Lyra Celtica
IRISH (Modern and Contemporary) cont'd
Maura Du of Ballyshannon.
I.Maura du* of Ballyshannon!
Maura du, my flower of flowers!
Can you hear me there out seaward,
Calling back the bygone hours?
Maura du, my own, my honey!
With wild passion still aglow,
I am singing you the old songs
That I sung you long ago.
And you mind, love, how it ran on--
"In your eyes asthore machree!**
All my Heaven there I see,
And that's true!
Maura du!
Maura du of Ballyshannon!"II.
Maura du of Ballyshannon!
Maura du, my soul's one queen!
Big with love my heart is flying,
Where the grass is growing green.
Maura du, my own, my honey!
That I love you, well you know,
And still sing for you the old song,
That I sung you long ago.
And you mind, love, how it ran on--
"In your eyes asthore machree!**
All my Heaven there I see,
And that's true!
Maura du!
Maura du of Ballyshannon!"III
Maura du of Ballyshannon,
Maura du, the day is drear!
Ah, the night is long and weary,
Far away from you, my dear!
Maura du, my own, my honey!
Still let winds blow high or low,
I must sing to you the old song,
That I sung you long ago,
And you mind, love, how it ran on--
"In your eyes asthore machree!
All my Heaven there I see,
And that's true!
Maura du!
Maura du of BallyshannonlIV.
Maura du of Ballyshannon!
Maura du, when winds blow south,
I will with the birds fly homeward,
There to kiss your Irish mouth.
Maura du, my own, my honey!
When time is no longer foe,
By your side I'll sing the old song,
That I sung you long ago,
And you mind, love, how it ran on--
"In your eyes asthore machree!
All my Heaven there I see,
And that's true!
Maura du!
Maura du of Ballyshannon!"
*Maura du, "Dear Mary."
**asthore machree, "The darling of my heart."A Spinning Song.
My love to fight the Saxon goes,
And bravely shines his sword of steel,
A heron's feather decks his brows,
And a spur on either heel;
His steed is blacker than a sloe,
And fleeter than the falling star;
Amid the surging ranks he'll go
And shout for joy of war.Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle,
Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coatof steel.
Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties
To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.My love is pledged to Ireland's fight;
My love would die for Ireland's weal,
To win her back her ancient right,
And make her foemen reel.
Oh, close I'll clasp him to my breast
When homeward from the war he comes;
The fires shall light the mountain's crest,
The valley peal with drums.Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle,
Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel.
Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties
To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY (161)
A White Rose.
The red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
Oh, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.The Fountain of Tears.
If you go over desert and mountain,
Far into the country of Sorrow,
To-day and to-night and to-morrow,
And maybe for months and for years;
You shall come with a heart that is bursting
For trouble and toiling and thirsting,
You shall certainly come to the fountain
At length,--to the Fountain of Tears.Very peaceful the place is, and solely
For piteous lamenting and sighing,
And those who come living or dying
Alike from their hopes and their fears;
Full of Cyprus-like shadows the place is,
And statues that cover their faces:
But out of the gloom springs the holy
And beautiful Fountain of Tears.And it flows and it flows with a motion,
So gentle and lovely and listless,
And murmurs a tune so resistless
To him who hath suffered and hears--
You shall surely--without a word spoken,
Kneel down there and know your heart broken,
And yield to the long-curb'd emotion
That day by the Fountain of Tears.For it grows and it grows, as though leaping
Up higher the more one is thinking;
And even its tunes go on sinking
More poignantly into the ears:
Yea, so blesséd and good seems that fountain,
Reached after dry desert and mountain,
You shall fall down at length in your weeping
And bathe your sad face in the tears.Then, alas! while you lie there a season,
And sob between living and dying,
And give up the land you were trying
To find 'mid your hopes and your fears;
--O the world shall come up and pass oer you,
Strong men shall not stay to care for you,
Nor wonder indeed for what reason
Your way should seem harder than theirs.But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting
Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses,
Nor caring to raise your wet tresses
And look how the cold world appears,
O perhaps the mere silences round you
All things in that place grief hath found you,
Yea, e'en to the clouds o'er you drifting
May soothe you somewhat through your tears.You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes
Your face, as though someone had kissed you;
Or think at least some one who missed you
Hath sent you a thought,--if that cheers;
Or a bird's little song faint and broken,
May pass for a tender word spoken:
--Enough, while around you there rushes
That life-drowning torrent of tears.And the tears shall flow faster and faster,
Brim over, and baffle resistance,
And roll down bleared roads to each distance
Of past desolation and years;
Till they cover the place of each sorrow,
And leave you no Past and no Morrow:
For what man is able to master
And stem the great Fountain of Tears?But the floods of the tears meet and gather
The sound of them all grows like thunder:
--O into what bosom, I wonder,
Is poured the whole sorrow of years?
