THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 821,08 
 
 L7EI 
 
f 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 https://archive.org/details/littlegarlandofcOOunse 
 
A LITTLE GARLAND OF 
 CELTIC VERSE 
 
 f 
 
 
IVhen Summer twilights fally 
 And the white rose's truce is over ally 
 IVhen Winter walls us in^ and wild winds blow 
 Across the crumbling spaces of the snow^ 
 
 There will be alwaj^s one or two who hold 
 Earth's coin of less account than fairy gold ; 
 
 Their treasure^ not the spoil of crowds and Kings. 
 But the dim beauty at the heart of things^ 
 
 They find more magical than any saith 
 
 The old., old masque of Love^ of Life^ and Death. 
 
 L. M. LITTLE. 
 
A LITTLE GARLAND OF 
 CELTIC VERSE 
 
 PORTLAND MAINE 
 THOMAS B MOSHER 
 MDCCGGXYI 
 
FIRST EDITION, OCTOBER, I905 
 
 SECOND EDITION, JUNE, I907 
 
 THIRD EDITION, OCTOBER, I913 
 
 FOURTH EDITION, JULY, I916 
 
PROEM 
 
 CELTIC SPEECH 
 To Dr. Douglas Hyde 
 
 N ever forgetful silence fall on thee, 
 
 Nor younger voices overtake thee, 
 
 Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee ; 
 Old music heard by Mona of the sea : 
 
 And where with moving melodies there break thee 
 Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee. 
 
 Like music lives, nor may that music die, 
 
 Still in the far, fair Gaelic places : 
 
 The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces. 
 
 Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy : 
 
 The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces. 
 
 And wakes remembrance of great things gone by. 
 
 Like music by the desolate Land’s End 
 Mournful forgetfulness hath broken : 
 
 No more words kindred to the winds are spoken, 
 Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expend 
 That strength, whereof the unalterable token 
 Remains wild music, even to the world’s end. 
 
 LIONEL JOHNSON. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DEIRDRE’S LAMENT FOR THE SONS 
 
 OF USNACH .... 3 
 
 THE MADNESS OF KING GOLL . 7 
 
 THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE . 10 
 
 AEDH TELLS OF THE ROSE IN HIS 
 
 HEART 11 
 
 INTO THE TWILIGHT . . . 12 
 
 A FAERY SONG . ' . . 13 
 
 DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS 14 
 
 TO THE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF 
 
 TIME 15 
 
 OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY 17 
 
 MAY EVE ..... 19 
 
 WHERE ARE YOU GOING . • 21 
 
 THREE SONGS FROM MUIRGEIS . 23 
 
 THE WAVES OF BREFFNY . . 26 
 
 INISHAIL 27 
 
 “where you buy joy for a 
 
 9 > 
 
 PENNY 
 
 29 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE 
 
 BARLEY 31 
 
 “beauty’s a flower’’ . . 32 
 
 SEA WRACK 33 
 
 CORRYMEELA .... 35 
 
 A BROKEN SONG .... 37 
 
 “l HAVE BEEN TO HY-BRASAIL ’’ 38 
 
 IN TIR-NA’N-OG .... 39 
 
 TO MORFYDD .... 41 
 
 EPILOGUE 42 
 
 vin 
 
A LITTLE GARLAND OF 
 CELTIC VERSE 
 
 
Lovely and loved, O passionate land! 
 Dear Celtic land, unconquered still ! 
 
 Thy mountain strength prevails : 
 
 Thy winds have all their wilU 
 
 They have no care for meaner things ; 
 They have no scorn for brooding dreams : 
 A spirit in them sings, 
 
 A light about them beams. 
 
 LIONEL JOHNSON. 
 
DEIRDRE’S LAMENT FOR THE 
 SONS OF USNACH 
 
 From the Irish 
 
 HE lions of the hill are gone, 
 And I am left alone — alone — 
 Dig the grave both wide and 
 deep, 
 
 For I am sick, and fain would 
 sleep ! 
 
 The falcons of the wood are flown, 
 
 And I am left alone — alone — 
 
 Dig the grave both deep and wide. 
 
 And let us slumber side by side. 
 
 The dragons of the rock are sleeping. 
 
 Sleep that wakes not for our weeping — 
 
 Dig the grave, and make it ready, 
 
 Lay me on my true-love’s body. 
 
