Hear the Headless Horses, and the Dead- 
 Coach's roll ! 
 
 "Black Niall Moran, if e'er you prayed to 
 
 Heaven, 
 Oh, pray unto the Saviour now for succor and 
 
 for grace." 
 They come, the demon horses — sound their 
 
 tramp like hollow thunder. 
 The lightnings of their flashing hoofs illume 
 
 his ghastly face. 
 
 29 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Ah! vainly doth he strive to pray — his pallid 
 
 lips are frozen, 
 God's Mother, break the wicked spell that 
 
 binds his body now. 
 His eyes must view the phantom coach, whose 
 
 door is swinging open, 
 Within — a reeking body — 'tis his victim's 
 
 clotted brow! 
 
 A shriek upon the midnight air, — a rumble in 
 
 the darkness. 
 Again the demon horses thro' the mountains 
 
 speed away. 
 Stark dead upon the roadside, in his eyes a 
 
 nameless horror. 
 They found Black Niall lying at the breaking 
 
 of the day! 
 
 Where four roads meet they buried him when 
 
 even-shades were falling; 
 But when night's dusky curtains on the 
 
 shrinking hills drop down. 
 They hear the Dead Coach rushing by, and 
 
 cross their foreheads saying; 
 "His soul must ride till judgment with the 
 
 Coista Gann Kown." 
 30 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 THE CRUISE OF THE BLUE MAUREEN. 
 
 It was the brave ship Blue Maureen 
 Swept out from Queenstown Bay, 
 
 Nor shortened sail to the rising gale 
 That whipped the seas to spray. 
 
 Her skipper was Rorke, of County Cork, 
 
 Where daring men are bred; 
 Dark scowling now he stood at the prow 
 
 And scanned the skies ahead. 
 
 A smuggler free and fierce was he 
 
 As e'er foiled revenue brand; 
 No storm could daunt him on the sea. 
 
 And he feared no law on land. 
 
 He wore away to the wild sou'-west, 
 
 He flew as the swallow flies. 
 Past Seven Heads, and the Galleys' crest 
 
 To where the Three Stags rise. 
 
 31 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 He entered a lonely cove at last, 
 And a Spanish ship lay there; 
 
 The Blue Maureen they loaded clean 
 With cargo rich and rare. 
 
 And none too quick was done the trick 
 
 For as he sheered away 
 A gun-boat cleared the ocean swell 
 
 And stuck its nose in the bay. 
 
 Said Korke, "The revenue-man's not built 
 
 Can fool a fox like me" — 
 He found a gate thro' a hidden strait, 
 
 And danced on the open sea. 
 
 "Now Kevenue-man, it's catch who can" 
 Said Korke, "an' we've slipped ye well. 
 
 Ho, now for a chase and a clipping race 
 To harbor or to hell." 
 
 The storm-gust shook the Blue Maureen 
 
 And blew her into the west 
 Like thistle down in the summer breeze 
 
 From Brown Knocmeldom's crest. 
 
 32 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 The skipper laughed to his flying craft, 
 
 No revenue boat was seen — 
 "And would they match their smoky hulks 
 
 To sail with the Blue Maureen?" 
 
 "Now lads to wind with her a bit 
 
 We'll head for port again, 
 See yonder cloud like a dead man's shroud. 
 
 It carries a hurricane." 
 
 They looked and the erstwhile smiling south 
 Grew dark — as dark as midnight. 
 
 Dusky and dun became the sun ' ' 
 
 And baleful was his light. 
 
 Black and blacker the skies became 
 Till a white bolt crashed o'erhead, 
 
 And out of the pall came a thunder call 
 Like the last trump of the dead. 
 
 "Ho! down the sails — 'ware foul or slip! 
 
 And watch ye well the south 
 We've saved our ship from the bailiff's grip 
 
 But we've run in the devil's mouth!" 
 
 33 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 "A curse on my eyes that see no sign, 
 
 A curse on the coming blast, 
 T'will carry us bare to God knows where 
 
 Nor leave us a rag to mast." 
 
 He spoke, and the hissing hurricane 
 
 Drove in to show him true; 
 It caught the shij) in a gusty grip 
 
 And blind to the north she flew. 
 
 Oh, blind she flew till the pallid crew 
 For fear could scarce draw breath; 
 
 Said Korke, "this drift is steady and swift 
 And the end of it all is death." 
 
 "The end is death, be it long or short, 
 
 Not mine the skill to know, 
 Or grinding shock on a hidden rock 
 
 Or flung on a white ice-floe." 
 
 Then northward drove the Blue Maureen, 
 
 Still north a day and night. 
 With never a lift nor once a shift 
 
 The hurricane proved its might. 
 
 34 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 The toppling combers swept her deck, 
 Hard lashed the helm- wheel strained, 
 
 The bending mast in the ruthless blast. 
 Like tortured soul complained. 
 
 Said Eorke: "An angry God's above. 
 And the devil is 'neath our keel, 
 
 'Tis late in the day for me to pray. 
 And now I may not kneel.'' 
 
 "For God would scorn my puling now. 
 
 And I may spare my breath; 
 See yon black wall! Ho! shipmates all! 
 
 ^Tis there — the end — and death!" 
 
 The Blue Maureen swung wide and high. 
 
 And over the yawning waves 
 A rock-bound coast the vision crossed. 
 
 They saw their waiting graves. 
 
 Black Rorke clung fast by the shaking mast, 
 
 When sudden he was aware 
 A shape of fear w^as standing near — 
 
 No mortal man stood there. 
 
 35 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Steady and stark the Stranger stood, 
 
 Nor recked the reeling ship; 
 Then: ''Dermot Korke, you have done your 
 work 
 
 And sailed your last sea-trip." 
 
 "Cast is the line, and the prize is mine 
 
 So now I claim your soul." 
 The skipper he looked to the scowling rocks, 
 
 And heard the breakers roll. 
 