For Eternity only seems keeping
Account of the great human weeping:
May God then, the Maker and Father--
May he find a place for the tears!After Death.
Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall
mine eyes behold thy glory?
Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze
break at last upon thy story?When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a
sweet new sister hail thee,
Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence,
that have known but to bewail thee?Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, when
all men their tribute bring thee?
Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor,
when all poets' mouths shall sing thee?Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shouting of thy
exiled sons returning!
I should hear, tho' dead and mouldered, and the grave--
damps should not chill my bosom's burning.Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them
mid the shamrocks and the mosses,
And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver
as a captive dreamer tosses.I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, giant
sinews I should borrow--
Crying, "O my brothers, I have also loved her in her
loneliness and sorrow."Let me join with you the jubilant procession: let me
chant with you her story;
Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, now
mine eyes have seen her glory!"The Dead at Clonmacnois.
(From the Irish of Enoch o' Gillan.)In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,
Stands Saint Kieran's City fair;
And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations
Slumber there.There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest of the
Clan of Conn,
Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham
And the sacred knot thereon.There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,
There the sons of CairbrE sleep--
Battle banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses
Now their final posting keep.And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,
And right many a lord of Breagh;
Deep the sod above Clan CreidE and Clan Conaill,
Kind in hall and fierce in fray.Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter
In the red earth lies at rest;
Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,
Many a swan-white breast.Unknown Ideal.
Whose is the voice that will not let me rest?
I hear it speak.
Where is the shore will gratify my quest,
Show what I seek?
Not yours, weak Muse, to mimic that far voice,
With halting tongue;
No peace, sweet land, to bid my heart rejoice
Your groves among.Whose is the loveliness I know is by,
Yet cannot place?
Is it perfection of the sea or sky,
Or human face ?
Not yours, my pencil, to delineate
The splendid smile!
Blind in the sun, we struggle on with Fate
That glows the while.Whose are the feet that pass me, echoing
On unknown ways?
Whose are the lips that only part to sing
Through all my days?
Not yours, fond youth, to fill mine eager eyes
That still adore
Beauty that tarries not, nor satisfies
For evermore.Mo Cáilin Donn.
The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree,
And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are carolling their glee;
And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun,
All to deck a path of glory for my own Cáilin Donn!*O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!
More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree,
More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,
Is the coming of my true love-my own Cáilin Donn!O Sycamore! O Sycamore! wave, wave your banners green--
Let all your pennons flutter, O Beech! before my queen!
Ye fleet and honied breezes, to kiss her hand ye run;
But my heart has passed before ye to my own Cáilin Donn!O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!
Ring out, ring out, O Linden! your merry leafy bells!
Unveil your brilliant torches, O Chestnut! to the dells
Strew, strew the glade with splendour, for morn it cometh on!
Oh, the morn of all delight to me--my own Cáilin Donn!O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!
She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day;
There's a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away;
O, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of Freedom's won,
Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cáilin Donn!O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!
More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree,
More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,
Is your coming, O my true love--my own Cáilin Donn!
*Pron. Colleen Dhun- a "brown (haired) girl."An Irish Love Song.
O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,
Girl of my choice, Maureen!
Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy sweet mouth denies,
Maureen!Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,
White rose of the West, Maureen;
For it's pale you are and the fear that's on you is over me too,
Maureen!Sure it's our complaint that's on us, asthore, this day,
Bride of my dreams, Maureen;
The smart of the bee that stung us, his honey must cure, they say,
Maureen!I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,
Mavourneen, my own Maureen,
When I feel the warmth of you breast, and your nest is my arms' embrace,
Maureen!O where was the King o' the World that day--only me,
My one true love, Maureen,
And you the Queen with me there, and you throne in my heart, machree,
Maureen!The Sunburst.
Through the midnight of despair, I heard one making moan
For her dead, her victors fall'n to gain all battles, but her own;
I heard the voice of Ireland, wailing for her dead
With wailing unvailing, and sobbing as she said:
"In vain in many a battle have my heroes fought and bled,
Like water, in vain slaughter, my son's best blood been shed,
For my house is desolate, discrowned my head!"In vain my daughters bear their babes--babes with the mournful eyes
Of children without father that hear strange lullabies,
Rocked in their lonely cradles by mothers crooning low,
And weeping o'er their sleeping, sad songs of long ago;
Whose eyes, as they remember, while the wailing night-winds blow,
Their nation's desolation, in their singing overflow
With the overflowing of an ancient woe!"O Mother, mournful Mother, turn from wailing for thy dead,
Grey Sibyl, still unvanquished, lift up thy dauntless head,
O thou Swan among the nations, enchanted long, so long
That the story of thy glory is a half-forgotten song,
Lift thy voice and bless the living, thy sons who round thee throng!
In the hour of their power they shall right thine ancient wrong;
In thyself is thy salvation, let thy heart be strong!The Leaf of many Sorrows, wet with thy tears for dew,
Emblem of thy long patience; that hearts, as brave and true
As those united hearts of green, through infamy and scorn,
Through the nation's tribulations, like Saints the cross, have worn,
We'll blazon with the Sunburst, star of thy destined morn,
Set in hope's hue, our ancient blue on royal banners borne;
And green the Shamrock long shall shine, no more forlorn!Bring from the craggy haunts of birch and pine.Song.
Thou wild wind, bring
Keen forest odours from that realm of thine,
Upon thy wing!O wind, O mighty, melancholy wind,
Blow through me, blow!
Thou blow'est forgotten things into my mind,
From long ago.Winter Sunset.
Roses in the sky,
Roses in the sea
Bowers of scarlet sky-roses
Take my heart and me.God was good to make,
This December weather,
All this sky a rose-garden,
Rose and fire together.To the East are burning
Roses in a garden,
Roses in a rosy field,
Hesper for their warden.Yonder to the West
Roses all afire,
Mirror now some rare splendid
Rose of their desire.Pulsing deeper, deeper,
Waves of fire throb on,
Never were such red roses
At sunset or dawn.Roses on the hills,
Roses in the hollow,
Roses on the wet hedges,
In the shining fallow.West wind, blow and blow!
That has blown ajar
Gates of God's great rose-garden,
Where His Angels are,Gathering up the rose-leaves
For a shower of roses
On the night the Lord Babe
His sweet eye uncloses.All the sky is scarlet
Flaming on the azure.
O, there's fire in Heaven
My heart aches with pleasure.Leagues of rose and scarlet,
Roses red as blood:
All the world's a rose-garden.
God is good, is good.Shamrock Song.