 3 
 
Lay their spears and bucklers bright 
 By the warriors' sides aright; 
 
 Many a day the three before me 
 On their linked bucklers bore me. 
 
 Lay upon the low grave floor, 
 
 'Neath each head, the blue claymore ; 
 Many a time the noble three 
 Reddened these blue blades for me. 
 
 Lay the collars, as is meet. 
 
 Of their greyhounds at their feet ; 
 
 Many a time for me have they 
 Brought the tall red deer to bay. 
 
 In the falcon's jesses throw. 
 
 Hook and arrow, line and bow; 
 
 Never again, by stream or plain. 
 
 Shall the gentle woodsmen go. 
 
 Sweet companions, ye were ever — 
 
 Harsh to me, your sister, never; 
 
 Woods and wilds, and misty valleys. 
 Were with you as good 's a palace. 
 
 O, to hear my true-love singing. 
 
 Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing ; 
 
 Like the sway of ocean swelling 
 Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling. 
 
 4 
 
O ! to hear the echoes pealing 
 Round our green and fairy sheeling, 
 When the three, with soaring chorus, 
 Passed the silent skylark o'er us. 
 
 Echo now, sleep, morn and even — 
 Lark alone enchant the heaven ! 
 Ardan's lips are scant of breath, 
 Neesa's tongue is cold in death. 
 
 Stag, exult on glen and mountain — 
 Salmon, leap from loch to fountain — 
 Heron, in the free air warm ye — 
 Usnach's sons no more will harm ye ! 
 
 Erin's stay no more you are. 
 
 Rulers of the ridge of war ; 
 
 Never more 't will be your fate 
 To keep the beam of battle straight ! 
 
 Woe is me ! by fraud and wrong. 
 Traitors false and tyrants strong. 
 
 Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold. 
 For Barach's feast and Conor's gold ! 
 
 Woe to Eman, roof and wall ! 
 
 Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall ! 
 Tenfold woe and black dishonour 
 To the foul and false Clan Conor ! 
 
 5 
 
Dig the grave both wide and deep, 
 
 Sick I am, and fain would sleep ! 
 
 Dig the grave and make it ready, 
 
 Lay me on my true-love’s body. 
 
 Sir Samuel Ferguson. 
 
 6 
 
THE MADNESS OF KING GOLL 
 
 T SAT on cushioned otter skin : 
 
 My word was law from Ith to Emen, 
 
 And shook at Invar Amargin 
 
 The hearts of the world-troubling seamen, 
 
 And drove tumult and war away 
 From girl and boy and man and beast ; 
 
 The fields grew fatter day by day, 
 
 The wild fowl of the air increased ; 
 
 And every ancient Ollave said. 
 
 While he bent down his fading head, 
 
 ‘ He drives away the Northern cold/ 
 
 They will not hushy the leaves a-flutter round 
 me, the beech leaves old. 
 
 I sat and mused and drank sweet wine ; 
 
 A herdsman came from inland valleys, 
 
 Crying, the pirates drove his swine 
 To fill their dark-beaked hollow galleys. 
 
 I called my battle-breaking men. 
 
 And my loud brazen battle-cars 
 From rolling vale and rivery glen ; 
 
 And under the blinking of the stars 
 Fell on the pirates by the deep. 
 
 And hurled them in the gulph of sleep : 
 
 These hands won many a torque of gold. 
 
 They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round 
 me, the beech leaves old. 
 
 7 
 
But slowly, as I shouting slew 
 And trampled in the bubbling mire, 
 
 In my most secret spirit grew 
 A whirling and a wandering fire : 
 
 I stood : keen stars above me shone. 
 
 Around me shone keen eyes of men : 
 
 I laughed aloud and hurried on 
 By rocky shore and rushy fen ; 
 
 I laughed because birds fluttered by. 
 
 And starlight gleamed, and clouds flew high. 
 And rushes waved and waters rolled. 
 
 They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round 
 me, the beech leaves old. 
 
 And now I wander in the woods 
 When summer gluts the golden bees, 
 
 Or in autumnal solitudes 
 Arise the leopard-coloured trees ; 
 
 Or when along the wintry strands 
 The cormorants shiver on their rocks ; 
 
 I wander on, and wave my hands. 
 
 And sing, and shake my heavy locks. 
 
 The grey wolf knows me ; by one ear 
 I lead along the woodland deer ; 
 
 The hares run by me growing bold. 
 
 They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round 
 me, the beech leaves old. 
 