 "Oh life is sweet with hell to meet," 
 
 The skipper said with a sigh. 
 "I'll sell my soul when seven years roll 
 
 If now you pass me by." 
 
 "Your soul is mine," said the demon then, 
 
 "When e'er I will to take, 
 But now you'll sell your child as well, 
 
 And saved be for her sake. 
 
 "Her soul is bright with a wondrous light 
 
 (God's grace within her grew) 
 I'll take that soul when seven years roll, 
 
 And till that time spare you." 
 36 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Burst from the skipper a cry of fear; 
 
 "What! take my child?" he said, 
 "Not for the earth and all 'tis worth 
 
 I'd sell a hair of her head." 
 
 "Oh, Lord, that rules the wind, and stirs 
 The deep seas with Thy breath, 
 
 In this dread hour show forth Thy power- 
 Save us from sin and death!" 
 
 The sinner prayed — his lips were stirred 
 
 By grace of his own child's prayer; 
 At a distant shrine her call was heard, 
 God crowned her pleading there. 
 
 Ah! none may claim Christ's aid in vain; 
 
 And now a child's weak moan 
 Pierces the sky and there on high 
 
 Sweet mercy claims its own. 
 
 Great is Thy saving Name, O Christ! 
 
 Afar the Tempter flies, 
 God's holy peace falls o'er the seas, 
 
 The storm-blast moaning dies! 
 
 37 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 By Queenstown Bay, on the sand-bars gray, 
 
 Beached high a boat is seen; 
 She sails no more where deep seas roar, 
 
 'Tis the brave ship Blue Maureen. 
 
 No more she'll breast the billow's crest 
 
 On perilous cruise out-bound, 
 All peaceful now is the skipper's brow, 
 
 God's friendship he hath found. 
 
 Death's call he waits, at the harbor gates, 
 
 With hope God's port to see; 
 May skies be fair on his voyage there, 
 
 And Christ his Pilot be! 
 
 38 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 THE BKIDGE OF ORMONDE. 
 
 (A Ballad of Kilkenny). 
 
 Ormonde's castle stones are high 
 Ormonde's brazen gates are grand 
 
 Rich is the Lord of Ormond, why 
 Coveted he my cot and land? 
 
 Steady and clear the river flows 
 
 Under the Bridge of Ormonde 
 Out with the flood my spirit goes 
 
 Far from the shades of Ormond 
 I see the home was once mine own 
 Desolate now its cold hearth-stone 
 Barren the fields and weed-o'er-grown 
 
 Stamped with the curse of Ormonde. 
 
 "Rent or the land" ! they said that day 
 And drove us out on the bleak highway 
 I cannot rest and I cannot pray 
 Cursing the greed of Ormonde. 
 
 39 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Proudly above Kilkenny town 
 
 Towers the walls of Ormonde 
 I wander up and I wander down 
 
 Over the Bridge of Ormonde. 
 My heart is broken, my hopes are dead 
 No roof to shelter a Hoary head 
 But he lies soft on a down bed 
 
 Safe in the palace of Ormonde! 
 
 The tyrant! — Safe! Ah that dread desire 
 
 My soul is seethed in hellish fire! 
 
 God rescue me from these whispers dire! 
 
 Close by the gates of Ormonde. 
 Peaceful and still the waters flow 
 
 Under the Bridge of Ormonde 
 Would that my tortured breast were so 
 
 Here by the hall of Ormonde. 
 
 Mother of God! (the sweet words bless) 
 Hinder my hand from wickedness 
 Aid ! oh aid me in dark distress 
 Lone on the Bridge of Ormonde. 
 
 40 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 WHEN THE SHADOW'S ON THE 
 HEATHER. 
 
 An Irish Christmas Ballad. 
 
 Slipping down the Curlew mountains to th'i 
 
 early Christmas Mass, 
 When the shadow's of the heather and the 
 
 rime is on the grass — 
 Want may chill our highland cottage; troubles 
 
 bide with us alway. 
 But the Saviour makes us happy on his holy 
 
 Christmas Day. 
 
 I must wake my dear ones early on this morn 
 of peace and joy, 
 
 Little pet-lamb, pretty Norah, sturdy Neil, my 
 noble boy, 
 
 Vvhen the hearth is clean and cosy and the 
 dancing flames are gay. 
 
 And the kettle croons a welcome to the com- 
 ing Christmas day. 
 
 41 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 I>arkness lingers on the valley and the fairy- 
 haunted glen, 
 
 Eastward now the break of morning brings 
 the peace of God to men. 
 
 Near the mountain-rim, — first jewel of the 
 Christ-Child's diadem, 
 
 Burns a star of radiant beauty like the Star of 
 Bethlehem. 
 
 Wake ye now, my sleeping treasures, wake ye 
 
 now, your mother's joy, 
 Pretty Norah, drowsy lambkin, blue-eyed Neil, 
 
 my laughing boy — 
 For the shadow's on the heather, and the rime 
 
 is on the grass, 
 And the angels hurry earthward to the early 
 
 Christmas Mass. 
 
 See above you ivied abbey, where God's ser- 
 vants prayed of old, 
 
 Fiery pillars in the heavens — bars of silver, 
 shafts of gold — 
 
 Swing the gates of glory open, shining souls 
 unnumbered pass, 
 
 Let us hurry down to meet them at the early 
 Christmas Mass. 
 42 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Down the mountain, up the valley, from the 
 
 riverside and glen 
 Throng the cheery-chatting people, stately 
 
 women, stalwart men; 
 Guard, oh, guard them, God of Erin! bitter 
 
 sorrow theirs, alas! 
 Many a heart shall bleed in exile ere another 
 
 Christmas Mass. 
 
 Lift thy drooping face, my Erin, God has 
 
 heard thy bitter moan, 
 Tho' His hand rest heavy on thee, 'tis to make 
 
 thee more His own. 
 Faith has died where nations flourished,— 
 
 earthy gain His gifts surpass 
 When he greets His gathered people at the 
 
 early Christmas Mass. 
 