O, the red rose may be fair,
And the lily statelier;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the very heart of me!Many a lover hath the rose
When june's musk-wind breathes and blows:
And in many a bower is heard
Her sweet praise from bee and bird.Through the gold hours dreameth she,
In her warm heart passionately,
Her fair face hung languid-wise:
O, her breath of honey and spice!Like a fair saint virginal
Stands your lily, silver and tall;
Over all the flowers that be
Is my shamrock dear to me.Shines the lily like the sun,
Crystal-pure, a cold, sweet nun;
With her austere lip she sings
To her heart of heavenly things.Gazeth through a night of June
To her sister-saint, the moon;
With the stars communeth long
Of the angels and their song.But when summer died last year
Rose and lily died with her;
Shamrock stayeth every day,
Be the winds or gold or grey.Irish hills, as grey as the dove,
Know the little plant I love;
Warm and fair it mantles them
Stretching down from throat to hem.And it laughs o'er many a vale,
Sheltered safe from storm and gale;
Sky and sun and stars thereof
Love the gentle plant I love.Soft it clothes the ruined floor
Of many an abbey, grey and hoar,
And the still home of the dead
With its green is carpeted.Roses for an hour of love,
With the joy and pain thereof:
Stand my lilies white to see
All for prayer and purity.These are white as the harvest moon,
Roses flush like the heart of June;
But my shamrock, brave and gay,
Glads the tired eyes every day.O, the red rose shineth rare,
And the lily saintly fair;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the inmost heart of me!Wild Geese.
(A Lament for the Irish Jacobites.)
I have heard the curlew crying
On a lonely moor and mere;
And the sea-gull's shriek in the gloaming
Is a lonely sound in the ear:
And I've heard the brown thrush mourning
For her children stolen away;--
But it's O for the homeless Wild Geese
That sailed ere the dawn of day!For the curlew out on the moorland
Hath five fine eggs in the nest;
And the thrush will get her a new love
And sing her song with the best.
As the swallow flies to the Summer
Will the gull return to the sea:
But never the wings of the Wild Geese
Will flash over seas to me.And 'tis ill to be roaming, roaming
With homesick heart in the breast!
And how long I've looked for your coming,
And my heart is the empty nest!
O sore in the land of the stranger
They'll pine for the land far away!
But day of Aughrim, my sorrow,
It was you was the bitter day!Dreams.
I troubled in my dream. I knew
The silent gates and walls.
Around me out of shadow grew
The steady waterfalls.
Afar the raven spot-like flew
Where nothing wakes or calls.I fell on deeper trance. I was
Where all the dead are hid.
They dreamed. They did not sleep, because
They saw with lifted lid.
They worked with neither word nor pause:
I knew not what they did.I stood there with the dead in hell
Dreaming, and heard no moan.
The light died, and the darkness fell
About me like a stone.
I woke upon the midnight bell
In God's dream here alone.Poppies.
The sudden night is here at once
The lost lamb cries and runs and stands,
For all the poppy cups are hands
To seize and take him when he runs.The dusky cups are blood colour;
And like a cup of blood this one
To drink, and be with Babylon,
And love and kiss the lips of her.--Thy sins as snow!--just then it burned
The dark--a flaming face and bust;
And just beneath here in the dust
The Scarlet Woman laughed and turned.They went forth to the Battle, but they always fell.
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World,
The tall thought-woven sails that flap unfurled
Above the tide of hours, rise on the air,
And God's bell buoyed to be the waters' care,
And pressing on, or lingering slow with fear,
The throngs with blown wet hair are gathering near
"Turn if ye may," I call out to each one,
"From the grey ships and battles never won.
Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace,
For him who hears Love sing and never cease
Beside her clean swept hearth, her quiet shade;
But gather all for whom no Love hath made
A woven silence, or but came to cast
A song into the air, and singing past
To smile upon her stars; and gather you,
Who have sought more than is in rain or dew,
Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,
Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,
Or comes in laughter from the sea's sad lips,
And wage God's battles in the long grey ships.
The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,
To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell,
God's bell has claimed them by the little cry
Of their sad hearts that may not live nor die."Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World,
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring
The bell that calls us on-the sweet far thing.
Beauty grown sad with its eternity,
Made you of us and of the dim grey sea.
Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,
For God has bid them share an equal fate;
And when at last defeated in His wars,
They have gone down under the same white stars
We shall no longer hear the little cry
Of our sad hearts that may riot live nor die.The White Birds.
I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea,
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can pass by and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that never may die.A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew dabbled, the lily and rose,
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew :
For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam--I and you.I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more,
Soon far from the rose and the lily, and the fret of the flames would we be,
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea.The Lake of Innisfree.
I 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 thecricket 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 pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
Return to Lyra Celtica, Contents