 8 
 
I came upon a little town, 
 
 That slumbered in the harvest moon, 
 
 And passed a-tiptoe up and down, 
 
 Murmuring, to a fitful tune, 
 
 How I have followed, night and day, 
 
 A tramping of tremendous feet. 
 
 And saw where this old tympan lay. 
 
 Deserted on a doorway seat. 
 
 And bore it to the woods with me ; 
 
 Of some unhuman misery 
 Our married voices wildly trolled. 
 
 They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round 
 me, the beech leaves old, 
 
 I sang how, when day’s toil is done. 
 
 Orchil shakes out her long dark hair 
 
 That hides away the dying sun 
 
 And sheds faint odours through the air : 
 
 When my hand passed from wire to wire 
 It quenched, with sound like falling dew, 
 
 The whirling and the wandering fire ; 
 
 But lift a mournful ulalu. 
 
 For the kind wires are torn and still. 
 
 And I must wander wood and hill 
 Through summer’s heat and winter’s cold. 
 
 They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round 
 me, the beech leaves old, 
 
 W, B, Yeats, 
 
 9 
 
THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE 
 
 T WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 
 And a small cabin build there, of clay and 
 wattles made ; 
 
 Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for 
 the honey bee. 
 
 And live alone in the bee-loud glade. 
 
 And I shall have some peace there, for peace 
 comes dropping slow, 
 
 Dropping from the veils of the morning to 
 where the cricket sings ; 
 
 There midnight 's all a glimmer, and noon a 
 purple glow. 
 
 And evening full of the linnet’s wings. 
 
 I) will arise and go now, for always night and 
 day 
 
 I hear lake water lapping with low sounds 
 by the shore ; 
 
 While I stand on the roadway, or on the pave- 
 ments grey, 
 
 I hear it in the deep heart’s core. 
 
 W. B. Yeats, 
 
 10 
 
AEDH TELLS OF THE ROSE IN HIS 
 
 HEART 
 
 A LL things uncomely and broken, all things 
 
 ^ ^ worn out and old, 
 
 The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of 
 a lumbering cart. 
 
 The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing 
 the wintry mould, 
 
 Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose 
 in the deeps of my heart. 
 
 The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too 
 great to be told ; 
 
 I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green 
 knoll apart. 
 
 With the earth and the sky and the water, 
 remade, like a casket of gold 
 
 For my dreams of your image that blossoms a 
 rose in the deeps of my heart. 
 
 IV, B, Yeats, 
 
 11 
 
INTO THE TWILIGHT 
 
 /^[JT-WORN heart, in a time out-worn, 
 Come clear of the nets of wrong and 
 right ; 
 
 Laugh heart again in the grey twilight. 
 
 Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn. 
 
 Your mother Erie is always young. 
 
 Dew ever shining and twilight grey ; 
 
 Though hope fall from you and love decay. 
 Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue. 
 
 Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill : 
 For there the mystical brotherhood 
 Of sun and moon and hollow and wood 
 And river and stream work out their will ; 
 
 And God stands winding His lonely horn. 
 
 And time and the world are ever in flight; 
 
 And love is less kind than the grey twilight. 
 And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn. 
 
 IT. B, Yeats. 
 
 12 
 
A FAERY SONG 
 
 Sung hy the people of faery over Diarmiud and Grant a, 
 who lay in their bridal sleep under a Cromlech 
 
 W E who are old, old and gay? 
 
 O so old ! 
 
 Thousands of years, thousands of years, 
 
 If all were told : 
 
 Give to these children, new from the world. 
 Silence and love ; 
 
 And the long dew-dropping hours of the night. 
 And the stars above : 
 
 Give to these children, new from the world. 
 Rest far from men. 
 
 Is anything better, anything better 
 Tell us it then : 
 
 Us who are old, old and gay : 
 
 O so old ! 
 
 Thousands of years, thousands of years, 
 
 If all were told. 
 
 W, B. Yeats, 
 
 13 
 
DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS^ 
 
 D own by the Salley gardens my love and 
 I did meet; 
 
 She passed the salley gardens with little snow- 
 white feet. 
 
 She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow 
 on the tree ; 
 
 But I, young and foolish, with her would not 
 agree. 
 
 In a field by the river my love and I did stand. 
 And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow- 
 white hand. 
 
 She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on 
 the weirs ; 
 
 But I was young and foolish, and now am full 
 of tears. 
 