 43 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 THE HANGING OF MYLES LEHANE. 
 
 The Baron of Graine and Cavan, his heart was 
 
 hard and cold, 
 He loved but his dogs and hunters — his god 
 
 was greed of gold. 
 Said he: ^Tor my pride and pleasure I'll have 
 
 those broad lands free, 
 And he drove his serfs to the workhouse, or 
 
 scourged them o'er the sea. 
 But Myles Lehane of Cashel went up to the 
 
 Baron's door. 
 His heart like lead and bowed his head, — he 
 
 never had begged before. 
 Said he, "for your honor's payment long years 
 
 I've drudged like a beast, 
 'Twill break my heart from the land to part, 
 
 but leave us the house at least. 
 For Nora, my wife, is dying, — the child is gone 
 
 before, 
 'Twas fever killed our darling, so the neigh- 
 bors come no more." 
 
 44 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Then the Baron swore a sounding oath, and 
 
 ordered the "dog" away, 
 And back thro' the rain went Myles Lehane 
 
 to his woful house that day. 
 
 Next morning^s sun rose grim and dun, and in 
 
 thro' the valley's gate, 
 Like a river red the ''Death Brigade" defiled 
 
 in martial state. 
 Oh, bold and gay they looked that day, the 
 
 Royal British Horse, 
 But they did a work would shame a Turk that 
 
 spares not the senseless corse. 
 Their sabres clanked full gallantly, their hoof- 
 beat echoed plain. 
 Till they came to halt with never a fault by 
 
 the house of Myles Lehane, 
 And there they formed a cordon, all strict to 
 
 the rules of war. 
 (Would they do so well to the Arab yell on 
 
 Afric sands afar?) 
 
 45 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Within his straw roofed cottage, his own no 
 longer now, 
 
 Sat Myies Lehane deep-bowed in pain, cold 
 fear-drops on his brow, 
 
 Dread were the thoughts he wrestled, but nev- 
 er uttered a sound. 
 
 The hand of God lay heavy on him — the wrath 
 of men around. 
 
 His sick wife lay beside him, her life-tide ebb- 
 ing fast, 
 
 And he prayed that ere the troops came there 
 her spirit might have passed. 
 
 The damp, death-reek was on her cheek, the 
 Priest was kneeling by. 
 
 But she heard outside the soldiers' stride, and 
 pitiful was her cry: 
 
 ^^Oh, wirra, wirra;^ the bitter day! and have I 
 lived so long, 
 
 And must I lie by the road to die, that never 
 did man wrong! 
 
 Oh, Myles, my heart's light ever, come near 
 and hold my hand, 
 
 'Twas gladsome May our wedding day and 
 sunshine filled the land; 
 * Wirra, (lit.) Oh, Mary, Maiy! 
 46 
 
Irish Mist a.nd Sunshine 
 
 The birds sang gay our wedding day, the bend- 
 ing skies were blue, 
 And you were there my king of men, and I was 
 
 fair to you. 
 Our joys and our heavy sorrows we shared 
 
 them side by side. 
 When the crops and cattle prospered — when 
 
 the son of our bosoms died; 
 But now when your blackest trouble is falling 
 
 upon your head, 
 T must leave you, Myles, my husband, to be 
 
 with the griefless dead. 
 Yet hear me, our God is mercy, — He judges 
 
 the deeds of men; 
 I'll pray at His throne for you, my own, until 
 
 we meet again." 
 
 Bang on the door a gun-butt — hurtled a hoarse 
 
 command : 
 "Now, Myles Lehane, in the Queen's high 
 
 name, give up your house and land." 
 
 47 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 The hinges burst like rot-wood, and in the 
 bailiffs strode, 
 
 "Now out with them, bag and baggage, to beg 
 their rent on the road!" 
 
 The priest stood up from the bedside, his tear- 
 filled eyes flashed fire — 
 
 "Oh, men, would ye shame your manhood to 
 do such deed for hire. 
 
 The wild beast chased and wounded may die 
 at last in his lair, 
 
 And would ye refuse like mercy to God's own 
 image there?" 
 
 Then spoke his lordship's agent, — a fiend in- 
 carnate he, — 
 
 "You'll leave the house my prating priest, and 
 curse her! so shall she, 
 
 No! fetch me the oil-can, hearties — we'll have 
 a bonfire good. 
 
 And crack our joke while the rats we smoke, 
 as loyal subjects should." 
 
 48 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 They bore her out on the roadside, they laid 
 
 her down to die, 
 The flames from the burning cottage leaped 
 
 fiercely to the sky. 
 But swifter on to the heavens the soul of a 
 
 woman went, 
 The angels found her a dwelling-place, and 
 
 never a word of rent. 
 
 IL 
 
 'Tis night in the gloomy valley, 'tis night on 
 
 the hillside drear. 
 Hark! heard ye a gunshot sounding — heard ye 
 
 a shriek of fear? 
 A murderer flies in terror, his deed was done 
 
 too well — 
 The Baron of Graine and Cavan, his soul is 
 
 deep in hell! 
 A bullet has found its billet out there on thr 
 
 lonesome moor, 
 No more he'll grind, in his anger blind, the 
 
 faces of God's poor. 
 
 49 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 And out on the widening ocean a swift ship 
 
 flies e'en now 
 The winds blow fair, yet one they bear, with 
 
 Cain-brand on his brow. 
 
 Now flash ye the news of horror to every land 
 
 and clime, 
 And mark the race with deep disgrace whose 
 
 sons have wrought such crime! 
 What tho' in peaceful England a thousand 
 
 worse befall, 
 The Baron great had wealth and state and 
 
 lived in princely hall, 
 But mind ! no word of the woman — she died by 
 
 deed of law, 
 We rule them strong, we may do wrong, but, 
 
 look ye, find no flaw. 
 And find us a ready victim, it boots not whom 
 
 nor how, 
 The outraged State must vindicate her injured 
 
 Justice now. 
 
