{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_45244/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_45244","id":"gutenberg_45244","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45244","summary":null,"tags":["Ballads, English -- England -- Texts","Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry"],"text":"POPULAR BRITISH BALLADS\n\nANCIENT AND MODERN\n\nBy Various\n\nChosen and edited by R. Brimley Johnson\n\nIllustrated By W. C. Cooke\n\nIn Four Volumes\n\nVolume IV\n\n1894\n\n[Illustration: 0024]\n\n\n\n\nTHE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE\n\n|The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,\n\n The ringers ran by two, by three;\n\n\"Pull, if ye never pulled before;\n\n Good ringers, pull your best,\" quoth he.\n\n\"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!\n\nPly all your changes, all your swells,\n\n Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'\"\n\n\n\nMen say it was a stolen tyde--\n\n The Lord that sent it, He knows all;\n\nBut in myne ears doth still abide\n\n The message that the bells let fall:\n\nAnd there was nought of strange, beside\n\nThe flights of mews and peewits pied\n\n By millions crouched on the old sea wall.\n\n\n\nI sat and spun within the doore,\n\n My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;\n\nThe level sun, like ruddy ore,\n\n Lay sinking in the barren skies;\n\nAnd dark against day's golden death\n\nShe moved where Lindis wandereth,\n\nMy sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.\n\n\n\n\"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!\" calling,\n\nEre the early dews were falling,\n\nFar re away I heard her song.\n\n\"Cusha! Cusha!\" all along;\n\nWhere the reedy Lindis floweth,\n\n Floweth, floweth,\n\nFrom the meads where melick groweth\n\nFaintly came her milking song.--\n\n\n\n\"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!\" calling,\n\n\"For the dews will soone be falling;\n\nLeave your meadow grasses mellow,\n\n Mellow, mellow;\n\nQuit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;\n\nCome uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Light-\n\n foot;\n\nQuit the stalks of parsley hollow,\n\n Hollow, hollow;\n\nCome uppe Jetty, rise and follow,\n\nFrom the clovers lift your head;\n\nCome uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Light-\n\n foot,\n\nCome uppe Jetty, rise and follow,\n\nJetty, to the milking shed,\"\n\n\n\nIf it be long, aye, long ago,\n\n When I beginne to think howe long,\n\nAgaine I hear the Lindis flow,\n\n Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong;\n\nAnd all the aire, it seemeth mee,\n\nBin full of floating bells (sayth shee),\n\nThat ring the tune of Enderby.\n\n\n\nAlle fresh the level pasture lay,\n\n And not a shadowe mote be seene,\n\nSave where full fyve good miles away\n\n The steeple towered from out the greene;\n\nAnd lo! the great bell farre and wide\n\nWas heard in all the country side\n\nThat Saturday at eventide.\n\n\n\nThe swannerds where their sedges are\n\n Moved on in sunset's golden breath,\n\nThe shepherde lads I heard afarre,\n\n And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;\n\nTill floating o'er the grassy sea\n\nCame downe that kyndly message free,\n\nThe \"Brides of Mavis Enderby.\"\n\n\n\nThen some looked uppe into the sky,\n\n And all along where Lindis flows\n\nTo where the goodly vessels lie,\n\n And where the lordly steeple shows.\n\nThey sayde, \"And why should this thing be?\n\nWhat danger lowers by land or sea?\n\nThey ring the tune of Enderby!\n\n\n\n\"For evil news from Mabelthorpe,\n\n Of pyrate galleys warping down;\n\nFor shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,\n\n They have not spared to wake the towne:\n\nBut while the west bin red to see,\n\nAnd storms be none, and pyrates flee,\n\nWhy ring 'The Brides of Enderby?'\"\n\n\n\nI looked without, and lo! my sonne\n\n Came riding downe with might and main:\n\nHe raised a shout as he drew on,\n\n Till all the welkin rang again,\n\n\"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!\"\n\n(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath\n\nThan my sonne's wife, Elizabeth).\n\n\n\n\"The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe,\n\n The rising tide comes on apace,\n\nAnd boats adrift in yonder towne\n\n Go sailing uppe the market-place.\"\n\nHe shook as one that looks on death:\n\n\"God save you, mother!\" straight he saith;\n\n\"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?\"\n\n\n\n\"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away\n\n With her two bairns I marked her long;\n\nAnd ere yon bells beganne to play\n\n Afar I heard her milking song.\"\n\nHe looked across the grassy lea,\n\nTo right, to left, \"Ho Enderby!\"\n\nThey rang \"The Brides of Enderby!\"\n\n\n\nWith that he cried and beat his breast;\n\n For, lo! along the river's bed\n\nA mighty eygre reared his crest,\n\n And up the Lindis raging sped.\n\nIt swept with thunderous noises loud;\n\nShaped like a curling snow-white cloud,\n\nOr like a demon in a shroud.\n\n\n\nAnd rearing Lindis backward pressed,\n\n Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;\n\nThen madly at the eygre's breast\n\n Flung uppe her weltering walls again.\n\nThen bankes came downe with ruin and rout--\n\nThen beaten foam flew round about--\n\nThen all the mighty floods were out.\n\n\n\nSo farre, so fast the eygre drave,\n\n The heart had hardly time to beat,\n\nBefore a shallow seething wave\n\n Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:\n\nThe feet had hardly time to flee\n\nBefore it brake against the knee,\n\nAnd all the world was in the sea.\n\n\n\nUpon the roofe we sate that night,\n\n The noise of bells went sweeping by:\n\nI marked the lofty beacon light\n\n Stream from the church tower, red and high--\n\nA lurid mark and dread to see;\n\nAnd awsome bells they were to mee,\n\nThat in the dark rang \"Enderby.\"\n\n\n\nThey rang the sailor lads to guide\n\n From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;\n\nAnd I--my sonne was at my side,\n\n And yet the ruddy beacon glowed:\n\nAnd yet he moaned beneath his breath,\n\n\"O come in life, or come in death!\n\nO lost! my love, Elizabeth.\"\n\n\n\nAnd didst thou visit him no more?\n\n Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare;\n\nThe waters laid thee at his doore,\n\n Ere yet the early dawn was clear.\n\nThy pretty bairns in fast embrace,\n\nThe lifted sun shone on thy face,\n\nDowne drifted to thy dwelling-place.\n\n\n\nThat flow strewed wrecks about the grass,\n\n That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;\n\nA fatal ebbe and flow, alas!\n\n To manye more than my ne and me:\n\nBut each will mourn his own (she saith).\n\nAnd sweeter woman ne'er drew breath\n\nThan my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.\n\n\n\nI shall never hear her more\n\nBy the reedy Lindis shore,\n\n\"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!\" calling,\n\nEre the early dews be falling;\n\nI shall never hear her song,\n\n\"Cusha! Cusha!\" all along,\n\nWhere the sunny Lindis flpweth,\n\n Goeth, floweth;\n\nFrom the meads where ihelick groweth,\n\nWhen the water winding down,\n\nOnward floweth to the town.\n\n\n\nI shall never see her more\n\nWhere the reeds and rushes quiver,\n\n Shiver, quiver;\n\nStand beside the sobbing river.\n\nSobbing, throbbing, in its falling,\n\nTo the sandy lonesome shore;\n\nI shall never hear her calling,\n\n\"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,\n\n Mellow, mellow;\n\nQuit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;\n\nCome uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;\n\nQuit your pipes of parsley hollow,\n\n Hollow, hollow;\n\nCome uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;\n\n Lightfoot, Whitefoot,\n\nFrom your clovers lift the head;\n\nCome uppe Jetty, follow, follow,\n\nJetty, to the milking shed.\"\n\n----Jean Ingelow.\n\n\n\n\nBALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR\n\n[Illustration: 9031]\n\n\n|A stillness crept about the house,\n\nAt evenfall, in noon-tide glare;\n\nUpon the silent hills looked forth\n\nThe many-windowed House of Quair.\n\n\n\nThe peacock on the terrace screamed;\n\nBrowsed on the lawn the timid hare;\n\nThe great trees grew i' the avenue,\n\nCalm by the sheltered House of Quair.\n\n\n\nThe pool was still; around its brim\n\nThe alders sickened all the air;\n\nThere came no murmur from the streams,\n\nThough nigh flowed Leithen, Tweed, and\n\n Quair.\n\n\n\nThe days hold on their wonted pace,\n\nAnd men to court and camp repair,\n\nTheir part to fill, of good or ill,\n\nWhile women keep the House of Quair.\n\n\n\nAnd one is clad in widow's weeds,\n\nAnd one is maiden-like and fair,\n\nAnd day by day they seek the paths\n\nAbout the lonely fields of Quair.\n\n\n\nTo see the trout leap in the streams,\n\nThe summer clouds reflected there,\n\nThe maiden loves in pensive dreams\n\nTo hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair.\n\n\n\nWithin, in pall-black velvet clad,\n\nSits stately in her oaken chair--\n\nA stately dame of ancient name--\n\nThe Mother of the House of Quair.\n\n\n\nHer daughter broiders by her side,\n\nWith heavy drooping golden hair,\n\nAnd listens to her frequent plaint,--\n\n\"I'll fare the Brides that come to Quair.\n\n\n\n\"For more than one hath lived in pine,\n\nAnd more than one hath died of care,\n\nAnd more than one hath sorely sinned,\n\nLeft lonely in the House of Quair.\n\n\n\n\"Alas! and ere thy father died\n\nI had not in his heart a share,\n\nAnd now--may God forfend her ill--\n\nThy brother brings his Bride to Quair!\"\n\n\n\nShe came: they kissed her in the hall,\n\nThey kissed her on the winding stair,\n\nThey led her to her chamber high,\n\nThe fairest in the House of Quair.\n\n\n\nThey bade her from the window look,\n\nAnd mark the scene how passing fair,\n\nAmong whose ways the quiet days\n\nWould linger o'er the wife of Quair.\n\n\n\n\"'_Tis_ fair,\" she said on looking forth,\n\n\"But what although 'twere bleak and\n\n bare\"--\n\nShe looked the love she did not speak,\n\nAnd broke the ancient curse of Quair--\n\n\n\n\"Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes,\n\nHis dangers and his toils I share.\"\n\nWhat need be said--she was not one\n\nOf the ill-fated Brides of Quair!\n\n----Isa Craig Knox.-\n\n\n\n\nFIRST LOVE\n\n\n|O my earliest love, who, ere I number'd\n\n Ten sweet summers, made my bosom thrill!\n\nWill a swallow--or a swift, or some bird--\n\n Fly to her and say, I love her still?\n\n\n\nSay my life's a desert drear and arid,\n\n To its one green spot I aye recur:\n\nNever, never, although three times married--\n\n Have I cared a jot for aught but her.\n\n\n\nNo, mine own! though early forced to leave you,\n\n Still my heart was there where first we met;\n\nIn those \"Lodgings with an ample sea-view,\"\n\n Which were, forty years ago, \"To Let.\"\n\n\n\nThere I saw her first, our landlord's oldest\n\n Little daughter. On a thing so fair\n\nThou, O Sun,--who (so they say) beholdest\n\n Everything,--hast gazed, I tell thee, ne'er.\n\n\n\nThere she sat--so near me, yet remoter\n\n Than a star--a blue-eyed bashful imp:\n\nOn her lap she held a happy bloater,\n\n 'Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp.\n\n\n\nAnd I loved her, and our troth we plighted\n\n On the morrow by the shingly shore:\n\nIn a fortnight to be disunited\n\n By a bitter fate for evermore.\n\n\n\nO my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed!\n\n To be young once more, and bite my thumb\n\n[Illustration: 003;]\n\nAt the world and all its cares with you, I'd\n\n Give no inconsiderable sum.\n\nHand in hand we tramp'd the golden seaweed,\n\n Soon as o'er the gray cliff peep'd the dawn:\n\nSide by side, when came the hour for tea, we'd\n\n Crunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:--\n\n\n\nHas she wedded some gigantic shrimper,\n\n That sweet mite with whom I loved to play?\n\nIs she girt with babes that whine and whimper,\n\n That bright being who was always gay?\n\n\n\nYes, she has at least a dozen wee things!\n\n Yes--I see her darning corduroys,\n\nScouring floors, and setting out the tea-things,\n\n For a howling herd of hungry boys,\n\n\n\nIn a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil!\n\n But at intervals she thinks, I know,\n\nOf those days which we, afar from turmoil,\n\n Spent together forty years ago.\n\n\n\nO my earliest love, still unforgotten,\n\n With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue!\n\nNever, somehow, could I seem to cotton\n\n To another as I did to you!\n\n----C. S. Calverley.\n\n\n\n\nSAD MEMORIES\n\n\n|They tell me I am beautiful: they praise my\n\n silken hair,\n\nMy little feet that silently slip on from stair to\n\n stair:\n\nThey praise my pretty trustful face and innocent\n\n grey eye;\n\nFond hands caress me oftentimes, yet would\n\n that I might die!\n\n\n\nWhy was I born to be abhorr'd of man and bird\n\n and beast?\n\nThe bullfinch marks me stealing by, and straight\n\n his song hath ceased;\n\nThe shrewmouse eyes me shudderingly, then\n\n flees; and worse than that,\n\nThe housedog he flees after me--why was I\n\n born a cat?\n\n\n\nMen prize the heartless hound who quits dry-\n\n eyed his native land;\n\nWho wags a mercenary tail and licks a tyrant\n\n hand.\n\nThe leal true cat they prize not, that if e'er\n\n compell'd to roam\n\nStill flies, when let out of the bag, precipitately\n\n home.\n\n\n\nThey call me cruel. Do I know if mouse or\n\n song-bird feels?\n\nI only know they make me light and salutary\n\n meals:\n\nAnd if, as 'tis my nature to, ere I devour I\n\n tease'em,\n\nWhy should a low-bred gardener's boy pursue\n\n me with a besom?\n\n\n\nShould china fall or chandeliers, or anything but\n\n stocks--\n\nNay stocks, when they're in flowerpots--the cat\n\n expects hard knocks:\n\nShould ever anything be missed--milk, coals,\n\n umbrellas, brandy--\n\nThe cat's pitch'd into with a boot or any thing\n\n that's handy.\n\n\n\n\"I remember, I remember,\" how one night I\n\n \"fleeted by,\"\n\nAnd gain'd the blessed tiles and gazed into the\n\n cold clear sky.\n\n\"I remember, I remember, how my little lovers\n\n came,\"\n\nAnd there, beneath the crescent moon, play'd\n\n many a little game.\n\n\n\nThey fought--by good St Catharine,'twas a\n\n fearsome sight to see\n\nThe coal-black crest, the glowering orbs, of\n\n one gigantic He.\n\n\n\nLike bow by some tall bowman bent at Hastings\n\n or Poictiers,\n\nHis huge back curved, till none observed a\n\n vestige of his ears:\n\nHe stood, an ebon crescent, flouting that ivory\n\n moon;\n\nThen raised the pibroch of his race, the Song\n\n without a Tune;\n\nGleam'd his white teeth, his mammoth tail waved\n\n . darkly to and fro,\n\nAs with one complex yell he burst, all claws,\n\n upon the foe.\n\n\n\nIt thrills me now, that final Miaow--that weird\n\n unearthly din:\n\nLone maidens heard it far away, and leap'd out\n\n of their skin.\n\nA potboy from his den o'erhead peep'd with a\n\n scared wan face;\n\nThen sent a random brickbat down, which\n\n knock'd me into space.\n\n\n\nNine days I fell, or thereabouts: and, had we\n\n not nine lives,\n\nI wis I ne'er had seen again thy sausage-shop,\n\n St Ives!\n\nHad I, as some cats have, nine tails, how gladly\n\n I would lick\n\nThe hand, and person generally, of him who\n\n heaved that brick.\n\n\n\nFor me they fill the milkbowl up, and cull the\n\n choice sardine:\n\nBut ah! I nevermore shall be the cat I once\n\n have been!\n\nThe memories of that fatal night they haunt me\n\n even now:\n\nIn dreams I see that rampant He, and tremble\n\n at that Miaow.\n\n----C. S. Calverley.\n\n\n\n\nHOW WE BEAT THE FAVOURITE\n\n(_A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup_.)\n\n\n|Aye, squire,\" said Stevens, \"they back him\n\n at evens;\n\nThe race is all over, bar shouting, they say;\n\nThe Clown ought to beat her; Dick Neville is\n\n sweeter\n\nThan ever--he swears he can win all the way.\n\n\n\n\"A gentleman rider--well, I'm an outsider,\n\nBut if he's a gent who the mischiefs a jock?\n\nYou swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the\n\n plunder,\n\nHe rides, too, like thunder--he sits like a\n\n rock.\n\n\n\n\"He calls 'hunted fairly' a horse that has barely\n\n Been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the\n\n hounds,\n\nA horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and\n\n Yorick,\n\n And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds.\n\n\n\n\"They say we have no test to warrant a\n\n protest;\n\nDick rides for a lord and stands in with a\n\n steward;\n\nThe light of their faces they show him--his\n\n case is\n\nPrejudged and his verdict already secured.\n\n\n\n\"But none can outlast her, and few travel faster,\n\n She strides in her work clean away from The\n\n Drag;\n\nYou hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter,\n\nWhenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag.\n\n\"And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though\n\n they back it,\n\nMay fall, or there's no knowing what may\n\n turn up.\n\nThe mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady,\n\n Keep cool; and I think you may just win the\n\n Cup.\"\n\n\n\nDark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for\n\n the tussle,\n\n Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the curb,\n\nA lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry,\n\n A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb.\n\n\n\nSome parting injunction, bestowed with great\n\n unction,\n\n I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce,\n\nWhen Reginald Murray, full tilt on White\n\n Surrey,\n\n Came down in a hurry to start us at once.\n\n\n\n\"Keep back in the yellow! Come up on\n\n Othello!\n\n Hold hard on the chesnut! Turn round on\n\n The Drag!\n\nKeep back there on Spartan! Back you, sir,\n\n in tartan!\n\n So, steady there, easy,\" and down went the\n\n flag.\n\n\n\nWe started, and Kerr made strong running on\n\n Mermaid,\n\n Through furrows that led to the first stake-\n\n and-bound,\n\nThe crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and\n\n splendid,\n\n Held wide on the right where the headland\n\n was sound.\n\n\n\nI pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle,\n\n Before her two-thirds of the field got away,\n\nAll through the wet pasture where floods of the\n\n last year\n\n Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with\n\n clay.\n\n\n\nThe fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd Monk and\n\n Blue-bottle;\n\n The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn\n\n arid ditch,\n\nThe rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover,\n\n The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire\n\n Witch.\n\n\n\nShe passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock\n\n Sparrow,\n\n And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone\n\n wall;\n\nAnd Giles on The Greyling came down at the\n\n paling,\n\n And I was left sailing in front of them all.\n\n\n\nI took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed\n\n her\n\n Until the Black Bullfinch led into the plough,\n\nAnd through the strong bramble we bored\n\n with a scramble--\n\n My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree\n\n bough.\n\n\n\nWhere furrows looked lighter I drew the rein\n\n tighter--\n\n Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of\n\n white foam,\n\nHer flanks mud bespattered, a weak rail she\n\n shattered--\n\n We landed on turf with our heads turn'd for\n\n home.\n\n\n\nThen crash'd a low binder, and then close\n\n behind her\n\n The sward to the strokes of the favourite\n\n shook;\n\nHis rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little\n\n She shorten'd her stride as we raced at the\n\n brook.\n\n\n\nShe rose when I hit her. I saw the stream\n\n glitter,\n\n A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee,\n\nBetween sky and water The Clown came and\n\n caught her,\n\n The space that he cleared was a caution to see.\n\n\n\nAnd forcing the running, discarding all cunning,\n\n A length to the front went the rider in green;\n\nA long strip of stubble, and then the big double,\n\n Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset\n\n between.\n\n\n\nShe raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her,\n\n I found my hands give to her strain on the\n\n bit,\n\nShe rose when the Clown did--our silks as we\n\n bounded\n\n Brush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as\n\n we lit.\n\n\n\nA rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone\n\n coping--\n\n The last--we diverged round the base of the\n\n hill;\n\nHis path was the nearer, his leap was the\n\n clearer,\n\n I flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting\n\n still.\n\n\n\nShe came to his quarter, and on still I brought\n\n her,\n\n And up to his girth, to his breast-plate she\n\n drew;\n\nA short prayer from Neville just reach'd me,\n\n \"The devil,\"\n\n He mutter'd--lock'd level the hurdles we flew.\n\n\n\nA hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd\n\n careering,\n\n All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely\n\n heard;\n\n\"The green wins!\" \"The crimson!\" The\n\n multitude swims on,\n\n And figures are blended and features are\n\n blurr'd.\n\n\n\n\"The horse is her master!\" \"The green\n\n forges past her!\"\n\n \"The Clown will outlast her!\" \"The\n\n Clown wins!\" \"The Clown!\"\n\nThe white railing races with all the white faces,\n\n The chesnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.\n\n\n\nOn still past the gateway she strains in the\n\n straightway,\n\n Still struggles, \"The Clown by a short neck\n\n at most,\"\n\nHe swerves, the green scourges, the stand\n\n rocks and surges,\n\n And flashes, and verges, and flits the white\n\n post.\n\n\n\nAye! so ends the tussle,--I knew the tan muzzle\n\n Was first, though the ring-men were yelling\n\n \"Dead heat!\"\n\nA nose I could swear by, but Clarke said \"The\n\n mare by\n\n A short head.\" And that's how the favourite\n\n was beat.\n\n----A. L. Gordon.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MERMAID OF PADSTOW\n\n\n|It is long Tom Yeo of the town of Padstow,\n\n And he is a ne'er-do-weel:\n\n\"Ho, mates,\" cries he, \"rejoice with me,\n\n For I have shot a seal.\"\n\n\n\nNay, Tom, by the mass thou art but an ass,\n\n No seal bestains this foam;\n\nBut the long wave rolls up a Mermaid's glass\n\n And a young Mermaiden's comb.\n\n\n\nThe sun has set, the night-clouds throng,\n\n The sea is steely grey.\n\nThey hear the dying Mermaid's song\n\n Peal from the outer bay.\n\n\n\n\"A curse with you go, ye men of Padstow!\n\n Ye shall not thrive or win,\n\nYe have seen the last ship from your haven slip,\n\n And the last ship enter in.\n\n\n\n\"For this deed I devote you to dwell without\n\n boat\n\n By the skirt of the oar\u00e8d blue,\n\nAnd ever be passed by sail and by mast,\n\n And none with an errand for you.\"\n\n\n\nAnd scarce had she spoke when the black\n\n storm broke\n\n With thunder and levin's might:\n\nThree days did it blow, and none in Padstow\n\n Could tell the day from night.\n\n\n\nJoy! the far thunder mutters soft,\n\n The wild clouds whirl o'erhead,\n\nAnd from a ragged rift aloft\n\n A shaft of light is sped.\n\n\n\nNow ho for him that waits to send\n\n The storm-bound bark to sea!\n\nAnd ho for them that hither bend\n\n To crowd our busy quay!\n\n\n\nHath Ocean, think ye then, not heard\n\n His dying child deplore?\n\nAre not his sandy deeps unstirred,\n\n And thrust against the shore?\n\n\n\nDoth not a mighty ramp of sand\n\n Beleaguer all the bay,\n\nMocking the strength of mortal hand\n\n To pierce or sweep away?\n\n\n\nThe white-winged traders, all about,\n\n Fare o'er that bar to win:\n\nBut this one cries, I cannot out,\n\n And that, I may not in.