 IV. B. Yeats. 
 
 * Down hy the Salley Gardens. — An extension of 
 three lines sung to me by an old woman at Ballisodare. 
 
 14 
 
TO THE ROSE UPON THE ROOD 
 
 OF TIME 
 
 'P ED Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my 
 days ! 
 
 Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways : 
 Cuhoollin battling with the bitter tide; 
 
 The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed, 
 Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold ; 
 And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old 
 In dancing silver sandalled on the sea. 
 
 Sing in their high and lonely melody. 
 
 Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate, 
 I find under the boughs of love and hate. 
 
 In all poor foolish things that live a day, 
 Eternal beauty wandering on her way. 
 
 Come near, come near, come near — Ah, leave 
 me still 
 
 A little space for the rose-breath to fill ! 
 
 Lest I no more hear common things that crave ; 
 The weak worm hiding down in its small cave. 
 The field mouse running by me in the grass. 
 And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass ; 
 
 But seek alone to hear the strange things said 
 By God to the bright hearts of those long dead. 
 
 15 
 
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know. 
 Come near ; I would, before my time to go, 
 Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways : 
 
 Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days. 
 
 W. B. Yeats. 
 
 16 
 
OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY 
 
 To E. Neshit 
 
 T AST night, last night, in the dark o’ the 
 moon 
 
 Into my dreams slid a faery tune . . . 
 
 It slew the dreams that I dreamed of him, 
 With its moonshine music, faint and dim. 
 What tune should the fairy pipers play 
 But “Over the Hills and Far Away?” 
 
 The music called to my idle feet. 
 
 And O ! the music was wild and sweet : 
 
 I left my dreams and my lonely bed. 
 
 And followed afar wher^ the music led — 
 
 And never a tune did the pipers play 
 But “ Over the Hills and Far Away.” 
 
 Over the hills and far away. 
 
 What love has tenderer words to say? 
 
 Love that lifteth or bows the head. 
 
 Love that liveth or love that ’s dead ? 
 
 Hills that are far away are fair. 
 
 And I followed the ghost of my lover there. 
 
 We danced all night in a silent band, 
 
 I and my lover, hand in hand : 
 
 17 
 
We danced, nor knew till the dew was dry 
 That deep slept Donat and lone slept I — 
 We took no thought of the coming day 
 Over the hills and far away. 
 
 My eyes are blind with the growing light, 
 And O my grief ! that the day was night — 
 For my heart is broke, for my lover's eyes. 
 And all day long in my ears there cries 
 The tune of the fairy pipes that play 
 ‘‘Over the Hills and Far Away." 
 
 Nora Chesson. 
 
 18 
 
MAY EVE 
 
 T HERE'S a crying at my window, and a 
 hand upon my door, 
 
 And a stir among the yarrow that's fading on 
 the floor : 
 
 The voice cries at my window, the hand at my 
 door beats on, 
 
 But if I heed and answer them, sure, hand and 
 voice are gone. 
 
 You would not heed my calling once, and now 
 why w’ould I hear? 
 
 You would not hold my wistful hand, but let 
 it fall, my dear : 
 
 You would not give me word or look, but went 
 your silent way. 
 
 Oh, wirrasthrue, dumb mouth of you that had 
 so much to say. 
 
 Be still, my dear : I heed, I hear, but cannot 
 help you now. 
 
 The rose is dead that was so red, and snow 's 
 upon her bough. 
 
 Be still, be still a little while, for I shall surely 
 come 
 
 And kiss the sorrow from your eyes, and from 
 your kind lips dumb. 
 
 19 
 
Be patient now, avourneen ! you may not lift 
 the latch : 
 
 Go hence : the wind is bitter cold that whistles 
 through the thatch. 
 
 The wind is cold, and I am old, but you ’re 
 young and fair to see, 
 
 And my heart turns to you night and day, my 
 fair love leaving me ! 
 
 Nora Chesson, 
 
 20 
 
WHERE ARE YOU GOING? 
 
 W HERE are you going 
 
 O muirnean, muirnean ? 
 
 Beyond all snowing, 
 
 Beyond all reach 
 Of tenderest speech, 
 
 Or waves that break 
 Upon any beach ; 
 
 Or wind’s rough blowing 
 On linn or lake — 
 
 It ’s there is going 
 Your muirnean O. 
 
 Where are you going, 
 
 O muirnean, muirnean ? 
 
 Love is not knowing 
 Why you fell weary. 
 