 50 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 They found ere long a victim — the proofs, they 
 
 said were plain — 
 And Dublin's deep-walled dungeons soon 
 
 closed on Myles Lehane. 
 Like Him of old, the Scourged One, he made 
 
 no moan or cry; 
 They dragged him out in the blaze of noon and 
 
 told him he must die. 
 "Now Myles Lehane, in your Maker's name, 
 
 what word have you to say 
 With latest breath to the doom of death that 
 
 falls on you today?" 
 
 The peasant knelt to Heaven, his hair gleamed 
 
 white to the sun, 
 **My Lord, of the crime I'm guiltless; but 
 
 God's high will be done! 
 I fear not to meet my Saviour — He promised 
 
 the wronged redress; 
 The death I die is shameful, my shame than 
 
 His far less. 
 
 51 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Better to die and end it than live a trampled 
 
 slave 
 With never a breath of freedom — no hope but 
 
 the waiting grave. 
 
 The precious gold we drudge for buys feast 
 
 for a glutton's hall; 
 Better than life of torture, be robbed at once 
 
 of all." 
 Ah! Myles Lehane, of Oashel, dost hear thy 
 
 death-bell toll? 
 The grim black flag they've hoisted — Christ'?; 
 
 mercy on thy soul ! 
 The guards drag forth their victim, the hang- 
 man stands in wait. 
 Like watchers by a death-bed, the people pray 
 
 at the gate. 
 The black mask veils his vision — he looked his 
 
 last on the sun, 
 Kow God and the Virgin aid him — the awful 
 
 doom is done! 
 
 52 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Thro' the grimy streets of Dublin the crowds 
 
 creep shuddering home, 
 And down from the Wicklow summits the 
 
 gust^^ rain-blasts come. 
 They weep through the darkened city to wash 
 
 its guilt away. 
 They tell to the sullen Irish Sea a tale of 
 
 shame today. 
 
 I saw a singer of ballads, he sang a song in 
 
 the street, 
 In the heart of Dublin City, 'mid bustle and 
 
 hurry of feet, 
 Men's cheeks flushed hot to hear him, and 
 
 women's went white with pain — 
 IVe tried to sing you the song I heard — The 
 
 Hanging of Myles Lehane. 
 
 53 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 THE FAIRY-STOLEN. 
 
 An Irish Ballad. 
 
 Mother dear, my mother, they have stolen me 
 away 
 
 And I miss you mother darling all the live- 
 long day 
 
 When the dreamy sun is shining, and the 
 fleecy clouds sail by, 
 
 You are weeping for me, mother, and I hear 
 your bitter cry. 
 
 I wandered by the fairy Rath, I wandered all 
 alone. 
 
 I played, nor thought of danger, by the 
 haunted Ogam Stone 
 
 Till the fairies from Knocsheela came and car- 
 ried me away 
 
 Where they live within the mountain in their 
 palaces of clay. 
 
 54 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Mother dear, oh mother, they have crowned 
 me Fairy Queen, 
 
 They have robed me in a vesture of the sun- 
 set's wondrous sheen. 
 
 They have dowered me with treasure that 
 their fairy castles hold. 
 
 But more precious to me mother your sweet 
 kiss than shining gold. 
 
 When the sun is on the mountain, and the 
 
 cloud shades come and go 
 And drowsy brooklets downward 'neath the 
 
 noddinsT hazels flow, 
 When the bee is in the fox-glove, and in covert 
 
 hides the hare. 
 Oh, look upon the mountain then, for mother, 
 
 I am there. 
 
 But when the night has fallen and the mystic 
 moonlight comes, 
 
 And darkly on the valley's breast the grey- 
 walled castle looms, 
 
 Oh then along the river's banks we're skip- 
 ping near and far 
 
 Till dawn with spears of silver drives away 
 the Morning Star. 
 55 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 'Twas but yesternight oh mother that we 
 
 passed the cottage by 
 Ah, my eager heart beat heavily to know that 
 
 you were nigh. 
 1 saw the tears you shed for me, I heard your 
 
 troubled prayer, 
 But the fairy throng bore swift along, I 
 
 could not linger there. 
 
 Mother dear, my mother, I am dying day by 
 day, 
 
 They may hold my lifeless body, but my spir- 
 it will not stay, 
 
 It will seek you mother darling thro' the sun- 
 shine or the rain. 
 
 And the fairies of the mountain cannot steal 
 your child again. 
 
 56 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 ON KENMARE HEAD. 
 
 An Irish Ballad. 
 
 Sweet Mother of the Crucified 
 
 Be nigh to aid me now. 
 My old eyes view the sad gray sea 
 
 Beyond the cliff's high brow; 
 The wide, gray sea that sullenly 
 
 Beats on the black rocks bare, 
 The while I moan, bereft and lone. 
 
 On the Head of Old Kenmare. 
 
 Oh bitter day I lost for aye 
 
 The dear ones of my soul! 
 And cruel sea! — twixt them and me 
 
 How broad and bleak you roll! 
 Two graves are lying far away 
 
 With none to kneel in pray'r — 
 And I, their mother, weeping here 
 
 On the Head of Old Kenmare. 
 
 57 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 My Owen left our cabin door 
 
 A dreary winter day, 
 "Full quick I'll send ye gold galore 
 
 The heavy rent to pay.'' 
 Mo nuar! 'twas the killing word 
 
 They wrote from over there, — 
 "He's dying and his love he sends 
 
 To those in Old Kenmare." 
 
 Then Mary, treasure of my life — 
 
 How sweet her modest grace! 
 My timid lamb, she left me too 
 
 The hard world-winds to face. 
 Poor child, her heart was broken soon 
 
 With all a strange land's care; 
 They laid her by her brother's side 
 
 Far, far from Old Kenmare. 
 
 Now ever to my anguished soul 
 
 Their dying voices reach, 
 I hear them in the waves that roll 
 
 And sob along the beach. 
 
 58 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 I listen and the crooning winds 
 Those last love-whispers bear 
 
 To me, their mother, waiting lone 
 On the Head of Old Kenmare. 
 