\n\n\n\nFor thy dire woe, forlorn Padstow,\n\n What remedy may be?\n\nNot all the brine of thy sad eyne\n\n Will float thy ships to sea.\n\nThe sighs that from thy seamen pass\n\n Might set a fleet a-sail,\n\nAnd the faces that look in the Mermaid's\n\n glass\n\nAre as long as the Mermaid's tail.\n\n----R. Garnett.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0049]\n\n\n\n\nTHE HIGHWAYMAN'S GHOST\n\n[Illustration: 0050]\n\n\n|Twelve o'clock--a misty night--\n\nGlimpsing hints of buried light--\n\nSix years strung in an iron chain--r\n\nTime I stood on the ground again!\n\n\n\nSo--by your leave! Slip, easy enough,\n\nWithered wrists from the rusty cuff.\n\nThe old chain rattles, the old wood groans,\n\nO the clatter of clacking bones!\n\n\n\nHere I am, uncoated, unhatted,\n\nShirt all mildewed, hair all matted,\n\nSockets that each have royally\n\nFed the crow with a precious eye.\n\n\n\nO for slashing Bess the brown!\n\nWhere, old lass, have they earthed thee\n\n down?\n\nSobb'st beneath a carrier's thong?\n\nStrain'st a coalman's cart along?\n\n\n\nShame to foot it!--must be so.\n\nSee, the mists are smitten below;\n\nOver the moorland, wide away,\n\nMoonshine pours her watery day.\n\n\n\nThere the long white-dusted track,\n\nThere a crawling speck of black.\n\nThe Northern mail, ha, ha! and he\n\nThere on the box is Anthony.\n\n\n\nCoachman I scared him from brown or\n\n grey,\n\nWitness he lied my blood away.\n\nHaste, Fred! haste, boy! never fail!\n\nNow or never! catch the mail!\n\n\n\nThe horses plunge, and sweating stop.\n\nDead falls Tony, neck and crop.\n\nNay, good guard, small profit thus,\n\nShooting ghosts with a blunderbuss!\n\n\n\nCrash wheel! coach over! How it rains\n\nHampers, ladies, wigs, and canes!\n\nO the spoil! to sack it and lock it!\n\nBut, woe is me, I have never a pocket!\n\n----R. Garnett.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROTHERS\n\n\n|There were twa brethren fell on strife;\n\n Sweet fruits are sair to gather:\n\nThe tane has reft his brother of life;\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\nThere were twa brethren fell to fray\n\n Sweet fruits are sair to gather:\n\nThe tane is clad in a coat of clay;\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\nO loud and loud was the live man's cry,\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\n\"Would God the dead and the slain were I!\"\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\n\"O sair was the wrang and sair the fray,\"\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\n\"But liefer had love be slain than slay,\"\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\n\"O sweet is the life that sleeps at hame,\"\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\n\"But I maun wake on a far sea's faem,\"\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\n\"And women are fairest of a' things fair,\"\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\n\"But never shall I kiss woman mair,\"\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\nBetween the birk and the aik and the thorn\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\nHe's laid his brother to lie forlorn:\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\nBetween the bent, the burn, and the broom\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\nHe's laid him to sleep till dawn of doom:\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\nHe's tane him owre the waters wide,\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\nAfar to fleet and afar to bide:\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\nHis hair was yellow, his cheek was red,\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\nWhen he set his face to the wind and fled:\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\nHis banes were stark and his een were bright\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\nWhen he set his face to the sea by night:\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\nHis cheek was wan and his hair was grey\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\nWhen he came back hame frae the wide world's\n\n way:\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\nHis banes were weary, his een were dim,\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\nAnd nae man lived and had mind of him:\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\n\"O whatten a wreck wad they seek on land\"\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\n\"That they houk the turf to the seaward hand?\"\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\n\"O whatten a prey wad they think to take\"\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\n\"That they delve the dykes for a dead man's\n\n sake?\"\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\nA bane of the dead in his hand he's tane;\n\n Sweet fruits are sair to gather:\n\nAnd the red blood brak frae the dead white\n\n bane;\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\nHe's cast it forth of his auld faint hand;\n\n Sweet fruits are sair to gather:\n\nAnd the red blood ran on the wan wet sand,\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\n\"O whatten a slayer is this,\" they said,\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\n\"That the straik of his hand should raise his\n\n dead?\"\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\n\"O weel is me for the sign I take\"\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\n\"That now I may die for my auld sin's sake.\"\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n\n\n\"For the dead was in wait now fifty year,\".\n\n (Sweet fruits are sair to gather)\n\n\"And now I shall die for his blood's sake here,\"\n\n And the wind wears owre the heather.\n\n----A. C. Swinburne.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF DEAD MEN'S BAY\n\n[Illustration: 0056]\n\n\n|The sea swings owre the slants of sand,\n\n All white with winds that drive.,\n\nThe sea swirls up to the still dim strand,\n\n Where nae man comes alive.\n\n\n\nAt the grey soft edge of the fruitless surf\n\n A light flame sinks and springs;\n\nAt the grey soft rim of the flowerless turf\n\n A low flame leaps and clings.\n\n\n\nWhat light is this on a sunless shore,\n\n What gleam on a starless sea?\n\nWas it earth's or hell's waste womb that bore\n\n Such births as should not be?\n\n\n\nAs lithe snakes turning, as bright stars burning,\n\n They bicker and beckon and call;\n\nAs wild waves churning, as wild winds yearn-\n\n ing,\n\n They flicker and climb and fall.\n\n\n\nA soft strange cry from the landward rings--\n\n \"What ails the sea to shine?\"\n\nA keen sweet note from the spray's rim springs--\n\n \"What fires are these of thine?\"\n\n\n\n\"A soul am I that was born on earth\n\n For ae day's waesome span:\n\nDeath bound me fast on the bourn of birth,\n\n Ere I were christened man.\n\n\n\n\"A light by night, I fleet and fare\n\n Till the day of wrath and woe;\n\nOn the hems of earth and the skirts of air\n\n Winds hurl me to and fro.\"\n\n\n\n\"O well is thee, though the weird be strange\n\n That bids thee flit and flee;\n\nFor hope is child of the womb of change,\n\n And hope keeps watch with thee.\n\n\n\n\"When the years are gone, and the time is\n\n come\n\n God's grace may give thee grace;\n\nAnd thy soul may sing, though thy soul were\n\n dumb,\n\n And shine before God's face.\n\n\n\n\"But I, that lighten and revel and roll\n\n With the foam of the plunging sea,\n\nNo sign is mine of a breathing soul\n\n That God should pity me.\n\n\n\n\"Nor death, nor heaven, nor hell, nor birth\n\n Hath part in me nor mine:\n\nStrong lords are these of the living earth\n\n And loveless lords of thine.\n\n\n\n\"But I that know nor lord nor life\n\n More sure than storm or spray,\n\nWhose breath is made of sport and strife,\n\n Whereon shall I find stay?\"\n\n\n\n\"And wouldst thou change thy doom with me,\n\n Full fain with thee would I:\n\nFor the life that lightens and lifts the sea\n\n Is more than earth or sky.\n\n\n\n\"And what if the day of doubt and doom\n\n Shall save nor smite not me?\n\nI would not rise from the slain world's tomb\n\n If there be no more sea.\n\n\n\n\"Take he my soul that gave my soul,\n\n And give it thee to keep;\n\nAnd me, while seas and stars shall roll\n\n Thy life that falls on sleep.\"\n\n\n\nThat word went up through the mirk mid sky,\n\n And ev\u00e9n to God's own ear:\n\nAnd the Lord was ware of the keen twin cry,\n\n And wroth was he to hear.\n\n\n\nHe's tane the soul of the unsained child\n\n That fled to death from birth;\n\nHe's tane the light of the wan sea wild,\n\n And bid it burn on earth.\n\n\n\nHe's given the ghaist of the babe new-born\n\n The gift of the water-sprite,\n\nTo ride on revel from morn to morn\n\n And roll from night to night.\n\n\n\nHe's given the sprite of the wild wan sea\n\n The gift of the new-born man,\n\nA soul for ever to bide and be\n\n When the years have filled their span.\n\n\n\nWhen a year was gone and a year was come,.\n\n O loud and loud cried they--\n\n\"For the lee-lang year thou hast held us dumb\n\n Take now thy gifts away!\"\n\n\n\nO loud and lang they cried on him,\n\n And sair and sair they prayed:\n\n\"Is the face of thy grace as the night's face\n\n grim\n\n For those thy wrath has made?\"\n\n\n\nA cry more bitter than tears of men\n\n From the rim of the dim grey sea;--\n\n\"Give me my living soul again,\n\n The soul thou gavest me,\n\nThe doom and the dole of kindly men,\n\n To bide my weird and be!\"\n\n\n\nA cry more keen from the wild low land\n\n Than the wail of waves that roll;--\n\n\"Take back the gift of a loveless hand,\n\n Thy gift of doom and dole,\n\nThe weird of men that bide on land;\n\n Take from me, take my soul!\"\n\n\n\nThe hands that smite are the hands that spare\n\n They build and break the tomb;\n\nThey turn to darkness and dust and air\n\n The fruits of the waste earth's womb *\n\nBut never the gift of a granted prayer,\n\n The dole of a spoken doom.\n\n\n\nWinds may change at a word unheard,\n\n But none may change the tides:\n\nThe prayer once heard is as God's own word;\n\n The doom once dealt abides.\n\n\n\nAnd ever a cry goes up by day,\n\n And ever a wail by night;\n\nAnd nae ship comes by the weary bay\n\n But her shipmen hear them wail and pray,\n\n And see with earthly sight\n\nThe twofold flames of the twin lights play\n\nWhere the sea-banks green and the sea-floods\n\n grey\n\nAre proud of peril and fain of prey,\n\nAnd the sand quakes ever; and ill fare they\n\n That look upon that light.\n\n----A. C. Swinburne.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BRIDE'S TRAGEDY\n\n\n|The wind wears roun', the day wears doun,\n\n The moon is grisly grey;\n\nThere's nae man rides by the mirk muirsides,\n\n Nor down the dark Tyne's way.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\n\"And winna ye watch the night wi' me,\n\n And winna ye wake the morn?\n\nFoul shame it were that your ae mither\n\n Should brook her ae son's scorn.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\n\"O mither, I may not sleep nor stay,\n\n My weird is ill to dree;\n\nFor a fause faint lord of the south seaboard\n\n Wad win my bride of me.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\n\"The winds are strang, and the nights are lang,\n\n And the ways are sair to ride:\n\nAnd I maun gang to wreak my wrang,\n\n And ye maun bide and bide.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\n\"Gin I maun bide and bide, Willie,\n\n I wot my weird is sair:\n\nWeel may ye get ye a light love yet,\n\n But never a mither mair.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\n\"O gin the morrow be great wi' sorrow,\n\n The wyte be yours of a':\n\nBut though ye slay me that haud and stay me,\n\n The weird ye will maun fa'.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\nWhen cocks were crawing and day was dawing,\n\n He's boun' him forth to ride:\n\nAnd the ae first may he's met that day\n\n Was fause Earl Robert's bride.\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\nO blithe and braw were the bride-folk a',\n\n But sad and saft rade she;\n\nAnd sad as doom was her fause bridegroom,\n\n But fair and fain was he.\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\n\"And winna ye bide, sae saft ye ride,\n\n And winna ye speak wi' me?\n\nFor mony's the word and the kindly word\n\n I have spoken aft wi' thee.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\n\"My lamp was lit yestreen, Willie,\n\n My window-gate was wide:\n\nBut ye camena nigh me till day came by me\n\n And made me not your bride.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\nHe's set his hand to her bridle-rein,\n\n He's turned her horse away:\n\nAnd the cry was sair, and the wrath was mair,\n\n And fast and fain rode they.\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\nBut when they came by Chollerford,\n\n I wot the ways were fell;\n\nFor broad and brown the spate swang down,\n\n And the lift was mirk as hell.\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\n\"And will ye ride yon fell water,\n\n Or will ye bide for fear?\n\nNae scathe ye'll win o' your father's kin,\n\n Though they should slay me here.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\n\"I had liefer ride yon fell water,\n\n Though strange it be to ride,\n\nThan I wad stand on the fair green strand,\n\n And thou be slain beside.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\n\"I had liefer swim yon wild water,\n\n Though sair it be to bide,\n\nThan I wad stand at a strange man's hand,\n\n To be a strange man's bride.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\n\"I had liefer drink yon dark water,\n\n Wi' the stanes to make my bed,\n\nAnd the faem to hide me, and thou beside me,\n\n Than I wad see thee dead.\"\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\nHe's kissed her twice, he's kissed her thrice,\n\n On cheek and lip and chin:\n\nHe's wound her rein to his hand again,\n\n And lightly they leapt in.\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\nTheir hearts were high to live or die,\n\n Their steeds were stark of limb:\n\nBut the stream was starker, the spate was\n\n darker,\n\n Than man might live and swim.\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\nThe first ae step they strode therein,\n\n It smote them foot and knee:\n\nBut ere they wan to the mid water\n\n The spate was as the sea.\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n\n\nBut when they wan to the mid water,\n\n It smote them hand and head:\n\nAnd nae man knows but the wave that flows\n\n Where they lie drowned and dead.\n\n In, in, out and in,\n\n Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.\n\n----A. C. Swinburne.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WITCH-MOTHER\n\n\n|O where will ye gang to and where will\n\n ye sleep,\n\n Against the night begins?\"\n\n\"My bed is made wi' cauld sorrows,\n\n My sheets are lined wi' sins.\n\n\n\n\"And a sair grief sitting at my foot,\n\n And a sair grief at my head;\n\nAnd dule to lay me my laigh pillows,\n\n And teen till I be dead.\n\n\n\n\"And the rain is sair upon my face,\n\n And sair upon my hair;\n\nAnd the wind upon my weary mouth,\n\n That never may man kiss mair.\n\n\n\n\"And the snow upon my heavy lips,\n\n That never shall drink nor eat;\n\nAnd shame to cledding, and woe to wedding,\n\n And pain to drink and meat.\n\n\n\n\"But woe be to my bairns' father,\n\n And ever ill fare he:\n\nHe has tane a braw bride hame to him,\n\n Cast out my bairns and me.\"\n\n\n\n\"And what shall they have to their marriage\n\n meat\n\n This day they twain are wed?\"\n\n\"Meat of strong crying, salt of sad sighing,.\n\n And God restore the dead.\n\n\n\n\"And what shall they have to their wedding\n\n wine\n\n This day they twain are wed?\"\n\n\"Wine of weeping, and draughts of sleeping,\n\n And God raise up the dead.\"\n\n\n\nShe's tane her to the wild woodside,\n\n Between the flood and fell:\n\nShe's sought a rede against her need\n\n Of the fiend that bides in hell.\n\n\n\nShe's tane her to the wan burnside,\n\n She's wrought wi' sang and spell:\n\nShe's plighted her soul for doom and dole\n\n To the fiend that bides in hell.\n\n\n\nShe's set her young son to her breast,\n\n Her auld son to her knee:\n\nSays, \"Weel for you the night, bairnies,\n\n And weel the morn for me.\"\n\n\n\nShe looked fu' lang in their een, sighing,\n\n And sair and sair grat she:\n\nShe has slain her young son at her breast,\n\n Her auld son at her knee.\n\n\n\nShe's sodden their flesh wi' saft water,\n\n She's mixed their blood with wine:\n\nShe's tane her to the braw bride-house,\n\n Where a' were boun' to dine.\n\nShe poured the red wine in his cup,\n\n And his een grew fain to greet:\n\nShe set the baked meats at his hand,\n\n And bade him drink and eat.\n\nSays, \"Eat your fill of your flesh, my lord,\n\n And drink your fill of your wine j\n\nFor a' thing's yours and only yours\n\n That has been yours and mine.\"\n\nSays, \"Drink your fill of your wine, my lord,\n\n And eat your fill of your bread:\n\nI would they were quick in my body again,\n\n Or I that bare them dead.\"\n\nHe struck her head frae her fair body,\n\n And dead for grief he fell:\n\nAnd there were twae mair sangs in heaven,\n\n And twae mair sauls in hell.\n\n----A. C. Swinburne.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEA-SWALLOWS\n\n[Illustration: 9069]\n\n\n|This fell when Christmas lights were done,\n\n Red rose leaves will never make wine;\n\nBut before the Easter lights begun;\n\n The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.\n\n\n\nTwo lovers sat where the rowan blows\n\n And all the grass is heavy and fine,\n\nBy the gathering place of the sea-swallows\n\n When the wind brings them over Tyne.\n\n\n\nBlossom of broom will never make bread,\n\n Red rose leaves will never make winej\n\nBetween her brows she is grown red,\n\n That was full white in the fields by Tyne.\n\n\n\n\"O what is this thing ye have on,\n\n Show me now, sweet daughter of. mine?\"\n\n\"O father, this is my little son\n\n That I found hid in the sides of Tyne.\n\n\n\n\"O what will ye give my son to eat,\n\n Red rose leaves will never make wine?\"\n\n\"Fen water and adder's meat,\n\n The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.'\n\n\n\n\"Or what will ye get my son to wear,\n\n Red rose leaves will never make wine?\"\n\n\"A weed and a web of nettle's hair,\n\n The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.\"\n\n\n\n\"Or what will ye take to line his bed,\n\n Red rose leaves will never make wine?\"\n\n\"Two black stones at the kirkwall's head,\n\n The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.\n\n\n\n\"Or what will ye give my son for land,\n\n Red rose leaves will never make wine?\"\n\n\"Three girl's paces of red sand,\n\n The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.\"\n\n\n\n\"Or what will ye give me for my son,\n\n Red rose leaves will never make wine?\"\n\n\"Six times to kiss his young mouth on,\n\n The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.\"\n\n\n\n\"But what have ye done with the bearing-bread,\n\n And what have ye made of the washing-wine?\n\nOr where have ye made your bearing-bed,\n\n To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?\"\n\n\n\n\"The bearing-bread is soft and new,\n\n There is no soil in the straining wine;\n\nThe bed was made between green and blue,\n\n It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne.\n\n\n\n\"The fair grass was my bearing-bread,\n\n The well-water my washing-wine;\n\nThe low leaves were my bearing-bed,\n\n And that was best in the sides of Tyne.\"\n\n\"O daughter, if ye have done this thing,\n\n I wot the greater grief is mine;\n\nThis was a bitter child-bearing,\n\n When ye were got by the sides of Tyne.\n\n\"About the time of sea-swallows\n\n That fly full thick by six and nine,\n\nYe'll have my body out of the house,\n\n To bury me by the sides of Tyne.\n\n\"Set nine stones by the wall for twain,\n\n Red rose leaves will never make wine;\n\nFor the bed I take will measure ten,\n\n The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.\n\n\"Tread twelve girl's paces out for three,\n\n Red rose leaves will never make wine;\n\nFor the pit I made has taken me,\n\n The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.\"\n\n----A. C. Swinburne.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0072]\n\nTHE KINGS DAUGHTER\n\n|We were ten maidens in the green corn,\n\n Small red leaves in the mill-water:\n\nFairer maidens never were born,\n\n Apples of gold for the king's daughter.\n\n\n\nWe were ten maidens by a well-head,\n\n Small white birds in the mill-water:\n\nSweeter maidens never were wed,\n\n Rings of red for the king's daughter.\n\n\n\nThe first to spin, the second to sing,\n\n Seeds of wheat in the mill-water;\n\nThe third may was a goodly thing,\n\n White bread and brown for the king's daughter.\n\n\n\nThe fourth to sew and the fifth to play,\n\n Fair green weed in the mill-water;\n\nThe sixth may was a goodly may,\n\n White wine and red for the king's daughter.\n\n\n\nThe seventh to woo, the eighth to wed,\n\n Fair thin reeds in the mill-water;\n\nThe ninth had gold work on her head,\n\n Honey in the comb for the king's daughter.\n\n\n\nThe ninth had gold work round her hair,\n\n Fallen flowers in the mill-water;\n\nThe tenth may was goodly and fair,\n\n Golden gloves for the king's daughter.\n\n\n\nWe were ten maidens in a field green,\n\n Fallen fruit in the mill-water;\n\nFairer maidens never had been,\n\n Golden sleeves for the king's daughter.\n\n\n\nBy there comes the king's young son,\n\n A little wind in the mill-water;\n\n\"Out of ten maidens ye'll grant me one,\"\n\n A crown of red for the king's daughter.\n\n\n\n\"Out of ten mays ye'll give me the best,\"\n\n A little rain in the mill-water;\n\nA bed of yellow straw for all the rest,\n\n A bed of gold for the king's daughter.\n\n\n\nHe's ta'en out the goodliest,\n\n Rain that rains in the mill-water;\n\nA comb of yellow shell for all the rest,\n\n A comb of gold for the king's daughter.\n\n\n\nHe's made her bed to the goodliest,\n\n Wind and hail in the mill-water;\n\nA grass girdle for all the rest,\n\n A girdle of arms for the king's daughter.\n\nHe's set his heart to the goodliest,\n\n Snow that snows in the mill-water;\n\nNine little kisses for all the rest,\n\n An hundredfold for the king's daughter.\n\nHe's ta'en his leave at the goodliest,\n\n Broken boats in the mill-water;\n\nGolden gifts for all the rest,\n\n Sorrow of heart for the king's daughter.\n\n\"Ye'll make a grave for my fair body,\"\n\n Running rain in the mill-water;\n\n\"And ye'll streek my brother at the side of me,\"\n\n The pains of hell for the king's daughter.\n\n----A. C. Swinburne.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN\n\n1883.\n\nPART I.\n\n\n|The still white coast at Midsummer,\n\n Beside the still white sea,\n\nLay low and smooth and shining\n\n In this year eighty-three;\n\nThe sun was in the very North,\n\n Strange to see.\n\n\n\nThe walrus ivory lay in heaps\n\n Half-buried in the shore,\n\nThe slow stream slid o'er unknown beds\n\n Of golden ore,\n\nWashings of amber to the beach\n\n Light waves bore.\n\n\n\nSprays of white, like foam-flowers,\n\n Betwixt the skies and seas,\n\nSwayed and poised the sea-gulls\n\n In twos and threes,\n\nClustered like the stars men call\n\n Pleiades.\n\n\n\nThe white marsh-flowers, the white\n\n marsh-grass\n\n Shimmered amid the grey\n\nOf the marsh-water--mirrored\n\n Over and under, they\n\nStood stiff and tall and slender,\n\n All one way.\n\n\n\nThe upper spake to the lower,\n\n \"Are ye, or do ye seem?\"\n\nOut of the dim marsh-water\n\n Glided as in a dream\n\nThe still swans down a distance\n\n Of moonbeam.\n\n\n\nThe willow-warbler dropped from the spray\n\n Sweet notes like a soft spring shower,\n\nThere was a twitter of building birds\n\n In the blackthorn bower,\n\nAll broken from bare to gossamer\n\n In an hour.