 Why you found dreary 
 
 The way all feet in the world are going. 
 
 Stay with us, dearie — 
 
 Ah, muirnean, 01 
 
 I must be going ; 
 
 Though you stand nearest 
 Of all, and dearest. 
 
 You cannot keep me, for I must go. 
 Though my heart ’s breaking 
 That I ’m forsaking 
 
 21 
 
The faces kent and the ways I know : 
 
 I ’ll not be staying 
 For all your praying, 
 
 For all the gifts in kind Love’s bestowing. 
 I must not stay though you hold me so, 
 Ah no, no, no ! 
 
 My bird ’s the raven ; 
 
 The doves no more 
 Will I be heeding. 
 
 Will I be feeding 
 Here at my door. 
 
 Crooning together 
 As once of old. 
 
 My bed ’s the heather, 
 
 My bed is green. 
 
 And it is not cold. 
 
 To the quiet haven 
 My boat is going. 
 
 Where no wind ’s blowing 
 Or storm has been. 
 
 The Ninth Wave’s creeping 
 About my feet : 
 
 Let me go. Sweet — 
 
 I ’m to my sleeping 
 And fain to go. 
 
 O muirneariy muirnean, 
 
 My muirnean Of 
 
 Nora Chesson, 
 
 22 
 
THREE SONGS FROM MUIRGEIS 
 AN IRISH PLAY 
 
 I 
 
 T he heart that’s set upon a rose 
 
 Must break when summer goes; 
 All flowers must as pilgrims fare 
 When winter’s trumpet blows. 
 September .sees the rose-tree bare, 
 
 And no October knows 
 What roses are, what roses were — 
 
 My love is not a rose ! 
 
 My love shall be a splendid star 
 That shines apart, afar. 
 
 Time cannot dim her lovely light. 
 
 Nor winds on it make war ; 
 
 The wide-eyed day, the dreamful night 
 Behold no envy mar 
 One rose of light that burns up blight 
 As fuel for a star. 
 
 23 
 
II 
 
 I CALL thee from the changing land 
 To the unchanging sea; 
 
 I bring a bride-gift in my hand 
 Of immortality. 
 
 The land is fair, but fairer far 
 The pastures of the sea. 
 
 Canst thou reach down the lowest star? 
 
 My sea-fires gleam for thee. 
 
 All rivers run unto one end 
 And perish in the sea ; 
 
 Turn thou from lover and from friend, 
 And give thine heart to me. 
 
 Thy love shall suffer change and dearth. 
 Thy friend the years estrange ; 
 
 There is no faithfulness on earth — 
 
 The sea will never change. 
 
 24 
 
Ill 
 
 M y heart is heavy night and day, my fair 
 love leaving me, 
 
 That from my path you turned away to dwell 
 among the Shee, 
 
 Where none grows old and none grows cold 
 for hope or memory ; 
 
 I am most sad while you are glad, my fair love 
 leaving me. 
 
 Now every day and all night long I wear the 
 bitter rue 
 
 And hear a wayward faery song when I would 
 dream of you. 
 
 In all men’s ears my tale is told, my grief ’s for 
 all to see. 
 
 Sad for your sake I sleep and wake, my fair 
 love leaving me. 
 
 You come not even to my dreams between the 
 night and day. 
 
 And have you drunk of faery streams that 
 washed your love away, 
 
 O heart of gold, and left you cold as water and 
 as free.^ 
 
 Ah ! wirrasthrue, my heart’s with you, my fair 
 love leaving me. 
 
 Nora Chess on. 
 
 25 
 
THE WAVES OF BREFFNY 
 
 T he grand road from the mountain goes 
 shining to the sea, 
 
 And there is traffic on it and many a horse and 
 cart; 
 
 But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far 
 to me 
 
 And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling 
 through my heart. 
 
 A great storm from the ocean goes shouting 
 o’er the hill, 
 
 And there is glory in it, and terror on the wind ; 
 But the haunted air of twilight is very strange 
 and still, 
 
 And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my 
 mind. 
 
 The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storm- 
 ing on their way, 
 
 Shining green and silver with the hidden herring 
 shoal ; 
 
 But the little waves of Breffny have drenched 
 my heart in spray. 
 
 And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling 
 through my soul. 
 
 Eva Gore-Booth, 
 
 26 
 
INISHAIL 
 
 I WILL go, and leave the streetways, 
 And the world’s wild, dinsome places, 
 With the hurrying, weary feetways. 
 