 Sweet Mother of the Crucified, 
 
 Thy woes were greater far, 
 To thee an earthly mother prays 
 
 Who art the Ocean's Star. 
 Thou standing by the awful Cross, 
 
 Oh strengthen me to bear 
 My sorrow swelling like the sea 
 
 By the Head of Old Kenmare. 
 
 59 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 ONOC-MAOL-DHOUN.* 
 
 Ah! sweet is Avondhuv that flows by lordly 
 
 Cappoquin 
 And sighing low the south winds blow across 
 
 the Vale of Glin, 
 God's blessings on our Irish land, as well in 
 
 field and town, 
 But give me strength and let me stand on 
 
 Cnoe-Maol-Dhoun. 
 
 Now fairy hands are finding me and friendly 
 
 sprites are they. 
 Oh, fairy hands are binding me, "we'll bear 
 
 you up," they say; 
 "Come up where starry heather-flowers and 
 
 golden gorse encrown 
 The monarch of all fairy-mounds, our Cnoc- 
 
 Maol Dhoun." 
 
 * The brown Smooth Hill. — In County Waterford, Ire- 
 land. 
 
 60 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 I yield me to their magic spell, its power is not 
 
 gain-said, 
 We leave at once the lowly dell, and seek the 
 
 mountain's head, 
 I feel the breeze of ocean now, I smell the 
 
 fraoich brown. 
 And cooled the fever of my brow on Cnoc- 
 
 Maol-Dhoun. 
 
 Afar the shining Suir leaps Ardfinan's wood- 
 lands o'er, 
 
 Afar the thundrous billow sweeps thine echo- 
 ing wall Ardmore; 
 
 On sunny hill and misty vale my vision ranges 
 down. 
 
 And fancy teems with olden dreams, on Onoc- 
 Maol-Dhoun. 
 
 On yonder plain, in war-array, I see the hosts 
 
 of Finn, 
 And mighty chiefs of ancient day, — I hear 
 
 their arms' din; 
 Famed Oisin of the Yellow Locks and Conan 
 
 of Kenown, 
 Their shadows rise before mine eyes, on Cnoc- 
 
 Maol-Dhoun. 
 
 6i 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Pass Conall and the Eed Branch Knights, — 
 
 and Maev, to conflict dire, 
 See great Cuculain, "Lord of Fights" his spear 
 
 a flame of fire. 
 A moment through the shifting mist sad Deir- 
 
 dre's face is shown, 
 Kind fairies grant the sight ye list, on Cnoc- 
 
 Maol-Dhoun. 
 
 Ah! poor in sordid wealth of gold, but rich is 
 Erin still 
 
 In magic spell and legend old, that cling to 
 heath and hill, 
 
 Dearer than gold a thousand fold, God's beau- 
 ties rare that crown, 
 
 The streams that flow thy heights below old 
 Cnoc-Maol-Dhoun. 
 
 62 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 LAMENT FOR GILL CEANNAIGH. 
 
 It is my bitter sorrow that the heavy-rolling 
 
 main 
 Betwixt me and the land I love up-swells to 
 
 mock my pain; 
 A weary load is on me that the Spring is here 
 
 again — 
 And I far away from Kilkenny. 
 
 This cheerless exile, day by day, more griev- 
 ously I rue, 
 
 And foreign skies grow dark to me recalling 
 skies of blue. 
 
 Fade out, ye stretching city streets, and smile 
 the fields I knew, 
 In the gold-misty vales of Kilkenny. 
 
 63 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 On Suir's banks the winds of March awake the 
 
 daffodil- 
 Ill sprouting groves by Clodagh's stream the 
 
 cuckoo's numbers thrill, 
 The saucy, sunny primroses in hollow and on 
 
 hill 
 Are scenting the gale of Kilkenny. 
 
 Oh ye that pass o'er heath and grass, all in the 
 
 morning dawn, 
 The heights to breast, your brows caressed 
 
 with breeze from Sliav-na-mon ; 
 Till Suir shines in golden light, and every 
 
 shadow's gone, 
 Bless God that your home's in Kilkenny. 
 
 Along the w^inding country ways the haw- 
 thorn hedge is white, 
 The red breast from his mossy nest doth watch 
 
 you out of sight; 
 Oh, sweet the day in balmy May, and goft the 
 dewy night 
 That falls o'er my home in Kilkenny. 
 
 64 
 
Irish Mist ana Sunshine 
 
 To list the ploughman's cheery voice, — the 
 
 loucliaVs whistle call, 
 To hear the pure faced cailins sing that guide 
 
 the cows to stall; 
 To watch the stalwart hurlers leap and strike 
 
 the bounding ball, 
 Mo hhron that I'm far from Kilkenny. 
 
 There is a heather-belted hill lifts high its 
 summit bare — 
 
 And up its sides the pleasant fields are climb- 
 ing everywhere; 
 
 If I'd my way, 'tis there today I'd breathe the 
 blessed air, 
 And greet my old friends in Kilkenny. 
 
 Erin, call thy scattered sons, and bid them 
 
 all unite — 
 "To long in alien wars ye bleed — unblest that 
 
 fruitless fight. 
 Arise again, unconquered men, do battle for 
 
 the right. 
 And free the fair homes of Kilkenny." 
 
 65 
 
Irish Mist a.nd Sunshine 
 
 BALLAD OF THE BANSHEE. 
 
 Back thro' the hill I hurried home 
 Ever my boding soul would say 
 
 "Mother and sister bid thee come 
 Long, too long has been thy stay." 
 
 Stars shone out, but the moon was pale 
 Touched by a black cloud's ragged rim 
 
 Sudden I heard the Banshee's wail 
 Where Malmor's war-tower rises grim. 
 
 Quickly I strode across the slope 
 
 Passed the grove and the Fairy Mound 
 
 (Gloomy the moat where blind owls mope) 
 Scarcely breathing, I glanced around. 
 