\n\n\n\nA garden white lay all the land\n\n In wreaths of summer snow,\n\nThe heart of the year upspringing\n\n Swift and aglow,\n\nIn pale flame and slender stalk,\n\n Smooth and low.\n\n\n\nThe white heath and white harebell\n\n Let their chimes rise and fall,\n\nThe delicate sheets of wood-sorrel\n\n Unfolded all,\n\nFor a bed of bridal--\n\n Or a pall?\n\n\n\nPowdered with pearl, auriculas,\n\n And beds of snowdrop sheen,\n\nFrostwork of saxifrage, and fair balls\n\n Of winter green:\n\nThere was no room for foot to pass\n\n In between.\n\n\n\nOne only pink, the fragrant bloom\n\n Of all blooms boreal,\n\nEvery face of every flower\n\n With looks funereal\n\nBent to earth, and faintly\n\n Flowering all.\n\n\n\nDown in the closely crowded camp\n\n Of the fresh snowdrops lay,\n\nFever and famine-stricken,\n\n None his name to say,\n\nSick to death, a traveller\n\n Cast away.\n\n\n\nBrother might be of Balder\n\n The beautiful, the bold,\n\nBy Northern stature and by limbs'\n\n Heroic mould,\n\nAnd the uncurled faint hair\n\n Of pale gold.\n\n\n\nFaintly the words were uttered,\n\n Low, betwixt moan and moan:\n\n\n\n\"Here in the wilderness,\n\n Lost and alone,\n\nI die, and far away,\n\n Hast thou known?\n\n\n\n\"Fame, and story of wonder,\n\n Wind of rumour had blown\n\nMy name to thine, my feet\n\n Up to thy throne:\n\nWhat has the world been since?--\n\n Thee alone.\n\n\n\n\"I passed and bowed before thy face,\n\n And once thine eyes met mine;\n\nOnce I have kissed thy hand;--\n\n Hast thou no sign?\n\nHere with my last sad breath\n\n I am thine.\"\n\n\n\nThe white hares nibbled fearlessly\n\n Among the tender green;\n\nThe silver foxes stayed and watched,\n\n Quick-eyed and keen;\n\nThe little ermine soft of foot\n\n Stole between.\n\n\n\nBut the white world changed and\n\n quickened\n\n To a red world, the same;\n\nFor with splendour as of sunset\n\n And sunrise flame,\n\nFrom the highest heaven to the lowest,\n\n Midnight came.\n\n\n\nThe pulsing colours of the sky\n\n Deepened and purified;\n\nAll glorious chords of gold and red\n\n Struck out and died;\n\nStilled in one heavenly harmony\n\n Spread out wide,\n\n\n\nIn one ethereal crimson glow;\n\n As if the Rose of Heaven\n\nHad blossomed for one perfect hour,\n\n Midsummer Even,\n\nAs ever in the mystic sphere\n\n Of stars seven.\n\n\n\nAn opening blush of purest pink,\n\n That swiftly streams and grows\n\nAs shoreward all the liquid waste\n\n Enkindled flows,\n\nEvery ripple of all the sea\n\n Rose on Rose.\n\n\n\n--Through the heavens of midnight\n\n Came a bitter cry,\n\nFlesh and spirit breaking,\n\n Mortal agony;\n\nDied away unanswered\n\n Through the sky.--\n\n\n\nBut all the dim blue South was filled\n\n With the auroral flame,\n\nFar out into the southward land\n\n Without a name\n\nThat dreamed away into the dark,--\n\n When One came,\n\n\n\nSuddenly came stepping,\n\n Where the roseate rift\n\nOf the boreal blossoms\n\n Crossed the snowy drift\n\nIn a trailing pathway,\n\n Straight and swift.\n\n\n\nHer robes were full and silken,\n\n Her feet were silken-shod,\n\nIn sweeping stately silence,\n\n Serene she trod\n\nThe starry carpets strewing\n\n The soft sod.\n\n\n\nThe eyes of the veronica\n\n Looked out and far away,\n\nA golden wreath around her head\n\n Of light curls lay,\n\nAnd rippled back a shining shower,\n\n In bright array.\n\n\n\nAbout her neck the diamonds flashed\n\n In rivers of blue fire;\n\nBut whiter her soft shoulders than\n\n Her white attire,\n\nAnd tenderer her tender arms\n\n Than heart's desire.\n\n\n\nShe fronted full the crimson flood\n\n Of all the Northern space,\n\nAnd all the hue of all the sky\n\n Was in her face;\n\nThe Rose of all the World has come\n\n To this place.\n\n\n\nA vision of white that glowed to red\n\n With the fire at heaven, at heart,--\n\nNor paused nor turned,--but straight to\n\n him\n\n Who lay apart,\n\nOn she came, and knelt by him,--\n\n Here thou art!\n\n\n\nAt the first hour after midnight,\n\n As in the eider's nest,\n\nThe weary head sank soft into\n\n A heavenly rest;\n\nIs it a bed of roses,--\n\n Or her breast?\n\n\n\nAt the second hour the cold limbs\n\n Felt comfort unaware;\n\nFlickering, a golden glow\n\n Warmed all the air:\n\nIs it the hearth-flame lighted,--\n\n Or her hair?\n\n\n\nAt the third hour, round the faint heart\n\n Failing in chill alarms,\n\nIs it some silken coverlet\n\n Still wraps and warms\n\nIn close and closer clasping?--\n\n Or her arms?\n\n\n\nAt the fourth hour, to the wan lips\n\n There came a draught divine:\n\nSome last reviving cup poured out\n\n Of hallowed wine,--\n\nOr is it breath of hers\n\n Mixed with thine?\n\n\n\nAt the fifth hour all was dimness\n\n Alike to him and her;\n\nOne low and passionate murmur\n\n Still moved the air;\n\nIs it the voice of angels,--\n\n Or her prayer?\n\n\n\nAt the sixth hour there stirred only\n\n The soft wave on the beach;\n\nTwo were lying stilly,\n\n Past sound or speech,\n\nFair and carven faces,\n\n Each by each.\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\nThe Summer Palace stood by night\n\n Lit up in dazzling sheen,\n\nThe doors unfolded, and the pomp\n\n Stirred in between;\n\n--To a burst of royal music\n\n Came the Queen.\n\n\n\nHer eyes like stars of speedwell\n\n Shone down the great saloon;\n\nShe came, and all before her\n\n Knew it was June;\n\nThe passing of her presence\n\n Was too soon.\n\n\n\nThe little curls around her head\n\n Were all her crown of gold,\n\nHer delicate arms drooped downward\n\n In slender mould,\n\nAs white-veined leaves of lilies\n\n Curve and fold.\n\n\n\nAll in white,--not ivory\n\n For young bloom past away,--\n\nBlossom-white, rose-white,\n\n White of the May;\n\n'Twixt white dress and white neck,\n\n Who could say?\n\n\n\nShe moved to measure of music,\n\n As a swan sails the stream;\n\nWhere her looks fell was summer,\n\n When she smiled was a dream;\n\nAll faces bowing towards her\n\n Sunflowers seem.\n\n\n\nO the rose upon her silent mouth,\n\n The perfect rose that lies!\n\nO the roses red, the roses deep,\n\n Within her cheeks that rise!\n\nO the rose of rapture of her face\n\n To our eyes!\n\n\n\nThe tall fair Princes smile and sigh\n\n For grace of one sweet glance,\n\nThe glittering dancers fill the floor,\n\n The Queen leads the dance;\n\nThe dial-hands to midnight\n\n Still advance.\n\n\n\nDance down to the melting music!\n\n Hark to the viols' strain!\n\nTheir notes are piercing, piercing,\n\n Again, again;\n\nThe pulse of the air is beating\n\n Throbs of pain.\n\n\n\nDoes the dancing languish slower?\n\n Oh, the soft flutes wail and sigh;\n\nIn silver falling and calling,\n\n They seek reply;\n\nAnd the heart is sinking, sinking,\n\n Why, ah why?\n\n\n\nOh, the high harp-strings resounding!\n\n So long, so clear they are:\n\nA cry is ringing in heaven\n\n From star to star,\n\nRising sharper and fainter\n\n From afar.\n\n\n\nThe Queen has danced from end to end;\n\n Oh, the candles burn so bright!\n\nBut her blue eyes look far away\n\n Into the night;\n\nAnd the roses on her cheeks and lips\n\n Have grown white.\n\n\n\nOh, why is the Queen so pale to-night?\n\n And why does silence fall,\n\nAs one by one they turn to her,\n\n Upon them all?\n\nWhence comes that cold wind shivering\n\n Down the hall?\n\n\n\nThe hour draws close to midnight,\n\n The banquet board is spread;\n\nThe lamps are lit, the guests are set,\n\n The Queen at the head:\n\nFor the feasting at kings' tables\n\n Grace be said!\n\n\n\nThe shaded light of rubies\n\n Streams from every part\n\nDown the golden supper;--\n\n Who is sick at heart?\n\nOh, hush! for the Queen is listening,\n\n Lips apart.\n\n\n\nShe sits with wide and open eyes,\n\n The wine-cup in her hand;\n\nAnd all the guests are ill at ease,\n\n Nor understand;\n\nIs it not some enchanted\n\n Strange far land?\n\n\n\nThe twelve long strokes of midnight\n\n With clash and clang affright;\n\nThe rose-glow seems to darken\n\n Before their sight;\n\nBut the Queen has swooned back heavily,\n\n Cold and white.\n\n\n\nThey lifted her, a burden\n\n Like broken lily-flowers;\n\nThey laid her on her own bed,\n\n Within her bowers;\n\nThey mourned, and they tended her,\n\n For six hours.\n\n\n\nAt the first hour after midnight,\n\n The Queen nor spoke nor stirred;\n\nAt the second, by her bedside,\n\n No breath they heard;\n\nThey said, \"Is she living?\"\n\n At the third.\n\n\n\nAt the fourth hour they watched sadly\n\n At her feet and her head;\n\nAt the fifth, standing idle,\n\n No word they said;\n\nAt the sixth, \"Bring candles\n\n For one dead.\"\n\n\n\nSwept low down across the East,\n\n Through the morning grey,\n\nA flock of white clouds swiftly,\n\n Dim, far away;\n\nLike a flight of white wings:--\n\n What were they?\n\n\n\nThrough the palace suddenly,\n\n Through every floor,\n\nWailed a wind and whistled,\n\n Shook every door,\n\nRattled through the windows,\n\n Then passed o'er.\n\n\n\nAnd as they stood with tapers tall\n\n Around the Queen, there came\n\nA soft and far-off fluttering\n\n Over her frame,\n\nAnd from between her sleeping lips,\n\n One faint flame.\n\n\n\nThey take her hand, they call on her,\n\n She answers them likewise;\n\nShe sits upright, she looks around,\n\n With her blue eyes,\n\nAnd a smile as of thy secrets,\n\n Paradise!\n\n\n\nWinter is here, and has not brought\n\n The Traveller of renown;\n\nWhy has he not come back again\n\n To court and town?\n\nRumours and questionings pass\n\n Up and down.\n\n\n\nIs it only the wolves of the Northland\n\n Know where his bones lie white?\n\nOnly the swans could tell us,\n\n In southward flight?\n\nIs it only the wind could whisper\n\n To the night?\n\n\n\nThe Queen sits still and smiling,\n\n She hears the talk prevail,\n\nShe speaks no word, she gives no glance,\n\n She tells no tale;\n\nIn the golden shadow always\n\n She is pale.\n\n---H. E. Hamilton-King.\n\n\n\n\nLITTLE WILLIE\n\n[Illustration: 0089]\n\n\n|Twas good St John's, and the mountain woods\n\n Were gay with summer sheen,\n\nA mother wept for her little Willie,\n\n All in his grave so green.\n\n\n\n'Twas Yule, and on the mountain-side\n\n The wind was shrill and cold;\n\nThe mother wept for her little Willie,\n\n Who lay within the mould.\n\n\n\nO cold, cold is a winter grave,\n\n O but a shroud is thin--\n\nA wee hand tapp'd upon the door,\n\n \"O mother, let me in.\"\n\n\n\n\"I dare not let thee in, Willie,\"\n\n The sister up and said,\n\n\"For mother's away at Jane's lykewake,--\n\n Go to thy graveyard bed.\"\n\n\n\n\"O cold and lonely is the night,\n\n Madly the fierce winds rave;\n\nHow should I sleep?--The shroud is wet\n\n That wraps me in the grave.\"\n\n\n\nShe sign'd the cross upon her brow,\n\n The cross upon her breast,\n\nWith:--\"Avoid thee, ghost, and aroint thee,\n\n ghost,\n\n And get thee to thy rest.\"\n\n\n\n'Twas midnight, brightly glow'd the hearth,\n\n The wind howl'd down the lin;\n\nA wee hand tapp'd upon the door,\n\n \"O mother, let me in.\"\n\n\n\nUp sprung the father to his feet,\n\n And many a cross sign'd he,\n\nWith:--\"Angels defend us from thee, child,\n\n And from the like of thee.\"\n\n\n\n\"O cold, cold is the winter snow,\n\n That drifts adown the steep,\n\nBut colder far this clammy shroud\n\n Which will not let me sleep.\"\n\n\n\nThe wind had swept away the clouds,\n\n But still its laugh was wild;\n\nBefore the father slept, he pray'd\n\n The saints to ban his child.\n\n\n\nAh! who shall help a houseless soul?\n\n What refuge shall it win?\n\nAgain the hand tapp'd on the door:\n\n \"O mother, let me in.\"\n\n\n\nQuick was her ear to catch the cry,\n\n Her foot upon the floor,\n\nHer hand to draw away the bolt,\n\n And open wide the door.\n\n\n\n\"Come in, come in, thou child of mine,\n\n Right welcome unto me,\n\nCome in, and warm thee in the breast\n\n That erewhile suckled thee.\"\n\n\n\nShe took him up within her arms\n\n Or ere a word was said,\n\nShe set him down before the hearth,\n\n All wan and damp and dead.\n\n\n\n\"Cold was the snow that beat on me,\n\n The grave that let me out,\n\nO take away this wet wet shroud\n\n That wraps me round about.\n\n\n\n\"Your tears fall on my face, mother,\n\n Your tears fall on my feet,\n\nYour tears drip through the coffin-lid\n\n Upon my winding-sheet.\n\n\n\n\"Now weep no more for me, mother,\n\n It lets me in my rest,\n\nBut wrap me in another shroud\n\n And warm me in thy breast.\"\n\n\n\nThe sister peep'd from out her bed,\n\n Her face was pale with fear,--\n\n\"O mother, give him nought of mine\n\n Or I shall die this year.\"\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0092]\n\nOut spoke the father from his bed,\n\n Harsh was his voice and wild,--\n\n\"O woman, take not aught of mine,\n\n To wrap about the child.\"\n\n\n\nA strange strange smile was on her lips,\n\n But ne'er a word she said;\n\nHer best seem'd hardly good enough\n\n To wrap around the dead.\n\n\n\nShe bore him to and fro, and sang\n\n Old songs and lullabies;\n\nHe laid his hands upon her cheeks\n\n And smiled into her eyes.\n\n\n\n'Twas good St John's, and the mountain woods\n\n Were gay with summer sheen,\n\nThe mother slept with her little Willie\n\n All in the grave so green.\n\n----Charles Grant.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT\n\n\n|Twas the body of Judas Iscariot\n\n Lay in the Field of Blood;\n\n'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Beside the body stood.\n\n\n\nBlack was the earth by night,\n\n And black was the sky;\n\nBlack, black were the broken clouds,\n\n Tho' the red moon went by.\n\n\n\n'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot\n\n Strangled and dead lay there;\n\n'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Look'd on it in despair.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0094]\n\n\n\nThe breath of the world came and went\n\n Like a sick man's in rest;\n\nDrop by drop on the world's eyes\n\n The dews fell cool and blest.\n\n\n\nThen the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Did make a gentle moan--\n\n\"I will bury underneath the ground\n\n My flesh and blood and bone.\n\n\n\n\"I will bury deep beneath the soil,\n\n Lest mortals look thereon,\n\nAnd when the wolf and raven come\n\n The body will be gone!\n\n\n\n\"The stones of the field are sharp as steel,\n\n And hard and cold, God wot;\n\nAnd I must bear my body hence\n\n Until I find a spot!\"\n\n\n\n'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,\n\n So grim, and gaunt, and gray,\n\nRaised the body of Judas Iscariot,\n\n And carried it away.\n\n\n\nAnd as he bare it from the field\n\n Its touch was cold as ice,\n\nAnd the ivory teeth within the jaw\n\n Rattled aloud, like dice.\n\n\n\nAs the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Carried its load with pain,\n\nThe Eye of Heaven, like a lanthorn's eye,\n\n Opened and shut again.\n\n\n\nHalf he walk'd, and half he seem'd\n\n Lifted on the cold wind;\n\nHe did not turn, for chilly hands\n\n Were pushing from behind.\n\n\n\nThe first place that he came unto\n\n It was the open wold,\n\nAnd underneath were prickly whins,\n\n And a wind that blew so cold.\n\n\n\nThe next place that he came unto\n\n It was a stagnant pool,\n\nAnd when he threw the body in\n\n It floated light as wool.\n\n\n\nHe drew the body on his back,\n\n And it was dripping chill,\n\nAnd the next place he came unto\n\n Was a Cross upon a hill.\n\n\n\nA Cross upon the windy hill,\n\n And a cross on either side,\n\nThree skeletons that swing thereon,\n\n Who had been crucified.\n\n\n\nAnd on the middle cross bar sat\n\n A white Dove slumbering;\n\nDim it sat in the dim light,\n\n With its head beneath its wing.\n\n[Illustration: 0097]\n\nAnd underneath the middle cross\n\n A grave yawn'd wide and vast,\n\nBut the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Shiver'd, and glided past.\n\n\n\nThe fourth place that he came unto\n\n It was the Brig of Dread,\n\nAnd the great torrents rushing down\n\n Were deep, and swift, and red.\n\n\n\nHe dared not fling the body in\n\n For fear of faces dim,\n\nAnd arms were waved in the wild water\n\n To thrust it back to him.\n\n\n\n'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Turned from the Brig of Dread,\n\nAnd the dreadful foam of the wild water\n\n Had splashed the body red.\n\n\n\nFor days and nights he wandered on,\n\n Upon an open plain,\n\nAnd the days went by like blinding mist,\n\n And the nights like rushing rain.\n\n\n\nFor days and nights he wandered on,\n\n All thro' the Wood of Woe;\n\nAnd the nights went by like moaning wind,\n\n And the days like drifting snow.\n\n\n\n'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Came with a weary face--\n\nAlone, alone, and all alone,\n\n Alone in a lonely place!\n\n\n\nHe wandered east, he wandered west,\n\n And heard no human sound;\n\nFor months and years, in grief and tears,\n\n He wandered round and round.\n\n\n\nFor months and years, in grief and tears,\n\n He walked the silent night;\n\nThen the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Perceived a far-off light.\n\n\n\nA far-off light across the waste,\n\n As dim as dim might be,\n\nThat came and went like the lighthouse\n\n gleam\n\n On a black night at sea.\n\n\n\n'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Crawl'd to the distant gleam;\n\nAnd the rain came down, and the rain was\n\n blown\n\n Against him with a scream.\n\n\n\nFor days and nights he wandered on,\n\n Push'd on by hands behind;\n\nAnd the days went by like black, black rain,\n\n And the nights like rushing wind.\n\n\n\n'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,\n\n Strange, and sad, and tall\n\nStood all alone at dead of night\n\n Before a lighted hall.\n\n\n\nAnd the wold was white with snow,\n\n And his foot-marks black and damp,\n\nAnd the ghost of the silvern moon arose,\n\n Holding her yellow lamp.\n\n\n\nAnd the icicles were on the eaves,\n\n And the walls were deep with white,\n\nAnd the shadows of the guests within\n\n Pass'd on the window light.\n\n\n\nThe shadows of the wedding guests\n\n Did strangely come and go,\n\nAnd the body of Judas Iscariot\n\n Lay stretch'd along the snow.\n\n\n\nThe body of Judas Iscariot\n\n Lay stretched along the snow;\n\n'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Ran swiftly to and fro.\n\n\n\nTo and fro, and up and down,\n\n He ran so swiftly there,\n\nAs round and round the frozen pole\n\n Glideth the lean white bear.\n\n\n\n'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head,\n\n And the lights burnt bright and clear--\n\n\"Oh, who is that,\" the Bridegroom said,\n\n \"Whose weary feet I hear?\"\n\n\n\n'Twas one looked from the lighted hall.\n\n And answered soft and slow,\n\n\"It is a wolf runs up and down\n\n With a black track in the snow.\"\n\n\n\nThe Bridegroom in his robe of white\n\n Sat at the table-head--\n\n\"Oh, who is that who moans without?\"\n\n The blessed Bridegroom said.\n\n\n\n'Twas one looked from the lighted hall,\n\n And answered fierce and low,\n\n\"'Tis the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Gliding to and fro.\"\n\n\n\n'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Did hush itself and stand,\n\nAnd saw the Bridegroom at the door\n\n With a light in his hand.\n\n\n\nThe Bridegroom stood in the open door,\n\n And he was clad in white,\n\nAnd far within the Lord's Supper\n\n Was spread so broad and bright.\n\n\n\nThe Bridegroom shaded his eyes and look'd,\n\n And his face was bright to see--\n\n\"What dost thou here at the Lord's Supper\n\n With thy body's sins?\" said he.\n\n\n\n'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Stood black, and sad, and bare--\n\n\"I have wandered many nights and days:\n\n There is no light elsewhere.\"\n\n\n\n'Twas the wedding guests cried out within,\n\n And their eyes were fierce and bright--\n\n\"Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Away into the night!\"\n\n\n\nThe Bridegroom stood in the open door,\n\n And he waved hands still and slow,\n\nAnd the third time that he waved his hands\n\n The air was thick with snow.\n\n\n\nAnd of every flake of falling snow,\n\n Before it touch'd the ground,\n\nThere came a dove, and a thousand doves\n\n Made sweet sound.\n\n\n\n'Twas the body of Judas Iscariot\n\n Floated away full fleet,\n\nAnd the wings of the doves that bare it off\n\n Were like its winding-sheet.\n\n\n\n'Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open\n\n door,\n\n And beckon'd, smiling sweet;\n\n 'Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot\n\n Stole in, and fell at his feet.\n\n\n\n\"The Holy Supper is spread within,\n\n And the many candles shine,\n\nAnd I have waited long for thee\n\n Before I poured the wine!\"\n\n\n\nThe supper wine is poured at last,\n\n The lights burn bright and fair,\n\nIscariot washes the Bridegroom's feet\n\n And dries them with his hair.\n\n----R. Buchanan.\n\n\n\n\nPHIL BLOOD'S LEAP\n\n_A Tale of the Gold Seekers_.\n\n\n|There's some think Injins p'ison.\"--(It was\n\n Parson Pete who spoke,\n\nAs we sat there, in the camp-fire glare, like\n\n shadows among the smoke.\n\n'Twas the dead of night, and in the light our\n\n faces burned bright red,\n\nAnd the wind all round made a screeching sound,\n\n and the pines roared overhead.\n\n\n\nAy, Parson Pete was talking; we called him\n\n Parson Pete,\n\nFor you must learn he'd a talking turn, and\n\n handled things so neat;\n\nHe'd a preaching style, and a winning smile, and,\n\n when all talk was spent,\n\nSix shooter had he, and a sharp bowie, to p'int\n\n his argyment.\n\n\n\nSome one had spoke of the Injin folk, and we\n\n had a guess, you bet,\n\nThey might be creeping, while we were sleeping,\n\n to catch us in the net;\n\nAnd half were asleep and snoring deep, while\n\n the others vigil kept,\n\nBut devil a one let go his gun, whether he woke\n\n or slept.)\n\n\n\n\"There's some think Injins p'ison, and others\n\n count'em scum,\n\nAnd night and day they are melting away, clean\n\n into Kingdom Come;\n\nBut don't you go and make mistakes, like many\n\n derned fools I've known,\n\nFor dirt is dirt, and snakes is snakes, but an\n\n Injin's flesh and bone!\n\n\n\nWe were seeking gold in the Texan hold, and\n\n we'd had a blaze of luck,\n\nMore rich and rare the stuff ran there at every\n\n foot we struck;\n\nLike men gone wild we t'iled and t'iled, and\n\n never seemed to tire,\n\nThe hot sun beamed, and our faces streamed\n\n with the sweat of a mad desire.\n\nI was captain then of the mining men, and I had\n\n a precious life,\n\nFor a wilder set I never met at derringer and\n\n knife;\n\n\n\nNigh every day there was some new fray, a\n\n bullet in some one's brain,\n\nAnd the viciousest brute to stab and to shoot,\n\n was an Imp of Hell from Maine.\n\n\n\nPhil Blood. Well, he was six foot three, with\n\n a squint to make you skeer'd,\n\nHis face all scabb'd, and twisted and stabb'd,\n\n with carroty hair and beard,\n\nSour as the drink in Bitter Chink, sharp as a\n\n grizzly's squeal,\n\nLimp in one leg, for a leaden egg had nick'd\n\n him in the heel.\n\n\n\nNo beauty was he, but a sight to see, all stript\n\n to the waist and bare,\n\nWith his grim-set jaws, and his panther-paws,\n\n and his hawk's eye all aglare;\n\nWith pick and spade in sun and shade he labour'd\n\n like darnation,\n\nBut when his spell was over,--well! he was\n\n fond of his recreation!\n\n\n\nAnd being a crusty kind of cuss, the only sport\n\n he had,\n\nWhen work was over, seemed to us a bit too\n\n rough and bad;\n\nFor to put some lead in a comrade's head was\n\n the greatest fun in life,\n\nAnd the sharpest joke he was known to poke\n\n was the p'int of his precious knife.\n\n\n\nBut game to the bone was Phil, I'll own, and\n\n he always fought most fair,\n\nWith as good a will to be killed as kill, true\n\n grit as any there:\n\nOf honour too, like me or you, he'd a scent,\n\n though not so keen,\n\nWould rather be riddled thro' and thro', than do\n\n what he thought mean.