 And the folks of frenzied faces ; 
 
 I will go through darkened spaces, 
 Morning glad, or starlight pale. 
 
 Through the rivers and the passes. 
 
 Till I find, among the grasses. 
 
 Long sweet sleep among the grasses 
 Of the graves of Inishail. 
 
 Ah, ye daunt me, with your wonder. 
 
 And your toils about you lying, 
 
 O ye cities, with your thunder. 
 
 And your children in you, dying. 
 
 And I weary, ever sighing. 
 
 For the whisper of the West, 
 
 Where the glow and glamour meeting. 
 And the waves on long shores beating. 
 Are but echoes of the beating 
 Of the life’s blood in my breast. 
 
 I will plait a roof of rashes 
 
 For the low place of my sleeping, 
 Where the wistful water plashes. 
 
 27 
 
Crooning, croodling, laughing, weeping, 
 And the winds from Cruachan sweeping 
 Join their gladness and their wail ; 
 
 Till the angels' glory blinds me, 
 
 And the long sleep comes and finds me. 
 In the tangled grasses finds me. 
 
 By the graves in Inishail. 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 28 
 
“WHERE YOU BUY JOY FOR A 
 
 PENNY ’’ 
 
 Y OU may buy joy for a penny yonder in 
 Tir na n’Og. 
 
 If you were King of Ireland or but a barefoot 
 rogue 
 
 Your chances would be equal, for, och, the 
 roads are many, 
 
 But they lead to one fair country where they 
 sell joy for a penny. 
 
 The king has got a goodly queen, and many a 
 loyal vassal. 
 
 And the blessings of the poor are the keepers 
 of his castle ; 
 
 But his queen’s hands cannot hold him, his 
 queen’s heart cannot keep : 
 
 For voices out of Tir na n’Og have called 
 across his sleep. 
 
 “ Let down, let down the drawbridge, bring in 
 my horse from grass. 
 
 Let others loiter through their lives, and watch 
 the shadows pass. 
 
 Longer and ever longer; at noon I must away. 
 When shadows are at shortest, and time takes 
 holiday. 
 
 29 
 
The king has ridden westward, the way the 
 bright sun goes, 
 
 And the beggar by the roadside the selfsame 
 calling knows; 
 
 The girl that begs beside him, and makes her 
 arm his pillow. 
 
 He leaves her with a light farewell, and she 
 may wear the willow. 
 
 Now he that rides and wears a crown, and he 
 that tramps his way 
 
 Together find the selfsame goal at dropping of 
 the day; 
 
 Though one has climbed the Golden Spears, 
 one gone by lowlands fenny. 
 
 Both come at last to Tir na n'Og, where you 
 may buy joy for a penny. 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 30 
 
THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE 
 
 BARLEY 
 
 ^ I ^HERE’S music in my heart all day, 
 
 I hear it late and early, 
 
 It comes from fields are far away. 
 
 The wind that shakes the barley. 
 
 Ochone ! 
 
 Above the uplands drenched with dew, 
 
 The sky hangs soft and pearly. 
 
 An emerald world is listening to 
 The wind that shakes the barley. 
 
 Ochone ! 
 
 Above the bluest mountain crest 
 The lark is singing rarely, 
 
 It rocks the singer into rest. 
 
 The wind that shakes the barley. 
 
 Ochone ! 
 
 Oh, still through summers and through springs 
 It calls me late and early. 
 
 Come home, come home, come home, it sings, 
 The wind that shakes the barley. 
 
 Ochone ! 
 
 Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 
 
 31 
 
“BEAUTY’S A FLOWER” 
 
 yjOUTH^Sfor an hour, 
 
 Beauty ’j a flower. 
 
 But love is the jewel that wins the world. 
 
 Youth ’s for an hour, an’ the taste o’ life is sweet, 
 Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet; 
 In all my days I never seen the^ one as fair as 
 she, 
 
 I ’d have lost my life for Ailes, an’ she never 
 cared for me. 
 
 Beauty ’s a flower, an’ the days o’ life are long. 
 There’ little knowin’ who may live to sing 
 another song; 
 
 For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife, 
 An’ Mary — God be good to her! — is all I love 
 in life. 
 
 Youth *s for an hour, 
 
 Beauty ’j a flower. 
 
 But love is the jewel that wins the world, 
 
 Moira Neill. 
 