 66 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Mother of mercy! there she sat 
 
 A woman clad in a snow-white shroud 
 
 Streamed her hair to the damp moss-mat 
 White the face on her bosom bowed. 
 
 "Spirit of Woe," I eager cried, 
 
 "Tell me none that I love has gone," 
 
 "Cold is the grave" : my accents died — 
 The Banshee lifted her face so wan. 
 
 Pale and wan as the waning moon 
 Seen when the sun-spears herald dawn 
 
 Ceased all sudden her dreary croon 
 Full on my own her wild eyes shone. 
 
 Burned and seared my inmost soul 
 (When shall sorrow depart from me?) 
 
 Black-winged terror upon me stole 
 Blindly gaping, I turned to flee. 
 
 67 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Back by the grove and haunted mound 
 O'er the lone road I know not how 
 
 Hearkened afar my baying hound 
 Home at last at the low hilPs brow. 
 
 Lone the cottage — the door flung wide 
 Four lights burned — oh sight of dread! 
 
 Breathing a prayer, I rushed inside, 
 "Mercy, God!" 'twas my mother, dead! 
 
 Dead and white as the fallen leaf 
 (Kneeling my sister prayed near by) 
 
 Wild as I wrestled with my grief 
 
 Far and faint came the Banshee's cry. 
 
 68 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 THE KED WALLS OF LIMERICK. 
 A Brigade Ballad. 
 
 There's bitter woe in Erin since the Wild 
 Geese sailed away, 
 
 The clairseach * sobs with sorrow now, that 
 erst rang loud and gay; 
 
 Unheard the tramp of Sarsfield's Horse and 
 D'Usson's bugle-bray. 
 Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the lost pride of Limer- 
 ick! 
 
 The treaty is broken and our wrongs are un- 
 redressed, 
 
 A murdered peasant's hanging high on yon- 
 der mountain crest; 
 
 See there a starving mother, with a dead child 
 to her breast. 
 Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the black woes of Lim- 
 erick! 
 
 * Clairseach — the harp. 
 
 69 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Go DMa, but these deathly days hang like a 
 funeral pall 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the battle break 'gainst 
 belching fort and wall; 
 
 Dutch William's stormers stagger back from 
 shearing blade and ball. 
 Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the Eed Walls of Lim- 
 erick ! 
 
 How leaped our hearts when Lucan's Horse 
 swept by at thunderous pace! 
 
 How cheered we Dillon's dancing plume, and 
 Berwick's martial grace! 
 
 Ah ! days indeed ! Our tender maids feared not 
 grim death to face, 
 Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the lone homes of Lim- 
 erick! 
 
 But Sarsfield and his "Slashers" all have 
 
 sailed away to France, 
 On Europe's shaking battle-fields their fiery 
 
 chargers prance. 
 And Erin — hapless Erin, now has not one 
 guarding lance. 
 Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the dead hopes of Lim- 
 erick! 
 
 70 
 
Irish Misi and Sunshine 
 
 Broad Shannon's eddying waters hurry out- 
 ward to the sea, 
 
 A hundred exile-bearing ships adown its wide 
 gate flee! 
 
 Alone I wait the shadows of the night that is 
 to be. 
 Mo nuar! Mo nuar! the lost cause of Limer- 
 ick! 
 
 71 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 LAV-LAIDHIR ABU. 
 
 C^ About this time a great disgrace fell upon the 
 nolle family of O^Brien; for the chieftain Mur- 
 rough, a man brave beyond compare, and of come- 
 ly parts, went over to the English with part of his 
 clan, and waged war ivithout mercy against his 
 kinsmen and former friends. So terrible in sooth 
 were his devastations that he thereafter was 
 known to the Irish as ^Murrough the Burner.^ "j 
 Old Chronicler. 
 
 My head is bowed, and my heart is breaking, 
 
 My Clairseach dumb for my country's shame, 
 This burden black from my spirit shaking, 
 I'll strike again to an ancient name. 
 Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
 That shout thrilled many a field of fame, 
 Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
 
 72 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 A bard am I of a house dishonored; 
 
 A song unsaddened no longer mine; 
 Loud rang my harp amid hosts embannered, 
 When Erin's shield was the race of Brian. 
 Lav-Laidhir Ahu! 
 Lord God, look down on a princely line, 
 Lav-Laidhir Ahu! 
 
 Flash forth, Kincora, thy halls of glory, 
 
 Come, famed Clontarf, to my sad soul's 
 sight, 
 A thousand fields where in battle gory 
 
 The Strong Hand wrestled for Erin's right. 
 Lav-Laidhir Ahu! 
 Thrice cursed be he that its strength would 
 blight, 
 
 Lav-Laidhir Ahu! 
 
 Accursed be he upon plain and mountain, 
 
 Acenrspd a;9:aiTi upon shore and wave, 
 Shame's hot breath poison his heart's life- 
 fountain. 
 Shallow and red his polluted grave. 
 Lav-Laidhir Ahu! 
 A haughty house, has it borne a slave? 
 Lav-Laidhir Ahu! 
 73 
 
Irish Mist ana Sunshine 
 
 Murrough the Burner! from Croome to Con- 
 naught 
 I see the smoke of your conquests rise; 
 Maddened with slaughter, your kerne and 1)071- 
 naght 
 Affright out valleys with murderous cries. 
 Lav-LaidJiir Ahu! 
 The dumb beasts e'en from their presence flies, 
 
 Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
 Green bosomed Thomond, your bloom is faded, 
 
 Proud Cashel's portals your pride is fled, 
 Grim Murrough's butchers, by Satan aided, 
 Have made wide Desmond a house of dead. 
 Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
 But rise, ye clans to a vengeance dread! 
 Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
 
 Afar I hearken the banshee calling 
 
 Fierce Thommond's chief to his bloody 
 tomb — 
 Murrough the Burner, the bolt is falling, 
 Thy gibbering victims around thee loom. 
 Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
 Meet for a traitor a traitor's doom, 
 Lav-Laidhir Abu! 
 