\n\n\n\nBut his eddication to his ruination had not been\n\n over nice,\n\nAnd his stupid skull was choking full of vulgar\n\n prejudice;\n\nWith anything white he'd drink, or he'd fight in\n\n fair and open fray;\n\nBut to murder and kill was his wicked will, if\n\n an Injin came his way!\n\n\n\n* A sarpent's hide has p'ison inside, and an\n\n Injin's heart's the same,\n\nIf he seems your friend for to gain his end,\n\n look out for the sarpent's game;\n\nOf the snakes that crawl, the worst of all is the\n\n snake in a skin of red,\n\nA spotted Snake, and no mistake?' that's what\n\n he always said.\n\n\n\nWell, we'd jest struck our bit of luck, and were\n\n wild as raving men,\n\nWhen who should stray to our camp one day,\n\n but Black Panther, the Cheyenne;\n\nDrest like a Christian, all a-grin, the old one\n\n joins our band,\n\nAnd though the rest look'd black as sin, he\n\n shakes _me_ by the hand.\n\nNow, the poor old cuss had been good to us,\n\n and I knew that he was true,--\n\nI'd have trusted him with life and limb as soon\n\n as I*d trust _you_;\n\nFor tho' his wit was gone a bit, and he drank\n\n like any fish,\n\nHis heart was kind, he was well inclined, as\n\n even a white could wish.\n\n\n\nFood had got low, for we didn't know the run\n\n of the hunting-ground,\n\nAnd our hunters were sick, when, jest in the\n\n nick, the friend in need was found;\n\nFor he knew the place like his mother's face (or\n\n better, a heap, you'd say,\n\nSince she was a squaw of the roaming race,\n\n and himself a castaway).\n\n\n\nWell, I took the Panther into camp, and the\n\n critter was well content,\n\nAnd off with him, on the hunting tramp, next\n\n day our hunters went,\n\nAnd I reckon that day and the next we didn't\n\n want for food,\n\nAnd only one in the camp looked vext--that\n\n Imp of Hell, Phil Blood.\n\n\n\nNothing would please his contrairy ideas! an\n\n Injin made him rile!\n\nHe didn't speak, but I saw on his cheek, a kind\n\n of an ugly smile;\n\nAnd I knew his skin was hatching sin, and I\n\n kept the Panther apart,\n\nFor the Injin he was too blind to see the dirt\n\n in a white man's heart!\n\n\n\nWell, one fine day, we a-resting lay at noon-\n\n time by the creek,\n\nThe red sun blazed, and we felt half-dazed, too\n\n beat to stir or speak;\n\n'Neath the alder trees we stretched at ease, and\n\n we couldn't see the sky,\n\nFor the lian-flowers in bright blue showers\n\n hung through the branches high.\n\n\n\nIt was like the gleam of a fairy-dream, and I\n\n felt like earth's first Man,\n\nIn an Eden bower with the yellow flower of a\n\n cactus for a fan;\n\nOranges, peaches, grapes, and figs, cluster'd,\n\n ripen'd, and fell,\n\nAnd the cedar scent was pleasant, blent with\n\n the soothing 'cacia smell.\n\n\n\nThe squirrels red ran overhead, and I saw the\n\n lizards creep,\n\nAnd the woodpecker bright with the chest so\n\n white tapt like a sound in sleep;\n\nI dreamed and dozed, with eyes half-closed,\n\n and felt like a three-year child,\n\nAnd, a plantain blade on his brow for a shade,\n\n even Phil Blood look'd mild.\n\n\n\nWell, back, jest then, came our hunting men,\n\n with the Panther at their head,\n\nFull of his fun was every one, and the Panther's\n\n eyes were red,\n\nAnd he skipt about with grin and shout, for he'd\n\n had a drop that day,\n\nAnd he twisted and twirled, and squeal'd and\n\n skirl'd, in the foolish Injin way.\n\n\n\nTo the waist all bare Phil Blood lay there, with\n\n only his knife in his belt,\n\nAnd I saw his bloodshot eye-balls stare, and I\n\n knew how fierce he felt,--\n\nWhen the Injin dances with grinning glances\n\n around him as he lies,\n\nWith his painted skin and his monkey grin,--\n\n and leers into his eyes!\n\n\n\nThen before I knew what I should do Phil Blood\n\n was on his feet,\n\nAnd the Injin could trace the hate in his face,\n\n and his heart began to beat,\n\nAnd, \"Git out o' the way,\" he heard them say,\n\n \"for he means to hev your life!\"\n\nBut before he could fly at the warning cry, he\n\n saw the flash of the knife.\n\n\n\n\"Run, Panther run!\" cried each mother's son,\n\n and the Panther took the track;\n\nWith a wicked glare, like a wounded bear, Phil\n\n Blood sprang at his back.\n\nUp the side so steep of the canon deep the poor\n\n old critter sped,\n\nAnd the devil's limb ran after him, till they\n\n faded overhead.\n\n\n\nNow, the spot of ground where our luck was\n\n found, was a queerish place, you'll mark,\n\nJest under the jags of the mountain crags and\n\n the precipices dark,\n\nFar up on high, close to the sky, the two crags\n\n leant together,\n\nLeaving a gap, like an open trap, with a gleam\n\n of golden weather.\n\n\n\nA pathway led from the beck's dark bed up to\n\n the crags on high,\n\nAnd along that path the Injin fled, fast as a man\n\n could fly.\n\nSome shots were fired, for I desired to keep the\n\n white beast back;\n\nBut I missed my man, and away he ran on the\n\n flying Injin's track.\n\n\n\nNow all below is thick, you know, with 'cacia,\n\n alder, and pine,\n\nAnd the bright shrubs deck the side of the\n\n beck, and the lian flowers so fine,\n\nFor the forest creeps all under the steeps, and\n\n feathers the feet of the crags\n\nWith boughs So thick that your path you pick,\n\n like a steamer among the snags.\n\n\n\nBut right above you, the crags, Lord love you!\n\n are bare as this here hand,\n\nAnd your eyes you wink at the bright blue\n\n chink, as looking up you stand,\n\nIf a man should pop in that trap at the top, he'd\n\n never rest arm or leg,\n\nTill neck and crop to the bottom he'd drop--\n\n and smash on the stones like an egg!\n\n\n\n'Come back, you cuss! come back to us! and\n\n let the critter be!'\n\nI screamed out loud, while the men in a crowd\n\n stood grinning at them and me....\n\nBut up they went, and my shots were spent, and\n\n at last they disappeared,--\n\nOne minute more, and we gave a roar, for the\n\n Injin had leapt,--and _cleared!_\n\n\n\nA leap for a deer, not a man, to clear,--and the\n\n bloodiest grave below!\n\nBut the critter was smart and mad with fear,\n\n and he went like a bolt from a bow!\n\nClose after him came the devil's limb, with his\n\n eyes as dark as death,\n\nBut when he came to the gulch's brim, I reckon\n\n he paused for breath!\n\n\n\nFor breath at the brink! but--a white man\n\n shrink, when a red had passed so neat?\n\nI knew Phil Blood too well to think he'd turn\n\n his back dead beat!\n\nHe takes one run, leaps up in the sun, and bounds\n\n from the slippery ledge,\n\nAnd he clears the hole, but--God help his soul!\n\n just touches the tother edge!\n\n\n\nOne scrambling fall, one shriek, one call, from\n\n the men that stand and stare,--\n\nBlack in the blue, where the sky looks thro', he\n\n staggers, dwarfd up there;\n\nThe edge he touches, then sinks, and clutches\n\n the rock--our eyes grow dim--\n\nI turn away--what's that they say?--he's hang-\n\n ing on to the brim!\n\n\n\n... On the very brink of the fatal chink a\n\n ragged shrub there grew,\n\nAnd to that he clung, and in silence swung\n\n betwixt us and the blue,\n\nAnd as soon as a man could run I ran the way I\n\n had seen them flee,\n\nAnd I came mad-eyed to the chasm's side, and--\n\n what do you think I see?\n\n\n\nAll up? Not quite. Still hanging? Right!\n\n but he'd torn away the shrub;\n\nWith lolling tongue, he clutched and swung--\n\n to what? Ay, that's the rub!\n\nI saw him glare, and dangle in air,--for the\n\n empty hole he trod--\n\nHelped by a _pair of hands_ up there!--the InJin's?\n\n Yes, by God!\n\n\n\nNow, boys, look here! for many a year I've\n\n roamed in this here land--\n\nAnd many a sight both day and night I've seen\n\n that I think grand;\n\nOver the whole wide world I've been, and I\n\n know both things and men,\n\nBut the biggest sight I've ever seen was the\n\n sight I saw jest then.\n\n\n\nI held my breath--so nigh to death Phil Blood\n\n swung hand and limb,\n\nAnd it seemed to us all that down he'd fall, with\n\n the Panther after him,\n\nBut the Injin at length put out his strength--\n\n and another minute past,--\n\nThen safe and sound to the solid ground he\n\n drew Phil Blood, at last!!\n\n\n\nSaved? True for you, by an Injin too!--and the\n\n man he meant to kill!\n\nThere, all alone, on the brink of stone, I see\n\n them standing still;\n\nPhil Blood gone white, with the struggle and\n\n fright, like a great mad bull at bay,\n\nAnd the Injin meanwhile, with a half skeer'd\n\n smile, ready to spring away.\n\n\n\nWhat did Phil do? Well I watched the two,\n\n and I saw Phil Blood turn back,\n\nBend over the brink and take a blink right down\n\n the chasm black,\n\nThen stooping low for a moment or so, he\n\n sheath'd his bowie bright,\n\nSpat slowly down, and watch'd with a frown, as\n\n the spittle sank from sight!\n\n\n\nHands in his pockets, eyes downcast, silent,\n\n thoughtful, and grim,\n\nWhile the Panther, grinning as he passed, still\n\n kept his eyes on him,\n\nPhil Blood strolled slow to his mates below,\n\n down by the mountain track,\n\nWith his lips set tight, and his face all white,\n\n and the Panther at his back.\n\n\n\nI reckon they stared when the two appeared!\n\n but never a word Phil spoke;\n\nSome of them laughed and others jeered,--but\n\n he let them have their joke;\n\nHe seemed amazed, like a man gone dazed, the\n\n sun in his eyes too bright,\n\nAnd for many a week, in spite of their cheek,\n\n he never offered to fight.\n\n\n\nAnd after that day he changed his play, and kept\n\n a civiller tongue,\n\nAnd whenever an Injin came that way, his con-\n\n trary head he hung;\n\nBut whenever he heard the lying word, 'It's a\n\n Lie!' Phil Blood would groan;\n\n'_A Snake is a Snake, make no mistake! but an Injin's\n\n flesh and bone!_'\"\n\n----R. Buchanan.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RED THREAD OF HONOUR\n\n\n|Among the hills of India\n\nDwelt warriors fierce and bold,\n\nThe sons of robber chieftains\n\nWho, in the days of old,\n\nFought for their mountain freedom,\n\nAnd, if by Fate laid low,\n\nFell ever crowned with honour--\n\nTheir faces to the foe.\n\n\n\nNow'twas an ancient custom\n\nAmong those hillsmen brave,\n\nWhen thus they found their kinsman,\n\nTo dig for him no grave;\n\nBut the torn blood-stained garments\n\nThey stripped from off the dead,\n\nAnd then his wrist they circled\n\nWith green or crimson thread.\n\n\n\nMany the green-decked warriors,\n\nBut only for a few\n\nWas kept that highest honour,\n\nThe thread of sanguine hue;\n\nFor'twas alone the bravest\n\nOf those who nobly shed\n\nTheir life-blood in the battle\n\nWhose wrists were bound with red.\n\n\n\nAnd when they thus had graced them\n\nWho fell before the foe,\n\nThey hurled their lifeless bodies\n\nInto the plain below.\n\nThe earth did ne'er imprison\n\nThose hillsmen brave and free,\n\nThe sky alone should cover\n\nThe warriors of Trukkee.\n\n\n\nThere came a time of conflict,\n\nAnd a great armed throng\n\nOf England's bravest soldiers,--\n\nAvengers of the wrong,--\n\nMarched through the gloomy gorges,\n\nForded the mountain rills,\n\nVowing that they would vanquish\n\nThose robbers of the hills.\n\n\n\nThe road was strange and dubious;\n\nEasy it was to stray;\n\nAnd of those English soldiers\n\nEleven lost their way.\n\nLed by a trusty leader,\n\nThey reached a fearful glen,\n\nAnd saw a mountain stronghold\n\nGuarded by forty men.\n\n\n\nGuarded by forty veterans\n\nOf that fierce robber band,\n\nIn every face defiance,\n\nWeapons in every hand.\n\n\"Back!\" cried the trusty leader;\n\nThe soldiers would not hear,\n\nBut up the foe-crowned mountain\n\nCharged with their English cheer.\n\n\n\nWith loud huzzas they stormed it,\n\nNor thought to turn from death,\n\nBut for old England's honour\n\nYielded their latest breath.\n\nShort was the fight but deadly,\n\nFor, when our last man fell,\n\nBut sixteen of that forty\n\nWere left to tell the tale.\n\n\n\nBut those sixteen were noble--\n\nThey loved a brave deed done;\n\nThey knew a worthy foeman,\n\nAnd treated him as one.\n\nAnd when the English soldiers\n\nSought for their comrades slain,\n\nThey found their stiff stark corpses\n\nProstrate upon the plain:\n\nThey lay with blood-stained faces,\n\nFixed eyes, and firm-clenched fists,\n\nBut the Red Thread of Honour,\n\nWas twined around their wrists.\n\n----J. A. Noble.\n\n\n\n\nTICONDEROGA\n\n\n|This is the tale of the man\n\n Who heard a word in the night\n\nIn the land of the heathery hills,\n\n In the days of the feud and the fight.\n\nBy the sides of the rainy sea,\n\n Where never a stranger came,\n\nOn the awful lips of the dead,\n\n He heard the outlandish name.\n\nIt sang in his sleeping ears,\n\n It hummed in his waking head:\n\nThe name--Ticonderoga,\n\n The utterance of the dead.\n\n\n\nI.\n\nTHE SAYING OF THE NAME.\n\nOn the loch-sides of Appin,\n\n When the mist blew from the sea,\n\nA Stewart stood with a Cameron:\n\n An angry man was he.\n\n\n\nThe blood beat in his ears,\n\n The blood ran hot to his head,\n\nThe mist blew from the sea\n\n And there was the Cameron dead.\n\n\"O, what have I done to my friend,\n\n O, what have I done to mysel',\n\nThat he should be cold and dead,\n\n And I in the danger of all?\n\n\n\n\"Nothing but danger about me,\n\n Danger behind and before,\n\nDeath at wait in the heather\n\n In Appin and Mamore,\n\nHate at all of the ferries\n\n And death at each of the fords,\n\nCamerons priming gunlocks\n\n And Camerons sharpening swords.\"\n\n\n\nBut this was a man of counsel,\n\n This was a man of score,\n\nThere dwelt no pawkier Stewart\n\n In Appin or Mamore.\n\nHe looked on the blowing mist,\n\n He looked on the awful dead,\n\nAnd there came a smile on his face,\n\n And there slipped a thought in his head.\n\n\n\nOut over cairn and moss,\n\n Out over scrog and scaur,\n\nHe ran as runs the clansman\n\n That bears the cross of war.\n\n\n\nHis heart beat in his body,\n\n His hair clove to his face,\n\nWhen he came at last in the gloaming\n\n To the dead man's brother's place.\n\nThe east was white with the moon,\n\n The west with the sun was red,\n\nAnd there, in the house-doorway,\n\n Stood the brother of the dead.\n\n\n\n\"I have slain a man to my danger,\n\n I have slain a man to my death.\n\nI put my soul in your hands,\"\n\n The panting Stewart saith.\n\n\"I lay it bare in your hands,\n\n For I know your hands are leal;\n\nAnd be you my targe and bulwark\n\n From the bullet and the steel.\"\n\n\n\nThen up and spake the Cameron,\n\n And gave him his hand again:\n\n\"There shall never a man in Scotland\n\n Set faith in me in vain;\n\nAnd whatever man you have slaughtered,\n\n Of whatever name or line,\n\nBy my sword and yonder mountain,\n\n I make your quarrel mine.\n\nI bid you in to my fireside,\n\n I share with you house and hall;\n\nIt stands upon my honour\n\n To see you safe from all.\"\n\n\n\nIt fell in the time of midnight,\n\n When the fox barked in the den\n\nAnd the plaids were over the faces\n\n In all the houses of men,\n\nThat as the living Cameron\n\n Lay sleepless on his bed,\n\nOut of the night and the other world,\n\n Came in to him the dead.\n\n\n\n\"My blood is on the heather,\n\n My bones are on the hill;\n\nThere is joy in the home of ravens\n\n That the young shall eat their fill.\n\nMy blood is poured in the dust,\n\n My soul is spilled in the air;\n\nAnd the man that has undone me\n\n Sleeps in my brother's care.\"\n\n\n\n\"I'm wae for your death, my brother,\n\n But if all of my house were dead,\n\nI couldnae withdraw the plighted hand,\n\n Nor break the word once said.\"\n\n\n\n\"O, what shall I say to our father,\n\n In the place to which I fare?\n\nO, what shall I say to our mother\n\n Who greets to see me there?\n\nAnd to all the kindly Camerons\n\n That have lived and died long-syne--\n\nIs this the word you send them\n\n Fause-hearted brother mine?\"\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0122]\n\n\"It's neither fear nor duty,\n\n It's neither quick nor dead\n\nShall gar me withdraw the plighted hand,\n\n Or break the word once said.\"\n\n\n\nThrice in the time of midnight,\n\n When the fox barked in the den,\n\nAnd the plaids were over the faces\n\n In all the houses of men,\n\nThrice as the living Cameron\n\n Lay sleepless on his bed,\n\n\n\nOut of the night and the other world\n\n Came in to him the dead,\n\nAnd cried to him for vengeance\n\n On the man that laid him low;\n\nAnd thrice the living Cameron\n\n Told the dead Cameron, no.\n\n\n\n\"Thrice have you seen me, brother,\n\n But now shall see me no more,\n\nTill you meet your angry fathers\n\n Upon the farther shore.\n\nThrice have I spoken, and now,\n\n Before the cock be heard,\n\nI take my leave for ever\n\n With the naming of a word.\n\nIt shall sing in your sleeping ears,\n\n It shall hum in your waking head,\n\nThe name--Ticonderoga,\n\n And the warning of the dead.\"\n\n\n\nNow when the night was over\n\n And the time of people's fears,\n\nThe Cameron walked abroad,\n\n And the word was in his ears.\n\n\"Many a name I know,\n\n But never a name like this;\n\nO, where shall I find a skilly man\n\n Shall tell me what it is?\"\n\nWith many a man he counselled\n\n Of high and low degree,\n\nWith the herdsmen on the mountains\n\n And the fishers of the sea.\n\nAnd he came and went unweary,\n\n And read the books of yore,\n\nAnd the runes that were written of old,\n\n On stones upon the moor.\n\nAnd many a name he was told,\n\n But never the name of his fears--\n\nNever, in east or west,\n\n The name that rang in his ears:\n\nNames of men and of clans;\n\n Names for the grass and the tree,\n\nFor the smallest tarn in the mountains,\n\n The smallest reef in the sea:\n\nNames for the high and low,\n\n The names of the craig and the flat;\n\nBut in all the land of Scotland,\n\n Never a name like that.\n\n\n\nII.\n\nTHE SEEKING OF THE NAME.\n\nAnd now there was speech in the south,\n\n And a man of the south that was wise,\n\nA periwig'd lord of London, *\n\n Called on the clans to rise.\n\nAnd the riders rode, and the summons\n\n Came to the western shore,\n\nTo the land of the sea and the heather,\n\n To Appin and Mamore.\n\nIt called on all to gather\n\n From every scrog and scaur,\n\nThat loved their fathers' tartan\n\n And the ancient game of war.\n\n\n\nAnd down the watery valley\n\n And up the windy hill,\n\nOnce more, as in the olden,\n\n The pipes were sounding shrill;\n\nAgain in highland sunshine\n\n The naked steel was bright;\n\nAnd the lads, once more in tartan,\n\n Went forth again to fight.\n\n\n\n\"O, why should I dwell here\n\n With a weird upon my life,\n\nWhen the clansmen shout for battle\n\n And the war-swords clash in strife?\n\n* The first Pitt.\n\nI cannae joy at feast,\n\n I cannae sleep in bed,\n\nFor the wonder of the word\n\n And the warning of the dead.\n\nIt sings in my sleeping ears,\n\n It hums in my waking head,\n\nThe name--Ticonderoga,\n\n The utterance of the dead.\n\nThen up, and with the fighting men\n\n To march away from here,\n\nTill the cry of the great war-pipe\n\n Shall drown it in my ear!\"\n\n\n\nWhere flew King George's ensign\n\n The plaided soldiers went:\n\nThey drew the sword in Germany,\n\n In Flanders pitched the tent.\n\nThe bells of foreign cities\n\n Rang far across the plain:\n\nThey passed the happy Rhine,\n\n They drank the rapid Main.\n\nThrough Asiatic jungles\n\n The Tartans filed their way,\n\nAnd the neighing of the war-pipes\n\n Struck terror in Cathay.\n\n\n\n\"Many a name have I heard,\" he thought,\n\n \"In all the tongues of men,\n\nFull many a name both here and there,\n\n Full many both now and then.\n\n\n\nWhen I was at home in my father's house\n\n In the land of the naked knee,\n\nBetween the eagles that fly in the lift\n\n And the herrings that swim in the sea,\n\nAnd now that I am a captain-man\n\n With a braw cockade in my hat--\n\nMany a name have I heard,\" he thought,\n\n \"But never a name like that.\"\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nTHE PLACE OF THE NAME.\n\nThere fell a war in a woody place,\n\n Lay far across the sea,\n\nA war of the march in the mirk midnight,\n\n And the shot from behind the tree,\n\nThe shaven head and the painted face,\n\n The silent foot in the wood,\n\nIn a land of a strange, outlandish tongue\n\n That was hard to be understood.\n\n\n\nIt fell about the gloaming\n\n The general stood with his staff,\n\nHe stood and he looked east and west\n\n With little mind to laugh.\n\n\"Far have I been and much have I seen,\n\n And kent both gain and loss,\n\nBut here we have woods on every hand\n\n And a kittle water to cross.\n\n\n\nFar have I been and much have I seen,\n\n But never the beat of this;\n\nAnd there's one must go down to that\n\n waterside\n\n To see how deep it is.\"\n\n\n\nIt fell in the dusk of the night\n\n When unco things betide,\n\nThe skilly captain, the Cameron,\n\n Went down to that waterside.\n\nCanny and soft the captain went;\n\n And a man of the woody land,\n\nWith the shaven head and the painted face,\n\n Went down at his right hand.\n\nIt fell in the quiet night,\n\n There was never a sound to ken;\n\nBut all of the woods to the right and the left\n\n Lay filled with the painted men.\n\n\n\n\"Far have I been and much have I seen,\n\n Both as a man and as boy,\n\nBut never have I set forth a foot\n\n On so perilous an employ.\"\n\nIt fell in the dusk of the night\n\n When unco things betide,\n\nThat he was aware of a captain-man\n\n Drew near to the waterside.\n\nHe was aware of his coming\n\n Down in the gloaming alone;\n\nAnd he looked in the face of the man\n\n And lo! the face was his own.\n\n\n\n\"This is my weird,\" he said,\n\n \"And now I ken the worst;\n\nFor many shall fall the morn,\n\n But I shall fall with the first.\n\nO, you of the outland tongue,\n\n You of the painted face,\n\nThis is the place of my death;\n\n Can you tell me the name of the place?\"\n\n\"Since the Frenchmen have been here\n\n They have called it Sault-Marie;\n\nBut that is a name for priests,\n\n And not for you and me.\n\nIt went by another word,\"\n\n Quoth he of the shaven head:\n\n\"It was called Ticonderoga\n\n In the days of the great dead.\"\n\n\n\nAnd it fell on the morrow's morning,\n\n In the fiercest of the fight,\n\nThat the Cameron bit the dust\n\n As he foretold at night;\n\nAnd far from the hills of heather,\n\n Far from the isles of the sea,\n\nHe sleeps in the place of the name\n\n As it was doomed to be.\n\n----R. L. Stevenson.\n\n\n\n\nHEATHER ALE\n\n\n|From the bonny bells of heather\n\n They brewed a drink long-syne,\n\nWas sweeter far than honey,\n\n Was stronger far than wine.\n\nThey brewed it and they drank it,\n\n And lay in a blessed swound\n\nFor days and days together\n\n In their dwellings underground.\n\n\n\nThere rose a king in Scotland,\n\n A fell man to his foes,\n\nHe smote the Piets in battle,\n\n He hunted them like roes.\n\nOver miles of the red mountain\n\n He hunted as they fled,\n\nAnd strewed the dwarfish bodies\n\n Of the dying and the dead.\n\n\n\nSummer came in the country,\n\n Red was the heather bell;\n\nBut the manner of the brewing\n\n Was none alive to tell.\n\nIn graves that were like children's\n\n On many a mountain head,\n\nThe Brewsters of the Heather\n\n Lay numbered with the dead.\n\n\n\nThe king in the red moorland\n\n Rode on a summer's day;\n\nAnd the bees hummed, and the curlews\n\n Cried beside the way.\n\nThe king rode, and was angry,\n\n Black was his brow and pale,\n\nTo rule in a land of heather\n\n And lack the Heather Ale.\n\n\n\nIt fortuned that his vassals,\n\n Riding free on the heath,\n\nCame on a stone that was fallen\n\n And vermin hid beneath.\n\nRudely plucked from their hiding,\n\n Never a word they spoke:\n\nA son and his aged father--\n\n Last of the dwarfish folk.\n\n\n\nThe king sat high on his charger,\n\n He looked on the little men;\n\nAnd the dwarfish and swarthy couple\n\n Looked at the king again.