 32 
 
SEA WRACK 
 
 ^ I ^HE wrack was dark an’ shiny where it 
 floated in the sea, 
 
 There was no one in the brown boat but only 
 him an’ me; 
 
 Him to cut the sea wrack, me to mind the boat, 
 
 An’ not a word between us the hours we were 
 afloat. 
 
 The wet wrack. 
 
 The sea wrack. 
 
 The wrack was strong to cut. 
 
 We laid it on the grey rocks to wither in the 
 sun, 
 
 An’ what should call my lad then, to sail from 
 Cushendun? 
 
 With a low moon, a full tide, a swell upon the 
 deep. 
 
 Him to sail the old boat, me to fall asleep. 
 
 The dry wrack, 
 
 The sea wrack. 
 
 The wrack was dead so soon. 
 
 There’ a fire low upon the rocks to burn the 
 wrack to kelp. 
 
 There’ a boat gone down upon the Moyle, an’ 
 sorra one to help! 
 
 33 
 
Him beneath the salt sea, me upon the shore, 
 By sunlight or moonlight we ’ll lift the wrack 
 no more. 
 
 The dark wrack, 
 
 The sea wrack. 
 
 The wrack may drift ashore. 
 
 Moira a Neill 
 
 34 
 
CORRYMEELA 
 
 /^VER here in England I ’m helpin’ wi’ the 
 
 ^ hay, 
 
 An’ I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day ; 
 
 Weary on the English hay, an’ sorra take the 
 wheat! 
 
 Och! Corrymeela art the blue sky over it. 
 
 There’ a deep dumb river flowin’ by beyont the 
 heavy trees. 
 
 This livin’ air is moithered wi’ the bummin’ 
 o’ the bees; 
 
 I wisht I ’d hear the Claddagh burn go runnin’ 
 through the heat 
 
 Past Corrymeela, wV the blue sky over it. 
 
 The people that ’s in England is richer nor the 
 Jews, 
 
 There’ not the smallest young gossoon but 
 thravels in his shoes! 
 
 I ’d give the pipe between me teeth to see a 
 barefut child, 
 
 Och! Corrymeela an the low south wind. 
 
 Here ’s hands so full o’ money an’ hearts so full 
 o’ care. 
 
 By the luck o’ love! I ’d still go light for all 
 I did go bare. 
 
 35 
 
“God save ye, colleen dhas,^' I said: the girl 
 she thought me wild. 
 
 Far Corrymeelay an the low south wind. 
 
 D' ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial 
 hard to raise, 
 
 The girls are heavy goin’ here, the boys are 
 ill to plase; 
 
 When one'st I 'm out this workin’ hive, 't is I ’ll 
 be back again — 
 
 Ayy Corrymeelay in the same soft rain. 
 
 The puff o’ smoke from one ould roof before 
 an English town ! 
 
 For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I ’d give 
 a silver crown. 
 
 For a curl o’ hair like Mollie’s ye’ll ask the like 
 in vain. 
 
 Sweet Corrymeelay a7t^ the same soft rain, 
 
 Moira Neill, 
 
 36 
 
A BROKEN SONG 
 
 HERE am I from ? ’ From the green 
 hills of Erin. 
 
 ^ Have I no song then f ’ My songs are all sung. 
 ‘ What 0^ my love ? ’ ’T is alone I am farin’. 
 Old grows my heart, an’ my voice yet is young. 
 
 ' If she was tall? ’ Like a king’s own daughter. 
 
 ^ If she was fair? ’ Like a mornin’ o’ May. 
 
 When she ’d come laughin’ ’t was the runnin’ 
 wather, 
 
 When she ’d come blushin’ ’t was the break o’ 
 day. 
 
 ^ Where did she dwell? ’ Where one’st I had 
 my dwellin’. 
 
 ^ Who loved her best ? ’ There’ no one now will 
 know. 
 
 ^ Where is she gone?"* Och, why would I be 
 tellin’l' 
 
 Where she is gone there I can never go. 
 
 Moira O' Neill, 
 
 37 
 
“I HAVE BEEN TO HY-BRASAIL ' 
 
 T HAVE been to Hy-Brasail, 
 
 And the Land of Youth have seen, 
 Much laughter have I heard there, 
 
 And birds amongst the green. 
 
 Many have I met there, 
 
 But no one ever old, 
 
 Yet I have left Hy-Brasail 
 Before my time was told. 
 