 74 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 THE MARCH OF THE ^^NORTH CORK." 
 
 .4 Ballad of '98. 
 
 The summer morn was breaking in the valley 
 
 of the Suir, 
 The first faint sunbeams quivered on the river 
 
 running pure, 
 When out from Carrick's olden walls a gay 
 
 battalion strode, 
 And twice five hundred bayonets filed down 
 
 the dusty road. 
 
 Black Horsley of Dunmanaway, he faced his 
 
 men and said; 
 "Our journey's goal is Wexford Town, our 
 
 road lies straight ahead; 
 There's booty there, and fame to win for every 
 
 yeoman true; 
 My faith! we'll teach the rebel hordes what 
 
 royal swords can do!" 
 
 75 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 On marched the North Cork Regiment, a gal- 
 laud sight to see; 
 
 Their tall plumes fluttered in the breeze, their 
 bugles brayed with glee; 
 
 Past fair Mooncoin, past Granagh's tower, 
 past ancient Waterford, 
 
 And soon o'er Wexford's war-scarred fields 
 their crimson banner soared. 
 
 What fires are those that flash on high? What 
 shrieks that pierce the air? 
 
 'Tis not the flame of cannon's mouth, or battle- 
 trumpet's blare. 
 
 Oh Wexford! 'tis thy roofs that blaze, and 
 'tis thy women's cry; 
 
 Now up, and grasp thy gory pike the ven- 
 geance hour is nigh! 
 
 The mornings light was glancing bright on 
 
 many a gliding rill. 
 The rising sun was burnishing the slopes of 
 
 Culart Hill: 
 
 76 
 
Irish Mist a.nd Sunshine 
 
 From ston'^d Wexford's guarded gate a train 
 
 of yeomeu passed — 
 They little dreamed the march that day was 
 
 fated for their last. 
 
 At noon on Culart's moss-clad height loud 
 
 rang the musketry 
 And Wexford flung upon the foe her peasant 
 
 chivalry, 
 Short shrift the ruffian spoilers found when 
 
 gleamed the dreaded pike, 
 For vengeance nerved the patriot's arm and 
 
 pointed where to strike. 
 
 Old Enniscorthy next saw fall the "rebel's'^ 
 blow of hate, 
 
 When fled the fear-struck yeomanry from fa- 
 mous Duffry Gate; 
 
 They fell as fall the ripened crops when tem- 
 pest lashed them down. 
 
 And few and pale the fugitives that entered 
 Wexford Town. 
 
 77 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Such was the fate well-merited befell that 
 
 fiendish crew 
 The ravishers of peaceful homes, the butchers 
 
 of Carnew. 
 Light, Wexford, light thy triumph fires, till 
 
 hill and valley glow 
 And bless thy peasant-warriors that never 
 
 feared a foe! 
 
 The patriot flames they kindled then have 
 never since grown cold. 
 
 Today in Bargy and Idrone are hearts that 
 beat as bold, 
 
 And tho' the "Boys of Wexford" failed on fat- 
 al Vinegar Hill, 
 
 "They're ready for another fight and love their 
 country still." 
 
 78 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 THE PIKEMEN. 
 
 A Ballad of '98. 
 
 The troops are out in Bargy and the yeomen 
 
 in Idrone, 
 The pitch-caps and the gory lash make guilt- 
 less victims groan. 
 Red murder stalks the villages, and high the 
 
 roof trees flame, 
 Arise ye, men of Wexford now, or live in last- 
 ing shame! 
 Ye pikemen, bold pikemen, 
 Old Wexford calls her pikemen. 
 See, at her call, they muster all, 
 For vengeance now, grim pikemen! 
 
 The plough they leave by Slaney's banks, the 
 
 scythi' in soft Imayle, 
 And out through famous Scollagh gap, they 
 
 surge like autumn gale. 
 
 79 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Bold hearts are there from Ballaghkeen anr* 
 
 wooded Shilmaliere. 
 Sends many a stalwart rifleman to fill the foe 
 with fear. 
 The pikemen, the pikemen, 
 The stormy-cheering pikemen, 
 Broad Barrow's flood shall flow with 
 
 blood, 
 Rush in, ye rebel pikemen! 
 
 Above on sunny Oamarus the fraioc/t-blossoms 
 
 blow, 
 Grim massacre and pillage fright the fertile 
 
 vales below, 
 Eough Corrigrew is basking in the scented 
 
 summer gale. 
 In Gorey at the mountain-foot is heard the 
 maiden's wail. 
 Ye pikemen, brave pikemen, 
 Ha ! tarry not, ye pikemen ! 
 'Tis ycurs to quell that spawn of hell. 
 For hearths and homes, ye pikemen! 
 
 80 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 The morning sun is burnishing the slopes of 
 
 Culart Hill. 
 His low beam strikes on serried pikes, a sight 
 
 the soul to thrill. 
 Like flame athwart the ripened fields, from 
 
 Wexford's guarded gate 
 The "red North Cork"— their life-sands run- 
 march out to meet their fate. . 
 The pikemen, the pikemeii, 
 The dread, resistle^.^ pikemen, 
 Grim harvest now, on Oulart's brow 
 They reap, the rebel pikemen. 
 
 High noon in Enniseorthy — from the far- 
 famed Duffry Gate 
 The tyrant's smoking cannon hurl their mes- 
 sengers of hate. 
 In vain, in vain, his bullets gain, and thunder 
 
 loud the guns, 
 Those ranks accursed, the pikemen burst — 
 old Wexford's dashing sons ! 
 The pikemen, the pikemen. 
 They staggered from the pikemen. 
 Their black hearts feel 
 The patriot steel, 
 The vengeance of the pikf^men. 
 81 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 The "ancient Briton's" went to death on Tub- 
 
 berneering's Plain, 
 The Irish green at Taghmon waved o'er many 
 
 a foeman slain, 
 Oh, for an Owen Roe again to lead with Span- 
 ish steel! 
 From Wexford's bristling vanguard then, op- 
 pression's ranks should reel. 
 The pikemen, the pikemen, 
 A leader for the pikemen, 
 They heard with fear, your stormy 
 
 cheer 
 Ye mocked at death, fierce pikemen! 
 