\n\nDown by the shore he had them;\n\n And there on the giddy brink--\n\n\"I will give you life, ye vermin,\n\n For the secret of the drink.\"\n\n\n\nThere stood the son and father\n\n And they looked high and low;\n\nThe heather was red around them,\n\n The sea rumbled below.\n\n\n\nAnd up and spoke the father,\n\n Shrill was his voice to hear:\n\n\"I have a word in private,\n\n A word for the royal ear.\n\n\"Life is dear to the aged,\n\n And honour a little thing;\n\nI would gladly sell the secret,\"\n\n Quoth the Piet to the King.\n\nHis voice was small as a sparrow's,\n\n And shrill and wonderful clear:\n\n\"I would gladly sell my secret,\n\n Only my son I fear.\n\n\"For life is a little matter,\n\n And death is nought to the young;\n\nAnd I dare not sell my honour\n\n Under the eye of my son.\n\nTake _him_, O king, and bind him,\n\n And cast him far in the deep;\n\nAnd it's I will tell the secret\n\n That I have sworn to keep.\"\n\n\n\nThey took the son and bound him,\n\n Neck and heels in a thong,\n\nAnd a lad took him and swung him,\n\n And flung him far and strong,\n\nAnd the sea swallowed his body,\n\n Like that of a child of ten;--\n\nAnd there on the cliff stood the father,\n\n Last of the dwarfish men.\n\n\n\n\"True was the word I told you:\n\n Only my son I feared;\n\nFor I doubt the sapling courage\n\n That goes without the beard.\n\nBut now in vain is the torture,\n\n Fire shall never avail:\n\nHere dies in my bosom\n\n The secret of Heather Ale.\"\n\n----R. L. Stevenson.\n\n\n\n\nCAPTAIN GOLD AND FRENCH JANET\n\n\n|The first letter our Captain wrote\n\n To the Lord of Mantua:\n\n\"Did you ever see French Janet\n\n (He wrote) on any day?\n\n\n\n\"Did ye ever see French Janet,\n\n That was so blithe and coy?\n\nThe little serving-lass I stole\n\n From the mountains of Savoy.\n\n\n\n\"Last week I lost French Janet:\n\n Hunt for her up and down;\n\nAnd send her back to me, my Lord,\n\n From the four walls o* the town.\"\n\n\n\nCaptain Gold and French Janet,\n\nFor thirty days and thirty nights\n\n There came no news to us.\n\nSuddenly old grew Captain Gold,\n\n And his voice grew tremulous.\n\n\n\nO Mantua's a bonny town,\n\n And she's long been our ally;\n\nBut help came none from Mantua-town,\n\n Dim grew our Captain's eye.\n\n\n\n\"O send me Janet home again!\"\n\n Our Captain wrote anew;\n\n\"A lass is but a paltry thing,\n\n And yet my heart's in two!\n\n\n\n\"Ha' ye searched through every convent-\n\n close,\n\n And sought in every den?\n\nMistress o' man, or bride of Christ,\n\n I'll have her back again!\"\n\n\n\nO Mantua's a bonny town,\n\n And she's long been our ally;\n\nBut help came none from Mantua-town,\n\n And sick at heart am I.\n\n\n\nFor thirty days and thirty nights\n\n No news came to the camp;\n\nAnd the life waned old in Captain Gold,\n\n As the oil wanes in a lamp.\n\n\n\nThe third moon swelled towards the full\n\n When the third letter he wrote:\n\n\"What will ye take for Janet?\n\n Red gold to fill your moat?\n\n\n\n\"Red wine to fill your fountains full?\n\n Red blood to wash your streets?\n\nAh, send me Janet home, my Lord,\n\n Or ye'll no die in your sheets!\"\n\n\n\nO Love, that makes strong towers to\n\n sway,\n\n And captains' hearts to fall!\n\nI feared they might have heard his sobs\n\n Right out to Mantua-wall.\n\n\n\nFor thirteen days and thirteen nights\n\n No messenger came back;\n\nAnd when the morning rose again,\n\n Our tents were hung with black.\n\n\n\nThe dead bell rang through all the camp;\n\n But we rung it low and dim,\n\nLest the Lombard hounds in Mantua\n\n Should know the end of him.\n\n\n\n----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).\n\n\n\n\nSIR ELDRIC\n\n\n|Sir Eldric rode by field and fen\n\nTo reach the haunts of heathen men.\n\n\n\nAbout the dusk he came unto\n\n A wood of birchen gray,\n\nAnd on the other side he knew\n\n The heathen country lay.\n\n\n\n\"'Tis but a night,\" he sang, \"to ride,\n\nAnd Christ shall reach the other side.\"\n\n\n\nThe moon came peering through the trees,\n\n And found him undismayed;\n\nFor still he sang his litanies,\n\n And as he rode he prayed.\n\n\n\nHe looked as young and pure and glad\n\nAs ever looked Sir Galahad.\n\n\n\nAbout the middle of the night\n\n He came upon the brink\n\nOf running waters clear and white,\n\n And lighted there to drink.\n\n\n\nAnd as he knelt a hidden foe\n\nCrept from behind and smote him so.\n\n\n\nHe turned; he felt his heart's blood run;\n\n He sought his enemy:\n\n\"And shall I leave my deeds undone,\n\n And die for such as thee?\"\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0137]\n\nAnd since a knight was either man,\n\nThey wrestled till the dawn began.\n\n\n\nThen in the dim and rustling place,\n\n Amid the thyme and dew,\n\nSir Eldric dealt the stroke of grace,\n\n And sank a-dying too,\n\nAnd thought upon that other's plight\n\nWho was not sure of Heaven to-night.\n\n\n\nHe dipped his fingers in his breast;\n\n He sought in vain to rise;\n\nHe leaned across his foe at rest,\n\n And murmured, \"I baptise!\"\n\n\n\nWhen lo! the sun broke overhead:\n\nThere, at his side, Himself lay dead!\n\n----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0138\n\n\n\n\nTHE MOWERS\n\n\n|They were three bonny mowers,\n\n Were mowing half the day;\n\nThey were three bonny lasses\n\n A-making of the hay.\n\n\n\n\"Who'll go and fetch the basket?\"\n\n \"Not I.\" \"Nor I.\" \"Nor I.\"\n\nThey had no time for falling out\n\n Ere Nancibel came by.\n\n[Illustration: 0139]\n\n\"What's in your basket, Nancibel?\"\n\n \"There's cakes and currant wine,\n\nThere's venison and good cider, lads;\n\n Come quickly, come and dine.\"\n\n\n\nThey were two bonny mowers\n\n Fell to among the best;\n\nThe youngest sits a-fasting,\n\n His head upon his breast.\n\n\n\n\"What ails ye, bonny mower,\n\n You sit so mournfully?\"\n\n\"Alas! what ails me, Nancibel?\n\n 'Tis all the love of thee.\"\n\n\n\n\"Now laugh and quaff, my bonny lad,\n\n And think no more o' me.\n\nMy lover is a finer man\n\n Than any twain o' ye.\n\n\n\n\"He's bought for me a kirtle,\n\n He's bought for me a coat,\n\nOf three-and-thirty colours,\n\n Wi' tassels at the throat.\n\n\n\n\"And twenty Maids of Honour\n\n They stitched at it a year,\n\nAnd sewed in all their needlework\n\n The kisses of my dear!\"\n\n\n\n----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).\n\n\n\n\nTHE TOWER OF ST MAUR\n\n\n|Where's my little son, Nourrice,\n\n And whither is he gone?\n\nThe youngest son of all I have,\n\n He should not gang alone.\"\n\n\n\n\"The child is safe enough, lady;\n\n He's barely gone an hour:\n\nHe's gone to see the mason-men,\n\n Are building at the tower.\"\n\n\n\n\"You should have kept him here, Nourrice,\n\n If I was sleeping then--\n\nHe's over young to gang alone\n\n Among the mason-men.\"\n\n\n\n\"Lie still, lie still, my sweet lady,\n\n There's nought to sorrow for;\n\nThe child is safe enough, I think,\n\n I' the keeping of St Maur!\"\n\n\n\nAn hour's gone by, an hour or two,\n\n And still they're out-of-door--\n\n\"I wish they'd come at last, Nourrice,\n\n My heart is sick and sore.\"\n\n\n\n\"Now hush, lady, my sweet lady,\n\n The moon's still small and young;\n\nIf they're home before the curfew bell\n\n They'll not ha' stayed too long.\"\n\n\n\nSt Maur has ta'en his youngest son,\n\n To the riverside they're gone,\n\nTo see the busy mason-men\n\n Building a tower of stone.\n\n\n\n\"O why do they build the tower so strong\n\n Against the riverside?\n\nI never saw the wall, father,\n\n That was so strong and wide.\"\n\n\n\n\"God knows the tower had need be strong\n\n Between my foes and thee!\n\nShould once Lord Armour enter, child,\n\n An ill death would ye dee.\"\n\n\n\n\"We need not fear Lord Armour, father,\n\n Nor any of his kin;\n\nSince God has given us such a wall,\n\n They cannot enter in.\"\n\n\n\n\"O twice, my babe, and thrice, my babe,\n\n Ere ever that I was born,\n\nLord Armour's men have entered in\n\n Betwixt the night and the morn.\n\n\n\n\"And once I found my nurse's room\n\n Was red with bloody men...\n\nI would not have thy mother die\n\n As died my mother then.\n\n\n\n\"And 'tis not seven nights ago\n\n I heard, clear in a dream,\n\nThe bugle cry of Armour,\n\n Shrill over wood and stream.\"\n\n\n\n\"But if so foul a raid, father,\n\n Fell out so long agone,\n\nWhy did they never build before\n\n A wall and tower of stone?\"\n\n\n\n\"Many's the time, my pretty babe,\n\n Ere ever this way you went,\n\nWe built the tower both thick and broad--\n\n An' we might as well ha' stent.\n\n\n\n\"Many's the time we built the tower,\n\n Wi' the grey stone and the brown.\n\nBut aye the floods in autumn\n\n Washed all the building down.\n\n\n\n\"And in my mind I see the morn\n\n When we'll be brought to dee--\n\nYoursel' and your seven brothers,\n\n And your young mother, and me.\n\n\n\n\"And oh, were it any but Armour,\n\n Oh God, were it any but she--\n\nBefore the Lord, my eyes grow dark\n\n With the ill sight that I see.\"\n\n\n\nAmong the busy mason-men,\n\n Are building at the tower,\n\nThere's a swarthy gipsy mason,\n\n A lean man and a dour.\n\n\n\nHe's lain the hammer down at last\n\n Out of his bony hand...\n\n\"Did ye never hear the spell, St Maur,\n\n Gars any tower to stand?\"\n\n\n\n\"O what's the spell, thou black gipsy,\n\n I prithee rede it now:\n\nThere never was any mason-man\n\n Shall earn such wage as thou.\"\n\n\n\n\"I dared not speak the spell, St Maur,\n\n Lest you should do me an ill,\n\nFor a cruel spell, and an evil spell,\n\n Is the spell that works your will.\"\n\n\n\n\"There's no spell but I'll risk it, man,\n\n An' the price were half my lands--\n\nTo keep my wife and children safe\n\n Out of Lord Armour's hands.\"\n\n\n\n\"O, more than lands, and more than fee,\n\n You'll pay me for the spell----\"\n\n\"An' the price were half my heart's red\n\n blood,\n\n I'd pay it down as well.\"\n\n\n\n\"O what's the blood of a sinful heart\n\n To bind the stones that fall?\n\nSt Maur, you'll build your christened child\n\n Alive into the wall.\"\n\n\n\nSt Maur has turned on his heel so light,\n\n And angry he turns away:\n\n\"Gang to the devil another time\n\n When ye ask what ye ask to-day.\"\n\n\n\nHe's ta'en his young son by the hand--\n\n He's opened wide the gate,\n\n\"Your mother's been sick a month by now,\n\n And she'll mourn sore if we're late.\"\n\n\n\nThey had not gone a little way,\n\n An' the child began to call--\n\n\"See how the flood runs high, father,\n\n And washes at the wall!\"\n\n\n\nThey had not gone a mickle way,\n\n St Maur began to brood,\n\n\"'Tis the bugle cry of Armour,\n\n Shrill over stream and wood.\"\n\n\n\n\"And must they slay me, father dear,\n\n And my seven brothers tall?\"\n\n\"Gin that's the blast of Armour, laddie,\n\n I fear they'll slay us all,\"\n\n\n\n\"And will they slay my mother, then,\n\n That looks so bonny and small?\"\n\n\"Come back, come back, thou little lad\n\n To the masons at the wall.\"\n\n\n\nThe flood runs high and still more high,\n\n And washes stone from stone--\n\n\"In another hour,\" say the masons,\n\n \"Our work is all undone.\"\n\nThe flood runs high and still more high,\n\n And the bugle rings anear;\n\nThe masons looking o'er the wall\n\n Are blue and stark with fear.\n\n\n\nThere's one that's neither stark nor wan,\n\n But never he looked so well;\n\n\"Shall I gang to the devil, St Maur?\" he\n\n cries,\n\n \"Or say, shall I gang to yoursel'?\"\n\n\n\nHe's set the child high in the air\n\n Upon his shoulder bone;\n\n\"Shall I leave them all for Armour,\n\n Or shall I take but one?\"\n\n\n\nNever an answer spake St Maur,\n\n And never a word he said:\n\nThere was not one o' the mason men\n\n Looked half so wan and dead.\n\n\n\nThe gipsy's ta'en the frighted child\n\n And set him in the wall:\n\n\"There's a bonny game to play, little man,\n\n The bonniest game of all.\n\n\n\n\"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad;\n\n I'll build in two's and three's;\n\nAnd I'll throw you a red, red apple in,\n\n When the stones reach to your knees.\n\n\n\n\"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad;\n\n I'll lay the stones in haste;\n\nAnd I'll throw you the forester's whistle\n\n When they reach above your waist.\n\n\n\n\"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad,\n\n You'll watch the stones that rise;\n\nAnd I'll throw you in your father's sword,\n\n When they reach above your eyes.\n\n\n\n\"And if you tire o' the play, my lad,\n\n You've but to raise a shout:\n\nAt the least word o' your father's mouth,\n\n I'll stop and pluck you out.\"\n\n\n\nThe gipsy-man builds quick and light,\n\n As if he played a play,\n\nAnd the child laughs with a frighted laugh,\n\n And the tower ceases to sway.\n\n\n\nSt Maur stares out of his bloodshot eyes,\n\n Like one that's well-nigh mad;\n\nThe tower stands fast, and the stones rise high\n\n About the little lad.\n\n\n\n\"O father, father, lift me out!\n\n The stones reach over my eyes,\n\nAnd I cannot see you now, father,\n\n So swift the walls uprise.\n\n\n\n\"O father, lift me out, father!\n\n I cannot breathe at all,\n\nFor the stones reach up beyond my head,\n\n And it's dark down i' the wall.\"\n\n\n\nBut never an answer spake St Maur,\n\n Never a word but one:\n\n\"Have you finished your devil's work, mason,\n\n Or when will the deed be done?\"\n\n\n\n\"Oh, the work is done that ye wished, St\n\n Maur,\n\n 'Twill last for many a year;\n\n There's scarce a sound in the wall by now\n\n A mother might not hear.\n\n\n\n\"Gang home, gang home in peace, St Maur,\n\n And sleep sound if you can;\n\nThere's never a flood shall rock this tower,\n\n And never a mortal man.\n\n\n\n\"Gang home and kiss your bonny wife,\n\n And bid her mourn and fast...\n\nShe'll weep a year for her youngest child,\n\n But she'll dry her eyes at last.\n\n\n\n\"You'll say he fell in the flood, St Maur,\n\n But you'll not deceive yoursel',\n\nFor you've lost the bonniest thing you had,\n\n And you'll remember well.\n\n\n\n\"Your wife will mourn him a year, St Maur,\n\n You'll mourn him all your life,\n\nFor you've lost the bonniest thing you had,\n\n Better than bairns or wife.\"\n\n-----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0149]\n\n[Illustration: 01;0]\n\n\n\n\nA BALLAD OF HELL\n\n\n|A letter from my love to-day!\n\n Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!\"\n\nShe struck a happy tear away\n\n And broke the crimson seal.\n\n\n\n\"My love, there is no help on earth,\n\n No help in heaven; the dead man's bell\n\nMust toll our wedding; our first hearth\n\n Must be the well-paved floor of hell.\"\n\n\n\nThe colour died from out her face,\n\n Her eyes like ghostly candles shone;\n\nShe cast dread looks about the place,\n\n Then clenched her teeth, and read right on.\n\n\n\n\"I may not pass the prison door;\n\n Here must I rot from day to day,\n\nUnless I wed whom I abhor,\n\n My cousin, Blanche of Valencay.\n\n\n\n\"At midnight with my dagger keen\n\n I'll take my life; it must be so.\n\nMeet me in hell to-night, my queen,\n\n For weal and woe.\"\n\n\n\nShe laughed although her face was wan,\n\n She girded on her golden belt,\n\nShe took her jewelled ivory fan,\n\n And at her glowing missal knelt.\n\n\n\nThen rose, \"And am I mad?\" she said,\n\n She broke her fan, her belt untied;\n\nWith leather girt herself instead,\n\n And stuck a dagger at her side.\n\n\n\nShe waited, shuddering in her room\n\n Till sleep had fallen on all the house.\n\nShe never flinched; she faced her doom:\n\n They two must sin to keep their vows.\n\n\n\nThen out into the night she went;\n\n And stooping, crept by hedge and tree;\n\nHer rose-bush flung a snare of scent,\n\n And caught a happy memory.\n\n\n\nShe fell, and lay a minute's space;\n\n She tore the sward in her distress;\n\nThe dewy grass refreshed her face;\n\n She rose and ran with lifted dress.\n\n\n\nShe started like a morn-caught ghost\n\n Once when the moon came out and stood\n\nTo watch; the naked road she crossed,\n\n And dived into the murmuring wood.\n\n\n\nThe branches snatched her streaming cloak;\n\n A live thing shrieked; she made no stay!\n\nShe hurried to the trysting-oak--\n\n Right well she knew the way.\n\n\n\nWithout a pause she bared her breast\n\n And drove her dagger home and fell,\n\nAnd lay like one that takes her rest,\n\n And died and wakened up in hell.\n\n\n\nShe bathed her spirit in the flame,\n\n And near the centre took her post;\n\nFrom all sides to her ears there came\n\n The dreary anguish of the lost.\n\n\n\nThe devil started at her side\n\n Comely, and tall, and black as jet.\n\n\"I am young Malespina's bride;\n\n Has he come hither yet?\"\n\n\n\n\"My poppet, welcome to your bed.\"\n\n \"Is Malespina here?\"\n\n\"Not he! To-morrow he must wed\n\n His cousin Blanche, my dear!\"\n\n\n\n\"You lie; he died with me to-night.\"\n\n \"Not he! It was a plot.\" \"You lie.\"\n\n\"My dear, I never lie outright.\"\n\n \"We died at midnight, he and I.\"\n\n\n\nThe devil went. Without a groan\n\n She, gathered up in one fierce prayer,\n\nTook root in hell's midst all alone,\n\n And waited for him there.\n\n\n\nShe dared to make herself at home,\n\n Amidst the wail, the uneasy stir.\n\nThe blood-stained flame that filled the dome,\n\n Scentless and silent, shrouded her.\n\n\n\nHow long she stayed I cannot tell;\n\n But when she felt his perfidy,\n\nShe marched across the floor of hell;\n\n And all the damned stood up to see.\n\n\n\nThe devil stopped her at the brink;\n\n She shook him off; she cried, \"Away!\"\n\n\"My dear, you have gone mad, I think.\"\n\n \"I was betrayed: I will not stay.\"\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0154]\n\n\n\nAcross the weltering deep she ran--\n\n A stranger thing was never seen:\n\nThe damned stood silent to a man;\n\n They saw the great gulf set between.\n\n\n\nTo her it seemed a meadow fair;\n\n And flowers sprang up about her feet;\n\nShe entered heaven; she climbed the stair;\n\n And knelt down at the mercy-seat.\n\n\n\nSeraphs and saints with one great voice\n\n Welcomed that soul that knew not fear;\n\nAmazed to find it could rejoice,\n\n Hell raised a hoarse half-human cheer.\n\n----John Davidson.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WEDDING OF PALE BRONWEN\n\n\nI.\n\n\n|The wind was waked by the morning light,\n\n And it cried in the gray birch-tree,\n\nAnd the cry was plain in Bronwen's bower,\n\n \"Oh, Bronwen, come to me!\"\n\n\n\nPale, pale sleeps Bronwen, pale she wakes;\n\n \"What bird to my bower is flown?\n\nFor my lover, Red Ithel, is at the wars\n\n Before Jerusalem town.\"\n\n\n\nBut still the wind sang in the tree,\n\n \"Come forth,'tis your wedding morn,\n\nAnd you must be wed in Holy Land\n\n Ere your little babe is born.\"\n\n\n\nAnd still the wind had her true-love's cry,\n\n \"Kind Bronwen, come!\" until\n\nShe could not rest, and rose to look\n\n To the sea beyond Morva Hill.\n\n\n\nAnd afar came the cry over Morva Hill,\n\n \"Kind Bronwen, come to me!\"\n\nTill she could not stay, for very love,\n\n And stole away to the sea.\n\n\n\nShe crossed the hill to the fishing-boats,\n\n And away she sailed so fine,\n\n\"Is it far, my love, in the summer sun\n\n To the shores of fair Palestine?\"\n\n\n\nII.\n\nThere was no sun at sea that day,\n\n To watch pale Bronwen drown,\n\nBut the sun was hot on the deadly sands\n\n Before Jerusalem town.'\n\n\n\nAll day Red Ithel lay dying there,\n\n But he thought of the far-off sea;\n\nAnd he cried all day till his lips grew white,\n\n \"Kind Bronwen, come to me!\"\n\n\n\nAnd so it passed till the evening time,\n\n And then the sea-wind came,\n\nAnd he thought he lay on Morva Hill\n\n And heard her call his name.\n\n\n\nHe heard her voice, he held her hand,\n\n \"This is the day,\" she said,\n\n\"And this is the hour that Holy Church\n\n Has given for us to wed.\"\n\n\n\nThere was no strength in him to speak,\n\n But his eyes had yet their say,\n\n\"Kind Bronwen, now we will be wed\n\n Forever and ever and aye!\"\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nBeneath the sea pale Bronwen lies,\n\n Red Ithel beneath the sand;\n\nBut they are one in Holy Church,\n\n One in love's Holy Land.\n\n\n\nRed Ithel lies by Jerusalem town,\n\n And she in the deep sea lies;\n\nBut I trow their little babe was born\n\n In the gardens of Paradise.\n\n---Ernest Rhys.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF FISHER'S BOARDING-HOUSE\n\n\n|That night, when through the mooring-chains\n\n The wide-eyed corpse rolled free,\n\nTo blunder down by Garden Reach\n\n And rot at Kedgeree,\n\nThe tale the Hughli told the shoal\n\n The lean shoal told to me.\n\n\n\n|Twas Fultah Fisher's boarding-house\n\n Where sailor-men reside,\n\nAnd there were men of all the ports\n\n From Mississip to Clyde,\n\nAnd regally they spat and smoked,\n\n And fearsomely they lied.\n\n\n\nThey lied about the purple Sea\n\n That gave them scanty bread,\n\nThey lied about the Earth beneath,\n\n The Heavens overhead,\n\nFor they had looked too often on\n\n Black rum when that was red.\n\n\n\nThey told their tales of wreck and wrong,\n\n Of shame and lust and fraud,\n\nThey backed their toughest statements with\n\n The Brimstone of the Lord,\n\nAnd crackling oaths went to and fro\n\n Across the fist-banged board.\n\n\n\nAnd there was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,\n\n Bull-throated, bare of arm,\n\nWho carried on his hairy chest\n\n The maid Ultruda's charm--\n\nThe little silver crucifix\n\n That keeps a man from harm.\n\n\n\nAnd there was Jake Without-the-Ears,\n\n And Pamba the Malay,\n\nAnd Carboy Gin the Guinea cook,\n\n And Luz from Vigo Bay,\n\nAnd Honest Jack who sold them slops\n\n And harvested their pay.\n\n\n\nAnd there was Salem Hardieker,\n\n A lean Bostonian he--\n\nRuss, German, English, Halfbreed, Finn,\n\n Yank, Dane, and Portugee,\n\nAt Fultah Fisher's boarding-house\n\n They rested from the sea.\n\n\n\nNow Anne of Austria shared their drinks,\n\n Collinga knew her fame,\n\nFrom Tarnau in Galicia\n\n To Jaun Bazar she came,\n\nTo eat the bread of infamy\n\n And take the wage of shame.\n\n\n\nShe held a dozen men to heel--\n\n Rich spoil of war was hers,\n\nIn hose and gown and ring and chain,\n\n From twenty mariners,\n\nAnd, by Port Law, that week, men called\n\n Her Salem Hardieker's.\n\n\n\nBut seamen learnt--what landsmen know--\n\n That neither gifts nor gain\n\nCan hold a winking Light o' Love\n\n Or Fancy's flight restrain,\n\nWhen Anne of Austria rolled her eyes\n\n On Hans the blue-eyed Dane.\n\n\n\nSince Life is strife, and strife means knife,\n\n From Howrah to the Bay,\n\nAnd he may die before the dawn\n\n Who liquored out the day,\n\nIn Fultah Fishers boarding-house\n\n We woo while yet we may.\n\n\n\nBut cold was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,\n\n Bull-throated, bare of arm,\n\nAnd laughter shook the chest beneath\n\n The maid Ultruda's charm--\n\nThe little silver crucifix\n\n That keeps a man from harm.\n\n\n\n\"You speak to Salem Hardieker,\n\n You was his girl, I know.\n\nI ship mineselfs to-morrow, see,\n\n Und round the Skaw we go,\n\nSouth, down the Cattegat, by Hjelm,\n\n To Besser in Saro.\"\n\n\n\nWhen love rejected turns to hate,\n\n All ill betide the man.\n\n\"You speak to Salem Hardieker\"--\n\n She spoke as woman can.\n\nA scream--a sob--\"He called me--names!\"\n\n And then the fray began.\n\n\n\nAn oath from Salem Hardieker,\n\n A shriek upon the stairs,\n\nA dance of shadows on the wall,\n\n A knife-thrust unawares--\n\nAnd Hans came down, as cattle drop,\n\n Across the broken chairs.\n\n\n\nIn Anne of Austria's trembling hands\n\n The weary head fell low\n\n\"I ship mineselfs to-morrow, straight\n\n For Besser in Saro;\n\nUnd there Ultruda comes to me\n\n At Easter, und I go\n\n\n\n\"South, down the Cattegat--What's here?\n\n There--are--no--lights--to--guide!\"\n\nThe mutter ceased, the spirit passed,\n\n And Anne of Austria cried\n\nIn Fultah Fisher's boarding-house\n\n When Hans the mighty died.