 Love have I known, too, 
 
 As I shall meet no more ; 
 
 Lost is the magic island. 
 
 And I cannot find the shore. 
 
 Since I have left Hy-Brasail, 
 
 Age has encompassed me. 
 
 She plucks me by the shoulder 
 And will not let me be. 
 
 Her face is grey and mournful, 
 
 Her hand is hard and cold, 
 
 Yet I have left Hy-Brasail 
 Before my time was told. 
 
 Dora Sigerso7i, 
 
 I One of the Enchanted Isles, sometimes seen in the 
 western seas from the shores of Ireland. 
 
 38 
 
IN TIR-NA’N-OG 
 
 In Tir-na n-Ogy 
 In Tir-na n-Ogy 
 
 Summer and spring go hand in hand, and in 
 the radiant weather 
 
 Brown autumn leaves and winter snow come 
 floating down together. 
 
 In Tir-na n- Og, 
 
 In Tir-na n- Og, 
 
 The sagans sway this way and that, the twisted 
 fern uncloses. 
 
 The quicken-berry hides its red above the 
 tender roses. 
 
 In Tirana n-Ogy 
 In Ttr-na n-Ogy 
 
 The blackbird lilts, the robin chirps, the linnet 
 wearies never. 
 
 They pipe to dancing feet of Sidhe and thus 
 shall pipe for ever. 
 
 In Ttr-na n-Ogy 
 In Tir-nol n-Ogy 
 
 All in a drift of apple-blooms my true love there 
 is roaming. 
 
 He will not come although I pray from dawn- 
 ing until gloaming. 
 
 39 
 
In Ttr-na\-0^, 
 
 In Tir-nd n-O^j 
 
 The Sidhe desired my Heart's Delight, they 
 lured him from my keeping, 
 
 He stepped within a fairy ring while all the 
 world was sleeping. 
 
 In Tir-ndn-Og, 
 
 In Ttr-ndn-Og, 
 
 He hath forgotten hill and glen where misty 
 shadows gather. 
 
 The bleating of the mountain sheep, the cabin 
 of his father. 
 
 In Tir-ndn-Og, 
 
 In Tir-ndn-Ogy 
 
 He wanders in a happy dream thro' scented 
 golden hours. 
 
 He flutes, to woo a fairy love, knee deep in 
 fairy flowers : 
 
 In Tir-ndn-Og, 
 
 In Tir-ndn-Ogy 
 
 No memory hath he of my face, no sorrow for 
 my sorrow. 
 
 My flax is spun, my wheel is hushed, and so I 
 wait the morrow. 
 
 Anna MacManuSy 
 
 (“ETHNA CARBERY.’’) 
 
 40 
 
TO MORFYDD 
 
 yV VOICE on the winds, 
 
 ^ ^ A voice by the waters, 
 Wanders and cries: 
 
 Oh ! what are the winds ? 
 
 And what are the waters ? 
 
 Mine are your eyes / 
 
 Western the winds are. 
 
 And western the waters, 
 
 Where the light lies: 
 
 Oh ! what are the winds ? 
 
 And what are the waters ? 
 
 Mine are your eyes! 
 
 Cold, cold, grow the winds. 
 
 And wild grow the waters. 
 
 Where the sun dies: 
 
 Oh! what are the winds ? 
 
 And what are the waters? 
 
 Mine are your eyes! 
 
 And down the night winds. 
 
 And down the night waters, 
 
 The music flies: 
 
 Oh ! what are the winds ? 
 
 And what are the waters ? 
 
 Cold be the winds, 
 
 And wild be the waters, 
 
 So mine be your eyes! 
 
 Lionel Johnson, 
 
 41 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 \\7 ELL — when all is said and done 
 
 ^ ^ Best within my narrow way — 
 May some angel of the sun 
 Muse memorial o’* er my clay : 
 
 Here was Beauty all betrayed 
 From the freedom of her state ; 
 
 From her human uses stayed 
 On an idle rhyme to wait. 
 
 Ally what deep despair might move 
 If the beauty lit a smile; 
 
 Or the heart was warm with love 
 That luas pondering the while. 
 
 He has built his monument 
 With the winds of time at strife. 
 
 Who could have before he went 
 Written on the Book of Life, 
 
 To the stars from which he came 
 Empty-handed he goes home. 
 
 He who might have wrought in flame 
 Only traced upon the foam,** 
 
 “A. E,** 
 
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