 'Tis true, alas, ye fought, and failed when 
 
 stubborn Ross ran red, 
 The fatal slope of Vinegar Hill was matted 
 
 with your dead. 
 Unconquered souls! your fame shall live 
 
 while runs the rapid Nore, 
 All honor, deathless pikemen to your green 
 graves evermore! 
 The pikemen, the pikemen. 
 When Erin needs her pikemen, 
 God send her then heroic men 
 Like Wexford's fearless pikemen. 
 82 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 SONG OF THE LITTLE VILLAGES.* 
 
 The pleasant little villages that grace the Irish 
 
 glynns 
 Down among the wheat-fields, — up amid the 
 
 whins, 
 The little white walled villages crowding close 
 
 together, 
 Clinging to the Old Sod in spite of wind and 
 weather : 
 Ballytarsney, Ballymore, Ballyboden, Boyle, 
 Ballingarry, Ballymagorry by the Banks of 
 
 Foyle, 
 Ballylaneen, Ballyporeen, Bansha, Ballysa- 
 
 dare, 
 Ballybrack, Ballinalack, Barna, Ballyclare. 
 
 * All the names are genuine. 
 
 83 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 The cosy little villages that shelter from the 
 
 mist, 
 Where the great West Walls by ocean-spray 
 
 are kissed; 
 The happy little villages that cuddle in the sun 
 When blackberries ripen and the harvest worJi 
 is done. 
 Corrymeela, Croaghnakeela, Clogher, Cahir 
 
 civeen, 
 Cappaharoe, Carrigaloe, Cashel and Coo- 
 sheen, 
 Castlefinn and Carrigtohill, Crumlin, Clara, 
 
 Clane, 
 Carrigaholt, Carrigaline, Cloghjordan and 
 Coolrain. 
 
 The dreamy little villages, where by the fire at 
 
 night, 
 Old Shanachies with ghostly tale the boldest 
 
 hearts affright; 
 The crooning of the wind-blast is the wailing 
 
 Banshee's cry. 
 And when the silver hazels stir they say the 
 
 fairies sigh. 
 
 84 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 Kilfenora, Kilfinnane, Kinnity, Killylea, 
 Kilmoganny, Kiltamagh, Kilronan and Kil- 
 
 rea, 
 Kiilashandra, Kilmacow, Killiney, Killa- 
 
 shee, 
 Killenaule, Killmyshall, Killorglin and Kil- 
 leagh. 
 
 Leave the little villages, o'er the black seas go. 
 Learn the stranger's welcome, learn the exile's 
 
 woe, 
 Leave the little villages, but think not to for- 
 get 
 Afar they'll rise before your eyes to rack your 
 bosoms yet. 
 Moneymore, Money gall, Monivea and Moyne, 
 Mullinahone, Mullinavatt, Mullagh and 
 
 Mooncoin, 
 Shanagolden, Shanballymore, Stranorlar 
 
 and Slane, 
 Toberaheena, Toomyvara, Tempo and Sta- 
 bane. 
 
 85 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 On the Southern Llanos, — north where 
 
 strange light gleams, 
 Many a yearning exile sees them in his dreams 
 Dying voices murmur (passed all pain and 
 
 care) 
 "Lo! the little villages, God has heard our 
 prayer." 
 Lisdoonvarna, Lissadil, Lisdargan, Lisnas- 
 
 kea, 
 Portglenone, Portarlington, Portumna, Port- 
 
 magee, 
 Clonegam and Clonegowan, Oloondara and 
 
 Clonae, 
 God bless the little villages and guard them 
 night and day! 
 
 86 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 THE SWEET EIVER SUIR. 
 
 ", . . . TJie gentle Shure that making way 
 By siveet Clonmell, adorns rich Waterford.'^ 
 Spencer^s Faerie Queen, Booh IT, Canto XI, 
 
 From Devil's Bit to Tuurles, from Golden unto 
 Gahir, 
 By castle-crowned Ardfinan running pure 
 Past Carrick and Kilsheelan, ever sparkling, 
 ever wheeling 
 Flow the waters of the sweet river Suir. 
 
 The Galtees and Sheveardagh send their trib- 
 utes to its flood 
 The Anner comes from storied Sliav-na-mon 
 The sunshine and the shadows follow fast 
 across the meadows 
 Till the dews o' the morn are gone. 
 
 87 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 By rich flowery fields of the pleasant golden 
 vale 
 By broken Norman tower and hamlet white 
 The waters of the Suir saddest bosom would 
 allure 
 As they dance in the sun's mellow light. 
 
 The winds croon and sob thro' ruined abbey 
 walls 
 Low music floats from every fairy-mound 
 And weird, haunting rhymes of long-forgotten 
 times 
 In the flowing of the Suir resound. 
 
 In cool, sheltered glens where glossy hazels 
 nod 
 The wild linnet thrills a joyful lay 
 The thrush and blackbird singing, sweetest 
 melodies are flinging 
 Thro' brier-scented groves all day. 
 
 88 
 
Irish Mist and Sunshine 
 
 'Tis there now I'd be, for my heart is ever 
 there, 
 Where Tippreary and Kilkenny plains 
 stretch out 
 Where the rival Gaels are dashing, and the 
 stalwart hurlers' clashing 
 Is heard above the throng's great shout. 
 
 Ah fair is Killarney, where the smile of God is 
 
 seen 
 But when this life is ended and dust with duat 
 And dear to me thy woodlands Glenmalure 
 
 is blended 
 Let me rest by the sweet river Suir. 
 
LINOTYPE AND PRESS 
 BY NEWTON JOURNAL 
 NEWTON, MASS., FOR 
 Richard C. Badger & Co 
 BOSTON 
 
C20 '' 
 
% 
 
 
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UBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 014 677 174 9 I