\n\n\n\nThus slew they Hans the blue-eyed Dane,\n\n Bull-throated, bare of arm,\n\nBut Anne of Austria looted first\n\n The maid Ultruda's charm--\n\nThe little silver crucifix\n\n That keeps a man from harm.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0162]\n\n\n\n\nTHE FALL OF JOCK GILLESPIE\n\n\n|This fell when dinner-time was done--\n\n 'Twixt the first an' the second rub--\n\nThat oor mon Jock cam' hame again\n\n To his rooms ahint the Club.\n\n\n\nAn' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang,\n\n An' syne we thocht him fou,\n\nAn' syne he trumped his partner's trick,\n\n An' garred his partner rue.\n\n\n\n-----Rudyard Kipling.\n\nThen up and spake an elder mon,\n\n That held the Spade its Ace--\n\n\"God save the lad! Whence comes the licht\n\n That wimples on his face?\"\n\n\n\nAn' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled,\n\n An' ower the card-brim wunk:--\n\n\"I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg,\n\n May be that I am drunk.\"\n\n\n\n\"There's whusky brewed in Galashiels,\n\n An' L. L. L. forbye;\n\nBut never liquor lit the low\n\n That keeks fra' oot your eye.\n\n\n\n\"There's a thrid o' hair on your dress-coat\n\n breast,\n\n Aboon the heart a wee?\"\n\n\"Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye\n\n That slobbers ower me.\"\n\n\n\n\"Oh! lang-haired Sky es are lovin' beasts,\n\n An' terrier dogs are fair,\n\nBut never yet was terrier born,\n\n Wi' ell-lang gowden hair!\n\n\n\n\"There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast,\n\n Below the left lappel?\"\n\n\"Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar,\n\n Whenas the stump-end fell.\"\n\n\n\n\"Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse,\n\n For ye are short o' cash,\n\nAn' best Havannahs couldna leave\n\n Sae white an' pure an ash.\n\n\n\n\"This nicht ye stopped a story braid,\n\n An' stopped it wi' a curse--\n\nLast nicht ye told that tale yoursel,\n\n An' capped it wi' a worse!\n\n\n\n\"Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou!\n\n But plainly we can ken\n\nYe're failin', failin', fra' the band\n\n O' cantie single men!\"\n\n\n\nAn' it fell when _sirris_-shaws were sere,\n\n An' the nichts were lang and mirk,\n\nIn braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring,\n\n Oor Jockie gaed to the Kirk.\n\n---Rudyard Kipling.\n\n\n\n\nSOLDIER, SOLDIER\n\n[Illustration: 9165]\n\n\n|Soldier, soldier come from the wars,\n\nWhy don't you march with my true love?\"\n\n\"We're fresh from off the ship an' Vs maybe\n\n give the slip,\n\nAn' you'd best go look for a new love.\"\n\n New love! True love!\n\n Best go look for a new love,\n\n The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better\n\n dry your eyes,\n\n An' you'd best go look for a new love.\n\n\n\n\"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,\n\nWhat did you see o' my true love?\"\n\n\"I seed him serve the Queen in a suit o' rifle-\n\n green,\n\nAn' you'd best go look for a new love.\"\n\n\n\n\"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,\n\nDid you see no more o' my true love?\"\n\n\"I seed 'im runnin' by when the shots begun\n\n to fly--\n\nBut you'd best go look for a new love.\"\n\n\n\n\"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,\n\nDid aught take 'arm to my true love?\"\n\n\"I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay\n\n so white--\n\nAn' you'd best go look for a new love.\"\n\n\n\n\"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,\n\nI'll up an' tend to my true love!\"\n\n\"E's lying on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead,\n\n An' you'd best go look for a new love.\"\n\n\"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,\n\n\n\nI'll down an' die with my true love!\"\n\n\"The pit we dug 'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty men\n\n beside 'im--\n\nAn' you'd best go look for a new love.\"\n\n\"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,\n\n\n\nDo you bring no sign from my true love?\"\n\n\"I bring a lock of hair that'e alius used to\n\n wear,\n\nAn' you'd best go look for a new love.\"\n\n\n\n\"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,\n\nO then I know it's true I've lost my true love!\"\n\n\"An' I tell you truth again--when you've lost\n\n the feel o' pain\n\nYou'd best take me for your true love.\"\n\n True love! New love!\n\n Best take'im for a new love,\n\n The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better\n\n dry your eyes,\n\n An' you'd best take'im for your true love.\n\n---Rudyard Kipling.\n\n\n\n\nBALLAD OF EAST AND WEST\n\n\n|Oh, _East is East, and West is West, and never\n\n the twain shall meet,\n\nTill Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great\n\n Judgment Seat;\n\nBut there is neither East nor West, Border, nor\n\n Breed, nor Birth,\n\nWhen two strong men stand face to face, tho they\n\n come from the ends of the earth!_\n\n\n\nKamal is out with twenty men to raise the\n\n Borderside,\n\nAnd he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the\n\n Colonel's pride:\n\nHe has lifted her out of the stable-door between\n\n the dawn and the day,\n\nAnd turned the calkins upon her feet, and\n\n ridden her far away.\n\nThen up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a\n\n troop of the Guides:\n\n\"Is there never a man of all my men can say\n\n where Kamal hides?99\n\nThen up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of\n\n the Ressaldar:\n\n\"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye\n\n know where his pickets are.\n\nAt dusk he harries the Abazai--at dawn he is\n\n into Bonair,\n\nBut he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place\n\n to fare,\n\nSo if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird\n\n can fly,\n\nBy the favour of God ye may cut him off ere\n\n he win to the Tongue of Jagai.\n\nBut if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right\n\n swiftly turn ye then,\n\nFor the length and the breadth of that grisly\n\n plain is sown with Kamal's men.\n\nThere is rock to the left, and rock to the right,\n\n and low lean thorn between,\n\nAnd ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where\n\n never a man is seen.\"\n\n\n\nThe Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw\n\n rough dun was he,\n\nWith the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell\n\n and the head of the gallows-tree.\n\nThe Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid\n\n him stay to eat--\n\nWho rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits\n\n not long at his meat.\n\nHe's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as\n\n he can fly,\n\nTill he was aware of his father's mare in the\n\n gut of the Tongue of Jagai,\n\nTill he was aware of his father's mare with\n\n Kamal upon her back,\n\nAnd when he could spy the white of her eye,\n\n he made the pistol crack.\n\nHe has fired once, he has fired twice, but the\n\n whistling ball went wide.\n\n\"Ye shoot like a soldier,\" Kamal said. \"Show\n\n now if ye can ride.\"\n\nIt's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown\n\n dust-devils go,\n\nThe dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare\n\n like a barren doe.\n\nThe dun he leaned against the bit and slugged\n\n his head above,\n\nBut the red mare played with the snaffle-bars,\n\n as a maiden plays with a glove.\n\n\n\nThere was rock to the left, and rock to the right,\n\n and low lean thorn between,\n\nAnd thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho'\n\n never a man was seen.\n\nThey have ridden the low moon out of the\n\n sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,\n\nThe dun he went like a wounded bull, but the\n\n mare like a new-roused fawn.\n\nThe dun he fell at a water-course--in a woful\n\n heap fell he,\n\nAnd Kamal has turned the red mare back, and\n\n pulled the rider free.\n\nHe has knocked the pistol out of his hand--\n\n small room was there to strive,\n\n\"'Twas only by favour of mine,\" quoth he,\n\n \"ye rode so long alive:\n\nThere was not a rock for twenty mile, there\n\n was not a clump of tree,\n\nBut covered a man of my own men with his\n\n rifle cocked on his knee.\n\nIf I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it\n\n low,\n\nThe little jackals that flee so fast were feasting\n\n all in a row:\n\nIf I had bowed my head on my breast, as I\n\n have held it high,\n\nThe kite that whistles above us now were\n\n gorged till she could not fly.\"\n\n\n\nLightly answered the Colonel's son: \"Do good\n\n to bird and beast,\n\nBut count who come for the broken meats before\n\n thou makest a feast.\n\nIf there should follow a thousand swords to\n\n carry my bones away,\n\nBelike the price of a jackal's meal were more\n\n than a thief could pay.\n\nThey will feed their horse on the standing crop,\n\n their men on the garnered grain,\n\nThe thatch of the byres will serve their fires\n\n when all the cattle are slain.\n\nBut if thou thinkest the price be fair,--thy\n\n brethren wait to sup,\n\nThe hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,--howl,\n\n dog, and call them up!\n\nAnd if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer\n\n and gear and stack,\n\nGive me my father's mare again, and I'll fight\n\n my own way back!\"\n\nKamal has gripped him by the hand and set him\n\n upon his feet.\n\n\"No talk shall be of dogs,\" said he, \"when\n\n wolf and grey wolf meet.\n\nMay I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or\n\n breath;\n\nWhat dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at\n\n the dawn with Death?\"\n\n\n\nLightly answered the Colonel's son: \"I hold\n\n by the blood of my clan:\n\nTake up the mare for my father's gift--by God,\n\n she has carried a man!\"\n\nThe red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and\n\n nuzzled against his breast;\n\n\"We be two strong men,\" said Kamal then,\n\n \"but she loveth the younger best.\n\nSo she shall go with a lifter's dower, my\n\n turquoise studded rein,\n\nMy broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver\n\n stirrups twain.\"\n\nThe Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it\n\n muzzle-end,\n\n\"Ye have taken the one from a foe,\" said he;\n\n \"will ye take the mate from a friend?\"\n\n\"A gift for a gift,\" said Kamal straight; \"a\n\n limb for the risk of a limb.\n\nThy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my\n\n son to him!\"\n\nWith that he whistled his only son, that dropped\n\n from a mountain-crest--\n\nHe trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he\n\n looked like a lance in rest.\n\n\"Now here is thy master,\" Kamal said, \"who\n\n leads a troop of the Guides,\n\nAnd thou must ride at his left side as shield on\n\n shoulder rides.\n\n\n\nTill Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and\n\n board and bed,\n\nThy life is his--thy fate it is to guard him with\n\n thy head.\n\nSo, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and\n\n all her foes are thine,\n\nAnd thou must harry thy fathers hold for the\n\n peace of the Border-line,\n\nAnd thou must make a trooper tough and hack\n\n thy way to power--\n\nBelike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I\n\n am hanged in Peshawur,\"\n\n\n\nThey have looked each other between the eyes,\n\n and there they found no fault,\n\nThey have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-\n\n Blood, on leavened bread and salt:\n\nThey have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-\n\n Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,\n\nOn the hilt and the haft of the Kyber knife, and\n\n the Wondrous Names of God.\n\nThe Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's\n\n boy the dun,\n\nAnd two have come back to Fort Bukloh where\n\n there went forth but one.\n\nAnd when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full\n\n twenty swords flew clear--\n\nThere was not a man but carried his feud with\n\n the blood of the mountaineer.\n\n\n\n\"Ha' done! ha' done!\" said the Colonel's son.\n\n \"Put up the steel at your sides!\n\nLast night ye had struck at a Border thief--to-\n\n night'tis a man of the Guides!\"\n\n\n\n_Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never\n\n the twain shall meet,\n\nTill Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great\n\n Judgment Seat;\n\nBut there is neither East nor West, Border, nor\n\n Breed, nor Birth,\n\nWhen two strong men stand face to face, tho they\n\n come from the ends of the earth_\n\n----Rudyard Kipling.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0175]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LADY OF SEVILLA\n\n\n_In the city of Sevilla,\n\n Years and years ago--\n\nDwelt a lady in a villa\n\n Years and years ago._\n\n\"Magdalene,\" _Revelations of Peter Brown_,\n\nby J. F. Waller.\n\n\n\n|In the city of Sevilla,\n\n Years and years ago,\n\nLived a lady in a villa,\n\n Ah,'twas long ago.\n\n\n\nAnd her lips were cherries ripe\n\n Years and years ago,\n\nAnd her eyes were like the night\n\n Long ago.\n\n[Illustration: 0176]\n\nAll the gallants of Sevilla,\n\n Years and years ago,\n\nLoved the lady of the villa,\n\n Ah,'twas long ago.\n\nBut their foolish hearts were broken,\n\n Years and years ago,\n\nFor she scorned their true love tokens\n\n Long ago.\n\n\n\nFar away from fair Sevilla,\n\n Years and years ago;\n\nFar from city, town, and villa,\n\n Ah,'twas long ago.\n\n\n\nSailed a ship across the ocean\n\n Years and years ago,\n\nAnd the lady's heart was broken,\n\n Years and years ago.\n\n----Gratiana Chanter.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0177]\n\n\n\n\nIRISH BALLADS\n\n\n\n\nTHE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE\n\n\n|July the first of a morning fair\n\n In seventeen ninety famous,\n\nKing William did- his men prepare\n\n To fight with false King Shamus.\n\nKing James he pitched his tents between\n\n The lines for to retire;\n\nBut King William threw his bomb-balls in\n\n And set them all on fire.\n\nThereat revenge the Irish vowed\n\n Upon King William's forces,\n\nAnd vehemently with cries did crowd\n\n To check their forward courses.\n\nA ball from out their batteries Hew\n\n As our King he faced their fire;\n\nHis shoulder-knot away it shot,\n\n Quoth he, \"Pray come no nigher!\"\n\n\n\nThen straight his officers he did call,\n\n Saying, \"Gentlemen, mind your station,\n\nAnd prove your valour one and all\n\n Before this Irish nation.\n\nMy brazen walls let no man break,\n\n And your subtle foes you'll scatter;\n\nLet us show them to-day good English play,\n\n As we go over the water.\"\n\n\n\nThen horse and foot we marched amain,\n\n Resolved their ranks to batter;\n\nBut the brave Duke Schomberg he was slain,\n\n As we went over the water.\n\nThen King William cried, \"Feel no dismay\n\n At the losing of one commander,\n\nFor God shall be our king to-day,\n\n And I'll be general under.\"\n\nThen stoutly we Boyne river crossed\n\n To give the Irish battle;\n\nOur cannon to his dreadful cost\n\n Like thunder-claps did rattle.\n\nIn majestic mien our Prince rode o'er,\n\n The stream ran red with slaughter\n\nAs with blow and shout we put to rout\n\n Our enemies over the water.\n\n----Anon. Adapted by A. P. Graves.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0181]\n\n\n\n\nSHULE AGRA\n\n[Illustration: 9182]\n\n\n|His hair was black, his eye was blue,\n\nHis arm was stout, his word was true;\n\nI wish in my heart I was with you.\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! *\n\nShule, shule, shule agra! **\n\nOnly death can ease my woe,\n\nSince the lad of my heart from me did go,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!\n\n\n\n'Tis oft I sat on my true love's knee,\n\nMany a fond story he told to me,\n\nHe told me things that ne'er shall be,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun.\n\nShule, shule, shule agra!\n\nOnly death can ease my woe,\n\nSince the lad of my heart from me did go,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!\n\n\n\n * Farewell, my darling. ** Come, come, my love!\n\nI sold my rock, * I sold my reel; **\n\nWhen my flax was spun, I sold my wheel,\n\nTo buy my love a sword of steel,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!\n\nShule, shule, shule agra!\n\nOnly death can ease my woe,\n\nSince the lad of my heart from me did go,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun.\n\n\n\nBut when King James was forced to flee,\n\nThe Wild Geesef spread their wings to sea,\n\nAnd bore mabouchal *** far from me,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!\n\nShule, shule, shule agra!\n\nOnly death can ease my woe,\n\nSince the lad of my heart from me did go,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!\n\n\n\nI saw them sail from Brandon Hill,\n\nThen down I sat and cried my fill,\n\nThat every tear would turn a mill,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!\n\nShule, shule, shule agra!\n\nOnly death can ease my woe,\n\nSince the lad of my heart from me did go,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!\n\n\n\n * _Two parts of Irish spinning wheel.\n\n ** Irish Jacobites who joined the French army when the\n\n cause of James II. was lost.\n\n *** My boy._\n\nI wish the King would return to reign,\n\nAnd bring my true love back again;\n\nI wish, and wish, but I wish in vain,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!\n\nShule, shule, shule agra!\n\nOnly death can ease my woe,\n\nSince the lad of my heart from me did go,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!\n\n\n\nIll dye my petticoat, I'll dye it red, *\n\nAnd round the world I'll beg my bread,\n\nTill I find my love alive or dead,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!,\n\nShule, shule, shule agra!\n\nOnly death can ease my woe,\n\nSince the lad of my heart from me did go,\n\n Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!\n\n---Anon. Adapted by A. P. Graves.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED\n\n\n|The night before Larry was stretched,\n\n The boys they all paid him a visit;\n\nA bit in their sacks too they fetched,\n\n They sweated their duds till they riz it;\n\n * Beggars of those days were required by the law to wear red petticoats.\n\nFor Larry was always the lad,\n\n When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,\n\nBut he'd fence all the togs that he had\n\n Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,\n\n And moisten his gob 'fore he died.\n\n\n\n\"'Pon my conscience, dear Larry,\" says I,\n\n\"I'm sorry to see you in trouble,\n\nYour life's cheerful noggin run dry,\n\n And yourself going off like its bubble.\"\n\n\"Hould your tongue in that matter,\" says he;\n\n \"For the neckcloth I don't care a button,\n\nAnd by this time to-morrow you'll see\n\n Your Larry will be dead as mutton:\n\n All for what?'Kase his courage was good.\"\n\n\n\nThe boys they came crowding in fast;\n\n They drew their stools close round about him.\n\nSix glims round his coffin they placed;\n\n He couldn't be well waked without 'em.\n\nI axed if he was fit for to die,\n\n Without having duly repented?\n\nSays Larry, \"That's all in my eye,\n\n And all by the clergy invented\n\n To make a fat bit for themselves.\"\n\n\n\nThen the cards being called for, they played,\n\nTill Larry found one of them cheated.\n\nQuick! he made a hard rap at his head,--\n\nThe lad being easily heated.\n\n\"So ye chates me because I'm in grief;\n\n O, is that, by the Holy, the rason?\n\nSoon I'll give you to know, you d-d thief,\n\n That you're cracking your jokes out of sason,\n\n And scuttle your nob with my fist.\"\n\n\n\nThen in came the priest with his book,\n\n He spoke him so smooth and so civil,\n\nLarry tipped him a Kilmainham look,\n\n And pitched his big wig to the divil.\n\nThen raising a little his head\n\n To get a sweet drop of the bottle,\n\nAnd pitiful sighing, he said,\n\n \"O, the hemp will be soon round my throttle,\n\n And choke my poor windpipe to death!\"\n\n\n\nSo mournful these last words he spoke,\n\n We all vented our tears in a shower;\n\nFor my part I thought my heart broke\n\n To see him cut down like a flower.\n\nOn his travels we watched him next day -9\n\n O, the hangman, I thought I could kill him!\n\nNot one word did our poor Larry say,\n\n Nor changed till he came to \"King William.\"\n\n Och, my dear, thin his colour turned\n\n white.\n\n\n\nWhen he came to the nubbling chit,\n\n He was tucked up so neat and so pretty;\n\nThe rumbler jogged off with his feet,\n\n And he died with his face to the city.\n\nHe kicked, too, but that was all pride,\n\n For soon you might see 'twas all over;\n\nAnd as soon as the noose was untied,\n\n Then at darky we waked him in clover,\n\n And sent him to take a ground sweat.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PATRIOT MOTHER\n\n\n|Come, tell us the name of the rebelly crew,\n\nWho lifted the pike on the Curragh with you\n\nCome, tell us the treason, and then you'll be free,\n\nOr right quickly you'll swing from the high\n\n gallows tree.\"\n\n\n\n''_Alarma! Alanna!_ the shadow of shame\n\nHas never yet fallen upon one of your name,\n\nAnd oh! may the food from my bosom you\n\n drew,\n\nIn your veins turn to poison, if _you_ turn untrue.\n\n\n\n\"The foul words--oh! let them not blacken\n\n your tongue,\n\nThat would prove to your friends and your\n\n country a wrong,\n\nOr the curse of a mother, so bitter and dread,\n\nWith the wrath of the Lord--may they fall on\n\n your head!\n\n\n\n\"I have no one but you in the whole world\n\n wide,\n\nYet false to your pledge, you'd ne'er stand at\n\n my side:\n\nIf a traitor you liv'd, you'd be farther away\n\nFrom my heart than, if true, you were wrapp'd\n\n in the clay.\n\n\n\n\"Oh! deeper and darker the mourning would be,\n\nFor your falsehood so base, than your death\n\n proud and free,\n\nDearer, far dearer than ever to me,\n\nMy darling, you'll be on the brave gallows tree.\n\n\n\n\"'Tis holy, agra, from the bravest and best--\n\nGo! go! from my heart, and be join'd with\n\n the rest,\n\n_Alanna, machree! O Alanita, machree!_\n\nSure a 'stag' * and a traitor you never will be.\"\n\nThere's no look of a traitor upon the young brow\n\nThat's raised to the tempters so haughtily now;\n\nNo traitor e'er held up the firm head so high--\n\nNo traitor e'er show'd such a proud flashing eye.\n\nOn the high gallows tree! on the brave gallows\n\n tree!\n\nWhere smil'd leaves and blossoms, his sad doom\n\n met he!\n\nBut it never bore blossom so pure or so fair,\n\nAs the heart of the martyr that hangs from it\n\n there.\n\n\n\n * \"_Stag_,\" an informer.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAKE OF COOLFIN\n\n\n|To the Lake of Coolfin the companions soon came,\n\nAnd the first man they met was the keeper of\n\n game:--\n\n\"Turn back Willy Leonard, return back again;\n\nThere is deep and false water in the Lake of\n\n Coolfin!\"\n\n\n\nYoung Willy plunged in, and he swam the lake\n\n round;\n\nHe swam to an island--'twas soft marshy ground:\n\n\"O, comrade, dear comrade, do not venture in;\n\nThere is deep and false water in the Lake of\n\n Coolfin!\"\n\n\n\n'Twas early that morning his sister arose;\n\nAnd up to her mother's bed-chamber she goes:--\n\n\"O, I dreamed a sad dream about Willy last\n\n night;\n\nHe was dressed in a shroud--in a shroud of\n\n snow-white!\"\n\n\n\n'Twas early that morning his mother came there;\n\nShe was wringing her hands--she was tearing\n\n her hair.\n\nO, woful the hour your dear Willy plunged in:--\n\nThere is deep and false water in the Lake of\n\n Coolfin!\n\n\n\nAnd I saw a fair maid, standing fast by the shore;\n\nHer face it was pale--she was weeping full sore;\n\nIn deep anguish she gazed where young Willy\n\n plunged in:--\n\nAh! there's deep and false water in the Lake of\n\n Coolfin!\n\n _Old Ballad. Recomposed by_ P. W. Joyce.\n\n\n\n\nBY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE\n\n\n|By that Lake, whose gloomy shore\n\nSkylark never warbles o'er,\n\nWhere the cliff hangs high and steep,\n\nYoung Saint Kevin stole to sleep.\n\n\"Here, at least,\" he calmly said,\n\n\"Woman ne'er shall find my bed.\"\n\nAh! the good Saint little knew\n\nWhat that wily sex can do.\n\n\n\n'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,--\n\nEyes of most unholy blue!\n\nShe had lov'd him well and long,\n\nWish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.\n\nWheresoe'er the Saint would fly,\n\nStill he heard her light foot nigh;\n\nEast or west, where'er he turn'd,\n\nStill her eyes before him burn'd.\n\n\n\nOn the bold cliff's bosom cast,\n\nTranquil now he sleeps at last;\n\nDreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er\n\nWoman's smile can haunt him there.\n\nBut nor earth nor heaven is free\n\nFrom her power, if fond she be:\n\nEven now, while calm he sleeps,\n\nKathleen o'er him leans and weeps.\n\n\n\nFearless she had track'd his feet\n\nTo this rocky, wild retreat;\n\nAnd when morning met his view,\n\nHer mild glances met it too.\n\nAh, your Saints have cruel hearts!\n\nSternly from his bed he starts,\n\nAnd with rude, repulsive shock,\n\nHurls her from the beetling rock.\n\n\n\nGlendalough, thy gloomy wave\n\nSoon was gentle Kathleen's grave!\n\nSoon the Saint (yet ah! too late,)\n\nFelt her love, and mourn'd her fate.\n\nWhen he said, \"Heav'n rest her soul!\"\n\nRound the Lake light music stole;\n\nAnd her ghost was seen to glide,\n\nSmiling o'er the fatal tide.\n\n----T. Moore.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HIGH-BORN LADY\n\n\n|In vain all the knights of the Underwald woo'd\n\n her,\n\n Though brightest of maidens, the proudest\n\n was she;\n\nBrave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels\n\n they sued her,\n\n But worthy were none of the high-born ladye.\n\n\n\n\"Whomsoever I wed,\" said this maid, so\n\n excelling,\n\n \"That knight must the conqu'ror of con-\n\n querors be;\n\nHe must place me in halls fit for monarchs to\n\n dwell in;--\n\n None else shall be Lord of the high-born\n\n ladye!\"\n\n\n\nThus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking\n\n round her\n\n On knights and on nobles of highest degree,\n\nWho humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,\n\n And worshipp'd at distance the high-born\n\n ladye.\n\n\n\nAt length came a knight, from a far land to woo\n\n her,\n\n With plumes on his helm like the foam of the\n\n sea;\n\nHis vizor was down--but, with voice that thrill'd\n\n through her,\n\n He whisper'd his vows to the high-born ladye.\n\n\n\n\"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to\n\n grace thee;\n\n In me the great conqu'ror of conquerors see;\n\nEnthron'd in a hall fit for monarch s I'll place\n\n thee,\n\n And mine thou'st for ever, thou high-born\n\n ladye!\"\n\n\n\nThe maiden she smiled, and in jewels array'd her,\n\n Of thrones and tiaras already dreamed she;\n\nAnd proud was the step, as her bridegroom\n\n convey'd her\n\n In pomp to his home, of that high-born ladye.\n\n\n\n\"But whither,\" she, starting, exclaims, \"have\n\n you led me?\n\n Here's nought but a tomb and a dark cypress\n\n tree;\n\nIs _this_ the bright palace in which thou would'st\n\n wed me?\"\n\n With scorn in her glance said the high-born\n\n ladye.\n\n\n\n\"'Tis the home,\" he replied, \"of earth's\n\n loftiest creatures\"--\n\n Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;\n\nBut she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's\n\n features,\n\n And Death was the lord of the high-born\n\n ladye!\n\n----T. Moore.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAIDEN CITY\n\n\n|Where Foyle his swelling waters\n\n Rolls northward to the main,\n\nThere, queen of Erin's daughters,\n\n Fair Derry fixed her reign;\n\nA holy temple crowned her,?\n\n And commerce graced her street,\n\nA rampart wall was round her,\n\n The river at her feet;\n\nAnd here she sat alone, boys,\n\n And, looking from the hill,\n\nVowed the Maiden on her throne, boys,\n\n Should be a Maiden still.\n\n\n\nFrom Antrim crossing over,\n\n In famous eighty-eight,\n\nA plumed and belted lover\n\n Came to the Ferry Gate.\n\nShe summoned to defend her\n\n Our sires,--a beardless race,--\n\nThey shouted, No surrender!\n\n And slammed it in his face.\n\nThen in a quiet tone, boys,\n\n They told him 'twas their will\n\nThat the Maiden on her throne, boys,\n\n Should be a Maiden still.\n\n\n\nNext, crushing all before him,\n\n A kingly wooer came;\n\n(The royal banner o'er him\n\n Blushed crimson deep for shame;)\n\nHe showed the Pope's commission,\n\n Nor dreamed to be refused;\n\nShe pitied his condition,\n\n But begged to stand excused.\n\nIn short, the fact is known, boys,\n\n She chased him from the hill,\n\nFor the Maiden on the throne, boys,\n\n Would be a Maiden still.\n\n\n\nOn our brave sires descending,\n\n 'Twas then the tempest broke,\n\nTheir peaceful dwellings rending,\n\n 'Mid blood and flame and smoke.\n\nThat hallowed grave-yard yonder,\n\n Swells with the slaughtered dead,--\n\nO brothers, pause and ponder!\n\n It was for us they bled;\n\nAnd while their gifts we own, boys,\n\n The fane that tops the hill,\n\nO, the Maiden on her throne, boys,\n\n Shall be a Maiden still!\n\n\n\nNor wily tongue shall move us,\n\n Nor tyrant arm affright;\n\nWe'll look to One above us,\n\n Who ne'er forsook the right;\n\nWho will may crouch and tender\n\n The birthright of the free,\n\nBut, brothers, No surrender,\n\n No compromise for me!\n\nWe want no barrier stone, boys,\n\n No gates to guard the hill,\n\nYet the Maiden on her throne, boys,\n\n Shall be a Maiden still.\n\n----Charlotte Elizabeth (_Tonna_).\n\n\n\n\nSIR TURLOUGH; OR, THE CHURCHYARD BRIDE\n\n[Illustration: 0196]\n\n\n|The bride, she bound her golden hair--\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd her step was light as the breezy air\n\nWhen it bends the morning flowers so fair,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nAnd oh, but her eyes they danc'd so bright,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAs she longed for the dawn of to-morrow's\n\n light,\n\nHer bridal vows of love to plight,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nThe bridegroom is come with youthful brow,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nTo receive from his Eva her virgin vow;\n\n\"Why tarries the bride of my bosom now?\"\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nA cry! a cry!'twas her maidens spoke,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\n\"Your bride is asleep--she has not awoke,\n\nAnd the sleep she sleeps will never be broke,\"\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nSir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd his cheek became like the marble stone--\n\n\"Oh, the pulse of my heart is for ever gone!\"\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nThe keen is loud, it comes again,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd rises sad from the funeral train,\n\nAs in sorrow it winds along the plain,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nAnd oh, but the plumes of white were fair,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nWhen they flutter'd all mournful in the air\n\nAs rose the hymn of the requiem prayer,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nThere is a voice that but one can hear,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd it softly pours from behind the bier,\n\nIts note of death on Sir Turlough's ear,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nThe keen is loud, but that voice is low,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd it sings its song of sorrow slow,\n\nAnd names young Turlough's name with woe,,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nNow the grave is closed, and the mass is said,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed,\n\nThe fairest corpse among the dead,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nThe wreaths of virgin-white are laid,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nBy virgin hands o'er the spotless maid;\n\nAnd the flowers are strewn, but they soon\n\n will fade,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\n\"Oh! go not yet--not yet away,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nLet us feel that _life_ is near our clay,\"\n\nThe long-departed seem to say,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nBut the tramp and voices of _life_ are gone,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd beneath each cold forgotten stone,\n\nThe mouldering dead sleep all alone,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nBut who is he who lingereth yet?\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nThe fresh green sod with his tears is wet,\n\nAnd his heart in that bridal grave is set,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nOh, who but Sir Turlough, the young and\n\n brave,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nShould bend him o'er that bridal grave,\n\nAnd to his death-bound Eva rave,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\n\"Weep not--weep not,\" said a lady fair,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\n\"Should youth and valour thus despair,\n\nAnd pour their vows to the empty air?\"\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nThere's charmed music upon her tongue,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nSuch beauty--bright and warm and young--\n\nWas never seen the maids among,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nA laughing light, a tender grace,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nSparkled in beauty around her face,\n\nThat grief from mortal heart might chase,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\n\"The maid for whom thy salt tears fall,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nThy grief or love can ne'er recall;\n\nShe rests beneath that grassy pall,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\n\"My heart it strangely cleaves to thee,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd now that thy plighted love is free,\n\nGive its unbroken pledge to me,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\"\n\n\n\nThe charm is strong upon Turlough's eye,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nHis faithless tears are already dry,.\n\nAnd his yielding heart has ceased to sigh,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\n\"To thee,\" the charmed chief replied,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\n\"I pledge that love o'er my buried bride!\n\n[Illustration: 0201]\n\nOh! come, and in Turlough's hall abide,\"\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nAgain the funeral voice came o'er\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nThe passing breeze, as it wailed before,\n\nAnd streams of mournful music bore,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\n\"If I to thy youthful heart am dear,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nOne month from hence thou wilt meet me here\n\nWhere lay thy bridal, Eva's bier,\"\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nHe pressed her lips as the words were spoken;\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd his _banshee's_ wail--now far and broken--\n\nMurmur'd \"Death,\" as he gave the token,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\n\"Adieu! adieu!\" said this lady bright,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd she slowly passed like a thing of light,\n\nOr a morning cloud, from Sir Turlough's sight,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nNow Sir Turlough has death in every vein,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd there's fear and grief o'er his wide domain,\n\nAnd gold for those who will calm his brain,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\n\"Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nSir Turlough the brave, Green Truagha's\n\n pride,\n\nHas pledged his love to the churchyard bride,\"\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nThe leech groaned loud, \"Come, tell me this,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nBy all thy hopes of weal and bliss,\n\nHas Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss?\"\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\n\"The banshee's cry is loud and long,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAt eve she weeps her funeral song,\n\nAnd it floats on the twilight breeze along,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\n\"Then the fatal kiss is given;--the last,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nOf Turlough's race and name is past,\n\nHis doom is seal'd, his die is cast,\"\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\n\"Leech, say not that thy skill is vain,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nOh, calm the power of his frenzied brain,\n\nAnd half his lands thou shalt retain,\"\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nThe leech has fail'd, and the hoary priest,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nWith pious shrift his soul releas'd,\n\nAnd the smoke is high of his funeral feast.\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nThe Shanachies now are assembled all,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd the songs of praise, in Sir Turlough's hall,\n\nTo the sorrowing harp's dark music fall,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nAnd there is trophy, banner, and plume,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nAnd the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom,\n\nO'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n\n\nThe month is clos'd, and Green Truagha's pride,\n\n Killeevy, O Killeevy!\n\nIs married to death--and, side by side,\n\nHe slumbers now with his churchyard bride,\n\n By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.\n\n----W. Carleton,\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0204]\n\n\n\n\nTHE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK\n\n\n|The evening star rose beauteous above the\n\n fading day,\n\nAs to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came\n\n to pray,\n\nAnd hill and wave shone brightly in the moon-\n\n light's mellow fall;\n\nBut the bank of green where Mary knelt was\n\n brightest of them all.\n\n\n\nSlow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark\n\n appear'd,\n\nAnd her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to\n\n the land she near'd;\n\nTo the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like\n\n a swan,\n\nAnd her wings of snow o'er the waves below\n\n in pride and beauty shone.\n\n\n\nThe master saw our Lady as he stood upon the\n\n prow,\n\nAnd mark'd the whiteness of her robe and the\n\n radiance of her brow;\n\nHer arms were folded gracefully upon her stain-\n\n less breast,\n\nAnd her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him\n\n her soul lov'd best.\n\n\n\nHe show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her\n\n with a cheer,\n\nAnd on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with\n\n laugh and jeer;\n\n[Illustration: 0206]\n\nAnd madly swore, a form so fair they never saw\n\n before;\n\nAnd they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze\n\n that kept them from the shore.\n\n\n\nThe ocean from its bosom shook off the moon-\n\n light sheen,\n\nAnd up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate\n\n their Queen;\n\nAnd a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a dark-\n\n ness o'er the land,\n\nAnd the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady\n\n on the strand.\n\n\n\nOut burst the pealing thunder, and the light'ning\n\n leap'd about,\n\nAnd rushing with his watery war, the tempest\n\n gave a shout,\n\nAnd that vessel from a mountain wave came\n\n down with thund'ring shock,\n\nAnd her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on\n\n Inchidony's rock.\n\n\n\nThen loud from all that guilty crew one shriek\n\n rose wild and high.\n\nBut the angry surge swept over them and\n\n hush'd their gurgling cry;\n\nAnd with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest\n\n passed away,\n\nAnd down, still chafing from their strife, the\n\n indignant waters lay.\n\n\n\nWhen the calm and purple morning shone out\n\n on high Dunmore,\n\nFull many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchi-\n\n dony's shore;\n\nAnd to this day the fisherman shows where the\n\n scoffers sank,\n\nAnd still he calls that hillock green, \"the\n\n Virgin Mary's bank.\"\n\n----J. J. Callanan.\n\n\n\n\nCAROLAN AND BRIDGET CRUISE\n\n\n|True love can ne'er forget;\n\nFondly as when we met,\n\nDearest, I love thee yet,\n\n My darling one!\"\n\n\n\nThus sung a minstrel gray,\n\nHis sweet impassion'd lay,\n\nDown by the ocean's spray,\n\n At set of sun;\n\nBut wither'd was the minstrel's sight,\n\nMorn to him was dark as night,\n\nYet his heart was full of light;\n\n As he his lay begun.\n\n\n\n\"True love can ne'er forget;\n\nFondly as when we met,\n\nDearest, I love thee yet,\n\n My darling one!\n\nLong years are past and o'er,\n\nSince from this fatal shore,\n\nCold hearts and cold winds bore\n\n My love from me.\"\n\n\n\nScarcely the minstrel spoke,\n\nWhen quick, with flashing stroke,\n\nA boat's light oar the silence broke\n\n O'er the sea;\n\n\n\nSoon upon her native strand\n\nDoth a lovely lady land,\n\nWhile the minstrel's love-taught hand\n\n Did o'er his wild harp run--\n\n\"True love can ne'er forget;\n\nFondly as when we met,\n\nDearest, I love thee yet,\n\n My darling one!\"\n\nWhere the minstrel sat alone,\n\nThere, that lady fair hath gone,\n\nWithin his hand she placed her own,--\n\n The bard dropp'd on his knee;\n\n\n\nFrom his lips soft blessings came,\n\nHe kiss'd her hand with truest flame,\n\nIn trembling tones he named--her name,\n\n Though he could not see.\n\nBut oh! the touch the bard could tell\n\nOf that dear hand, remember'd well,--\n\nAh! by many a secret spell\n\n Can true love find her own!\n\nFor true love can ne'er forget,\n\nFondly as when they met,\n\nHe loved his lady yet,--\n\n His darling one. ----S. Lover.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0210]\n\n\n\n\nTHE O'KAVANAGH\n\nI.\n\n\n|The Saxons had met, and the banquet was\n\n spread,\n\nAnd the wine in fleet circles the jubilee led;\n\nAnd the banners that hung round the festal that\n\n night,\n\nSeemed brighter by far than when lifted in fight.\n\n\n\nII.\n\nIn came the O'Kavanagh, fair as the morn,\n\nWhen earth to new beauty and vigour is born;\n\nThey shrank from his glance like the waves\n\n from the prow,\n\nFor nature's nobility sat on his brow.\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nAttended alone by his vassal and bard;\n\nNo trumpet to herald--no clansmen to guard--\n\nHe came not attended by steed or by steel:\n\nNo danger he knew, for no fear did he feel.\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nIn eye and on lip his high confidence smiled--\n\nSo proud, yet so knightly--so gallant, yet mild;\n\nHe moved like a god through the light of that\n\n hall,\n\nAnd a smile, full of courtliness, proffered to all.\n\n\n\nV.\n\n\"Come pledge us, lord chieftain! come pledge\n\n us!\" they cried;\n\nUnsuspectingly free to the pledge he replied;\n\nAnd this was the peace-branch O'Kavanagh\n\n bore--\n\n\"The friendships to come, not the feuds that\n\n are o'er.\"\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0212]\n\nVI.\n\nBut, minstrel! why cometh a change o'er thy\n\n theme?\n\nWhy sing of red battle--what dream dost thou\n\n dream?\n\nHa! \"Treason\"'s the cry, and \"Revenge\" is\n\n the call!\n\nAs the swords of the Saxon surrounded the\n\n hall.\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nA kingdom for Angelo's mind! to portray\n\nGreen Erin's undaunted avenger, that day;\n\nThe far-flashing sword, and the death-darting\n\n eye,\n\nLike some comet commissioned with wrath from\n\n the sky.\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nThrough the ranks of the Saxon he hewed his\n\n red way--\n\nThrough lances, and sabres, and hostile array;\n\nAnd, mounting his charger, he left them to tell\n\nThe tale of that feast, and its bloody farewell!\n\n\n\nIX.\n\nAnd now on the Saxons his clansmen advance,\n\nWith a shout from each heart, and a soul in each\n\n lance.\n\nHe rushed, like a storm, o'er the night-covered\n\n heath,\n\nAnd swept through their ranks, like the angel of\n\n death.\n\n\n\nThen hurrah! for thy glory, young chieftain,\n\n hurrah!\n\nOh! had we such lightning-souled heroes to-\n\n day,\n\nAgain would our \"Sunburst\" * expand in the\n\n gale,\n\nAnd freedom exult o'er the green Innisfail.\n\n\n----J. A. Shea.\n\n\n\n * Irish national banner.\n\n[Illustration: 0215]\n\n\n\n\nTHE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE\n\n\n|The joy-bells are ringing\n\n In gay Malahide,\n\nThe fresh wind is singing\n\n Along the sea-side;\n\nThe maids are assembling\n\n With garlands of flowers,\n\nAnd the harpstrings are trembling\n\n In all the glad bowers.\n\n\n\nSwell, swell the gay measure!\n\n Roll trumpet and drum!\n\n'Mid greetings of pleasure\n\n In splendour they come!\n\nThe chancel is ready,\n\n The portal stands wide\n\nFor the lord and the lady,\n\n The bridegroom and bride.\n\n\n\nWhat years, ere the latter,\n\n Of earthly delight\n\nThe future shall scatter\n\n O'er them in its flight!\n\nWhat blissful caresses\n\n Shall fortune bestow,\n\nEre those dark-flowing tresses\n\n Fall white as the snow!\n\n\n\nBefore the high altar\n\n Young Maud stands array'd;\n\nWith accents that falter\n\n Her promise is made--\n\nFrom mother and father\n\n For ever to part,\n\nFor him and no other\n\n To treasure her heart.\n\n\n\nThe words are repeated,\n\n The bridal is done,\n\nThe rite is completed--\n\n The two, they are one;\n\nThe vow, it is spoken\n\n All pure from the heart,\n\nThat must not be broken\n\n Till life shall depart.\n\n\n\nHark!'mid the gay clangour\n\n That compass'd their car,\n\nLoud accents in anger\n\n Come mingling afar!\n\nThe foe's on the border,\n\n His weapons resound\n\nWhere the lines in disorder\n\n Unguarded are found.\n\n\n\nAs wakes the good shepherd,\n\n The watchful and bold,\n\nWhen the ounce or the leopard\n\n Is seen in the fold,\n\nSo rises already\n\n The chief in his mail,\n\nWhile the new-married lady\n\n Looks fainting and pale.\n\n\n\n\"Son, husband, and brother,\n\n Arise to the strife,\n\nFor the sister and mother,\n\n For children and wife!\n\nO'er hill and o'er hollow,\n\n O'er mountain and plain,\n\nUp, true men, and follow!\n\n Let dastards remain!\"\n\n\n\nFar rah! to the battle!\n\n They form into line--\n\nThe shields, how they rattle!\n\n The spears, how they shine!\n\nSoon, soon shall the foeitian\n\n His treachery rue--\n\nOn, burgher and yeoman,\n\n To die or to do!\n\n\n\nThe eve is declining\n\n In lone Malahide,\n\nThe maidens are twining\n\n Gay wreaths for the bride!\n\nShe marks them unheeding--\n\n Her heart is afar,\n\nWhere the clansmen are bleeding\n\n For her in the war.\n\n\n\nHark! loud from the mountain\n\n 'Tis Victory's cry!\n\n O'er woodland and fountain\n\nIt rings to the sky!\n\n The foe has retreated!\n\nHe flies to the shore;\n\n The spoiler's defeated--\n\nThe combat is o'er!\n\n\n\n With foreheads unruffled\n\nThe conquerors come--\n\n But why have they muffled\n\nThe lance and the drum?\n\nWhat form do they carry\n\n Aloft on his shield?\n\nAnd where does he tarry,\n\n The lord of the field?\n\n\n\nYe saw him at morning\n\n How gallant and gay!\n\nIn bridal adorning,\n\n The star of the day:\n\nNow weep for the lover--\n\n His triumph is sped,\n\nHis hope it is over!\n\n The chieftain is dead!\n\n\n\nBut O for the maiden\n\n Who mourns for that chief,\n\nWith heart overladen\n\n And rending with grief!\n\nShe sinks on the meadow\n\n In one morning-tide,\n\nA wife and a widow,\n\n A maid and a bride!\n\n\n\nYe maidens attending,\n\n Forbear to condole!\n\nYour comfort is rending\n\n The depths of her soul.\n\nTrue--true,'twas a story\n\n For ages of pride;\n\nHe died in his glory--\n\n But, oh, he _has_ died!\n\n\n\nThe war-cloak she raises\n\n All mournfully now,\n\nAnd steadfastly gazes\n\n Upon the cold brow.\n\nThat glance may for ever\n\n Unalter'd remain,\n\nBut the bridegroom will never\n\n Return it again!\n\n\n\nThe dead-bells are tolling\n\n In sad Malahide,\n\nThe death-wail is rolling\n\n Along the sea-side;\n\nThe crowds, heavy-hearted,\n\n Withdraw from the green,\n\nFor the sun has departed\n\n That brighten'd the scene!\n\n\n\nEven yet in that valley,\n\n Though years have roll'd by,\n\nWhen through the wild sally\n\n The sea-breezes sigh,\n\nThe peasant, with sorrow,\n\n Beholds in the shade\n\nThe tomb where the morrow\n\n Saw Hussy convey'd.\n\n\n\nHow scant was the warning,\n\n How briefly reveal'd,\n\nBefore on that morning\n\n Death's chalice was fill'd!\n\nThe hero who drunk it\n\n There moulders in gloom,\n\nAnd the form of Maud Plunket\n\n Weeps over his tomb.\n\n\n\nThe stranger who wanders\n\n Along the lone vale\n\nStill sighs while he ponders\n\n On that heavy tale:\n\n\"Thus passes each pleasure\n\n That earth can supply--\n\nThus joy has its measure--\n\n We live but to die!\"\n\n----Gerald Griffin.\n\n\n\n\nCAOCH, THE PIPER\n\n\n|One winter's day long, long ago,\n\n When I was a little fellow,\n\nA piper wandered to our door,\n\n Gray-headed, blind, and yellow.\n\nAnd O how glad was my young heart,\n\n Though earth and sky looked dreary,\n\nTo see the stranger and his dog,\n\n Poor Pinch and Caoch O'Leary!\n\n\n\nAnd when he stowed away his bag\n\n Crossbarred with green and yellow,\n\nI thought and said, \"In Ireland's ground,\n\n There's not so fine a fellow.\"\n\nAnd Fineen Burke and Shane Magee,\n\n And Eily, Kate, and Mary,\n\nRushed in with panting haste to see\n\n And welcome Caoch O'Leary.\n\n\n\nO, God be with those happy times,\n\n O, God be with my childhood,\n\nWhen I, bare-headed, roamed all day\n\n Bird-nesting in the wild wood!\n\nI'll not forget those sunny hours\n\n However years may vary;\n\nI'll not forget my early friends,\n\n Nor honest Caoch O'Leary.\n\n\n\nPoor Caoch and Pinch slept well that night,\n\n And in the morning early\n\nHe called me up to hear him play\n\n \"The wind that shakes the barley.\"\n\nAnd then he stroked my flaxen hair,\n\n And cried, \"God mark my deary!\"\n\nAnd how I wept when he said, \"Farewell,\n\n And think of Caoch O'Leary!\"\n\n\n\nAnd seasons came and went, and still\n\n Old Caoch was not forgotten,\n\nAlthough I thought him dead and gone,\n\n And in the cold clay rotten;\n\nAnd often when I walked and danced\n\n With Eily, Kate, and Mary,\n\nWe spoke of childhood's rosy hours,\n\n And prayed for Caoch O'Leary.\n\n\n\nWell--twenty summers had gone past,\n\n And June's red sun was sinking,\n\nWhen I, a man, sat by my door,\n\n Of twenty sad things thinking.\n\nA little dog came up the way,\n\n His gait was slow and weary,\n\nAnd at his tail a lame man limped,\n\n 'Twas Pinch and Caoch O'Leary.\n\n\n\nOld Caoch! but ah! how woe-begone!\n\n His form is bowed and bending,\n\nHis fleshless hands are stiff and wan,\n\n Ay, time is even blending\n\nThe colours on his threadbare bag,\n\n And Pinch is twice as hairy\n\nAnd thin-spare as when first I saw\n\n Himself and Caoch O'Leary.\n\n\n\n\"God's blessing here!\" the wanderer cried,\n\n \"Far, far be hell, black viper;\n\nDoes anybody hereabouts\n\n Remember Caoch, the piper?\"\n\nWith swelling heart I grasped his hand;\n\n The old man murmured, \"Deary,\n\nAre you the silken-headed child\n\n That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?\"\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0224]\n\n\"Yes, yes!\" I said. The wanderer wept\n\n As if his heart was breaking;\n\n\"And where, _avic machree_\" * he said,\n\n \"Is all the merry-making\n\nI found here twenty years ago?\"\n\n \"My tale,\" I sighed, \"might weary:\n\nEnough to say, there's none but me\n\n To welcome Caoch O'Leary.\"\n\n\n\n\"_Vo, vo, vo!_\" the old man cried,\n\n And wrung his hands in sorrow;\n\n\"Pray lead me in, _astore machree_,\n\n And I'll _go home_ to-morrow.\n\nMy peace is made, I'll calmly leave\n\n This world so cold and dreary,\n\nAnd you shall keep my pipes and dog,\n\n And pray for Caoch O'Leary.\"\n\n\n\nWith Pinch I watched his bed that night;\n\n Next day his wish was granted,--\n\nHe died, and Father James was brought,\n\n And the requiem mass was chanted.\n\nThe neighbours came;--we dug his grave,\n\n Near Eily, Kate, and Mary,\n\nAnd there he sleeps his last sweet sleep,--\n\n God rest you, Caoch O'Leary!\n\nJ. Keegan.\n\n\n\n * _Vic ma chree_, Son of my heart.\n\n[Illustration: 0226]\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIRY THORN\n\n\n|Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary\n\n spinning-wheel;\n\n For your father's on the hill, and your mother\n\n is asleep:\n\nCome up above the crags, and we'll dance a\n\n highland reel\n\n Around the fairy thorn on the steep.\"\n\nAt Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens\n\n cried,\n\n Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the\n\n green;\n\nAnd Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel\n\n aside,\n\n The fairest of the four, I ween.\n\n\n\nThey're glancing through the glimmer of the\n\n quiet eve,\n\n Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;\n\nThe heavy sliding stream in its sleepy song they\n\n leave,\n\n And the crags in the ghostly air;\n\n\n\nAnd linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,\n\n The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their\n\n fearless way,\n\nTill they come to where the rowan-trees in lonely\n\n beauty grow\n\n Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray.\n\n\n\nThe Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and\n\n slim,\n\n Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at\n\n her knee;\n\nThe rowan-berries cluster o'er her low head\n\n gray and dim\n\n In ruddy kisses sweet to see.\n\n\n\nThe merry \"maidens four have ranged them in a\n\n row,\n\n Between each lovely couple a stately rowan\n\n stem,\n\nAnd away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds\n\n they go,\n\n Oh never carolled bird like them!\n\n\n\nBut solemn is the silence of the silvery haze\n\n That drinks away their voices in echoless re-\n\n pose,\n\nAnd dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted\n\n braes,\n\n And dreamier the gloaming grows.\n\n\n\nAnd sinking one by one, like lark notes from\n\n the sky\n\n When the falcon's shadow saileth across the\n\n open shaw,\n\nAre hushed the maiden's voices, as cowering\n\n down they lie\n\n In the flutter of their sudden awe.\n\n\n\nFor, from the air above, and the grassy ground\n\n beneath,\n\n And from the mountain-ashes and the old\n\n Whitethorn between,\n\nA power of faint enchantment doth through\n\n their beings breathe,\n\n And they sink down together on the\n\n green.\n\n\n\nThey sink together silent, and stealing side by\n\n side,\n\n They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping\n\n necks so fair,\n\nThen vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,\n\n For their shrinking necks again are bare.\n\n\n\nThus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads\n\n together bowed,\n\n Soft o'er their bosoms' beating--the only\n\n human sound--\n\nThey hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy\n\n crowd,\n\n Like a river in the air, gliding round.\n\n\n\nNo scream can any raise, no prayer can any say,\n\n But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless\n\n three--\n\nFor they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently\n\n away,\n\n By whom they dare not look to see.\n\n\n\nThey feel their tresses twine with her parting\n\n locks of gold,\n\n And the curls elastic falling, as her head with-\n\n draws;\n\nThey feel her sliding arms from their tranced\n\n arms unfold,\n\n But they may not look to see the cause:\n\n\n\nFor heavy on their senses the faint enchantment\n\n lies\n\n Through all that night of anguish and perilous\n\n amaze;\n\nAnd neither fear nor wonder can ope their\n\n quivering eyes,\n\n Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,\n\n\n\nTill out of night the earth has rolled her dewy\n\n side,\n\n With every haunted mountain and streamy\n\n vale below;\n\nWhen, as the mist dissolves in the yellow\n\n morning tide,\n\n The maidens' trance dissolveth so.\n\n\n\nThen fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,\n\n And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious\n\n friends in vain--\n\nThey pined away and died within the year and\n\n day,\n\n And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.\n\n---Sir S. Ferguson.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BATTLE OF ARDNOCHER\n\n[Illustration: 9231]\n\n\n|On the eve of St Laurence, at the cross of\n\n Glenfad,\n\nBoth of chieftains and bonaghts what a muster\n\n we had,\n\nThick as bees, round the heather, on the side\n\n of Slieve Bloom,\n\nTo the try sting they gather by the light of the\n\n moon.\n\n\n\nFor the Butler from Ormond with a hosting he\n\n came,\n\nAnd harried Moycashel with havoc and flame,\n\nNot a hoof or a hayrick, nor corn blade to feed\n\n on,\n\nHad he left in the wide land, right up to\n\n Dunbreedon.\n\n\n\nThen gathered MacGeoghegan, the high prince\n\n of Donore,\n\nWith O'Connor from Croghan, and O'Dempsys\n\n _galore_;\n\nAnd, my soul, how we shouted, as dash'd in\n\n with their men,\n\nBold MacCoghlan from Clara, O'Mulloy from\n\n the glen.\n\n\n\nAnd not long did we loiter where the four\n\n _toghers_ * met,\n\nBut his saddle each tightened, and his spurs\n\n closer set,\n\nBy the skylight that flashes all their red burn-\n\n ings back,\n\nAnd by black gore and ashes fast the rievers\n\n we track.\n\n'Till we came to Ardnocher, and its steep slope\n\n we gain,\n\nAnd stretch'd there, beneath us, saw their host\n\n in the plain;\n\nAnd high shouted our leader ('twas the brave\n\n William Roe)--\n\n\"By the red hand of Nial,'tis the Sassenach\n\n foe!\n\n\"Now, low level your spears, grasp each battle-\n\n axe firm,\n\nAnd for God and our Ladye strike ye downright\n\n and stern;\n\n * Roads.\n\nFor our homes and our altars charge ye stead-\n\n fast and true,\n\nAnd our watchword be vengeance, and Lamb\n\n _Dearg Aboo!_\" *\n\n\n\nOh, then down like a torrent with a _farrah_ we\n\n swept,\n\nAnd full stout was the Saxon who his saddle-\n\n tree kept;\n\nFor we dash'd thro' their horsemen till they\n\n reel'd from the stroke,\n\nAnd their spears, like dry twigs, with our axes\n\n we broke.\n\n\n\nWith our plunder we found them, our fleet\n\n garrons and kine,\n\nAnd each chalice and cruet they had snatch'd\n\n from God's shrine.\n\nBut a red debt we paid them, the Sassenach\n\n raiders,\n\nAs we scatter'd their spearmen, slew chieftains\n\n and leaders.\n\n\n\nIn the Pale there is weeping and watchings in\n\n vain.\n\nDe Lacy and D'Alton, can ye reckon your slain?\n\nWhere's your chieftain, fierce Nangle? Has\n\n De Netterville fled?\n\nAsk the Molingar eagles, whom their carcasses\n\n fed.\n\n\n\n * The red hand for ever.\n\nHo! ye riders from Ormond, will ye brag in\n\n your hall,\n\nHow your lord was struck down with his mail'd\n\n knights and all?\n\nSwim at midnight the Shannon, beard the wolf\n\n in his den,\n\nEre you ride to Moycashel on a foray again!\n\n----A. G. Geoghegan.\n\n\n\n\nFONTENOY\n\n\n|Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English\n\n column failed,\n\nAnd twice the lines of St Antoine the Dutch in\n\n vain assailed;\n\nFor town and slope were filled with fort and\n\n flanking battery,\n\nAnd well they swept the English ranks and\n\n Dutch auxiliary.\n\nAs vainly, through De Baari's wood, the British\n\n soldiers burst,\n\nThe French artillery drove them back, diminished\n\n and dispersed.\n\nThe bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with\n\n anxious eye,\n\nAnd ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance\n\n to try.\n\n\n\nOn Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals\n\n ride!\n\nAnd mustering come his chosen troops, like\n\n clouds at eventide.\n\n\n\nSix thousand English veterans in stately column\n\n tread,\n\nTheir cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay\n\n is at their head;\n\nSteady they step a-down the slope--steady they\n\n climb the hill--\n\nSteady they load--steady they fire, moving right\n\n onward still,\n\nBetwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as though a\n\n furnace blast,\n\nThrough rampart, trench, and palisade, and\n\n bullets showering fast;\n\nAnd on the open plain above they rose, and\n\n kept their course,\n\nWith ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked\n\n at hostile force.\n\nPast Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner\n\n grow their ranks,\n\nThey break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through\n\n Holland's ocean banks.\n\n\n\nMore idly than the summer flies French tirailleurs\n\n rush round;\n\nAs stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons\n\n strew the ground;\n\nBomb-shell, and grape, and round shot tore, still\n\n on they marched and fired--\n\nFast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur\n\n retired.\n\n\"Push on, my household cavalry,\" King Louis\n\n madly cried:\n\nTo death they rush, but rude their shock--not\n\n unavenged they died.\n\nOn through the camp the column trod--King\n\n Louis turns his rein *,\n\n\"Not yet, my liege,\" Saxe interposed, \"the\n\n Irish troops remain;\"\n\nAnd Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a\n\n Waterloo,\n\nWere not these exiles ready then, fresh,\n\n vehement, and true.\n\n\n\n\"Lord Clare,\" he says, \"you have your wish,\n\n there are your Saxon foes;\"\n\nThe marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously\n\n he goes!\n\nHow fierce the look these exiles wear, who're\n\n wont to be so gay!\n\nThe treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their\n\n hearts to-day--\n\nThe treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas\n\n writ could dry,\n\nTheir plundered homes, their ruined shrines,\n\n their women's parting cry,\n\nTheir priesthood hunted down like wolves, their\n\n country overthrown--\n\nEach looks as if revenge for all rested on him\n\n alone.\n\nOn Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else-\n\n where,\n\nRushed on to fight a nobler band than these\n\n proud exiles were.\n\n\n\nO'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he\n\n commands,\n\n\"Fix bayonets--charge.\" Like mountain storm,\n\n rush on these fiery bands!\n\nThin is the English column now, and faint their\n\n volleys grow,\n\nYet, mustering all the strength they have, they\n\n make a gallant show.\n\nThey dress their ranks upon the hill to face that\n\n battle-wind--\n\nTheir bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks,\n\n the men behind!\n\nOne volley crashes from their line, when, through\n\n the surging smoke,\n\nWith empty guns clutched in their hands, the\n\n headlong Irish broke.\n\nOn Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce\n\n huzza!\n\n\"Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down\n\n the Sassenach.\"\n\n\n\nLike lions leaping at a fold, when mad with\n\n hunger's pang,\n\nRight up against the English line the Irish exiles\n\n sprang:\n\nBright was their steel,'tis bloody now, their\n\n guns are filled with gore;\n\nThrough shattered ranks, and severed files, and\n\n trampled flags they tore;\n\nThe English strove with desperate strength,\n\n paused, rallied, staggered, fled--\n\nThe green hill-side is matted close with dying\n\n and with dead.\n\nAcross the plain and far away passed on that\n\n hideous wrack,\n\nWhile cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their\n\n track.\n\nOn Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the\n\n sun,\n\nWith bloody plumes the Irish stand--the field\n\n is fought and won!\n\n---T. Davis.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0239]\n\n\n\n\nTHE SACK OF BALTIMORE\n\n\n|The summer sun is falling soft an Carbery's\n\n hundred isles--\n\nThe summer's sun is gleaming still through\n\n Gabriel's rough defiles--\n\nOld Innisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a\n\n moulting bird;\n\nAnd in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is\n\n heard:\n\nThe hookers lie upon the beach; the children\n\n cease their play;\n\nThe gossips leave the little inn; the households\n\n kneel to pray--\n\nAnd full of love, and peace, and rest--its daily\n\n labour o'er--\n\nUpon that cosy creek there lay the town of\n\n Baltimore.\n\n\n\nA deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with\n\n midnight there;\n\nNo sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth,\n\n or sea, or air,\n\nThe massive capes, and ruined towers, seem\n\n conscious of the calm;\n\nThe fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing\n\n heavy balm.\n\nSo still the night, these two long barques, round\n\n Dunashad that glide\n\nMust trust their oars--methinks not few--\n\n against the ebbing tide--\n\nOh! some sweet mission of true love must urge\n\n them to the shore--\n\nThey bring some lover to his bride, who sighs\n\n in Baltimore!\n\n\n\nAll, all asleep within each roof along that rocky\n\n street,\n\nAnd these must be the lover's friends, with\n\n gently gliding feet--\n\nA stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! \"The roof is in\n\n a flame!\"\n\nFrom out their beds, and to their doors, rush\n\n maid, and sire, and dame--\n\nAnd meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleam-\n\n ing sabre's fall,\n\nAnd o'er each black and bearded face the white\n\n or crimson shawl--\n\nThe yell of \"Allah!\" breaks above the prayer,\n\n and shriek, and roar--\n\nOh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of\n\n Baltimore!\n\n\n\nThen flung the youth his naked hand against the\n\n shearing sword;\n\nThen sprung the mother on the brand with which\n\n her son was gor'd;\n\nThen sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-\n\n babes clutching wild;\n\nThen fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled\n\n with the child:\n\nBut see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed\n\n with splashing heel,\n\nWhile o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his\n\n Syrian steel--\n\nThough virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers\n\n yield their store,\n\nThere's _one_ hearth well aveng\u00e8d in the sack of\n\n Baltimore!\n\n\n\nMidsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds\n\n began to sing--\n\nThey see not now the milking maids--deserted\n\n is the spring!\n\nMidsummer day--this gallant rides from distant\n\n Bandon's town--\n\nThese hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that\n\n skiff from Affadown;\n\nThey only found the smoking walls, with\n\n neighbours' blood besprent,\n\nAnd on the strewed and trampled beach awhile\n\n they wildly went--\n\nThen dash'd to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and\n\n saw five leagues before\n\nThe pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged Balti-\n\n more!-\n\nOh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some\n\n must tend the steed--\n\nThis boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that\n\n a Bey's jerreed.\n\nOh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous\n\n Dardanelles;\n\nAnd some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy\n\n dells.\n\nThe maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen\n\n for the Dey--\n\nShe's safe--she's dead--she stabb'd him in the\n\n midst of his Serai;\n\nAnd when, to die a death of fire, that noble maid\n\n they bore,\n\nShe only smiled--O'Driscoll's child--she\n\n thought of Baltimore.\n\n\n\n Tis two long years since sunk the town be-\n\n neath that bloody band,\n\nAnd all around its trampled hearths a larger\n\n concourse stand,\n\nWhere, high upon a gallows-tree, a yelling\n\n wretch is seen--\n\n'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan--he who steered the\n\n Algerine!\n\nHe fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a pass-\n\n ing prayer,\n\nFor he had slain the kith and kin of many a\n\n hundred there--\n\nSome muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought\n\n the Norman o'er--\n\nSome cursed him with Iscariot, that day in\n\n Baltimore.\n\n-T. Davis.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF THE BIER THAT CONQUERED\n\n\n|Land which the Norman would make his own!\n\n(Thus sang the Bard'mid a host o'erthrown,\n\nWhile their white cheeks some on the clench'd\n\n hand propp'd,\n\nAnd from some the life-blood unheeded dropp'd)\n\nThere are men in thee that refuse to die,\n\nThough they scorn to live, while a foe stands\n\n nigh!\n\n\n\nI.\n\nO'Donnell lay sick with a grievous wound:\n\n The leech had left him; the priest had come;\n\nThe clan sat weeping upon the ground,\n\n Their banner furl'd, and their minstrels dumb.\n\nII.\n\nThen spake O'Donnell, the King: \"Although\n\nMy hour draws nigh, and my dolours grow;\n\nAnd although my sins I have now confess'd,\n\nAnd desire in the Land, my charge, to rest,\n\nYet leave this realm, nor will I nor can,\n\nWhile a stranger treads on her, child or man.\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n\"I will languish no longer a sick King here:\n\nMy bed is grievous; build up my Bier.\n\nThe white robe a King wears over me throw;\n\nBear me forth to the field where he camps--\n\n your foe,\n\nWith the yellow torches and dirges low.\n\nThe heralds have brought his challenge and fled;\n\nThe answer they bore not I bear instead.\n\nMy people shall fight, my pain in sight,\n\nAnd I shall sleep well when their wrong stands\n\n right.\"\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nThen the clan rose up from the ground, and gave\n\n ear,\n\nAnd they fell'd great oak-trees and built a Bier;\n\nIts plumes from the eagle's wing were shed,\n\nAnd the wine-black samite above it spread\n\nInwov'n with sad emblems and texts divine,\n\nAnd the braided bud of Tirconnell's pine,\n\nAnd all that is meet for the great and brave\n\nWhen past are the measured years God gave,\n\nAnd a voice cries \"Come\" from the waiting\n\n grave.\n\n\n\nV.\n\nWhen the Bier was ready they laid him thereon;\n\nAnd the army forth bare him with wail and\n\n moan:\n\nWith wail by the sea-lakes and rock-abysses;\n\nWith moan through the vapour-trail'd wilder-\n\n nesses;\n\nAnd men sore wounded themselves drew nigh\n\nAnd said, \"We will go with our King and\n\n die;\"\n\nAnd women wept as the pomp pass'd by.\n\nThe yellow torches far off were seen;\n\nNo war-note peal'd through the gorges green;\n\nBut the black pines echo'd the mourners' keen.\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nWhat said the Invader, that pomp in sight?\n\n \"They sue for the pity they shall not win.\"\n\nBut the sick King sat on his Bier upright,\n\nAnd said, \"So well! I shall sleep to-night:--\n\n Rest here my couch, and my peace begin.\"\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nThen the war-cry sounded--\"Lamb-dearg\n\n Aboo!\"\n\n And the whole clan rush'd to the battle plain:\n\nThey were thrice driven back, but they closed\n\n anew\n\n That an end might come to their King's\n\n great pain.\n\n'Twas a nation, not army, that onward rush'd,\n\n'Twas a nation's blood from their wounds that\n\n gush'd:\n\nBare-bosom'd they fought, and with joy were\n\n slain;\n\nTill evening their blood fell fast like rain;\n\nBut a shout swelled up o'er the setting sun,\n\nAnd O'Donnell died, for the field was won.\n\n\n\nSo they buried their King upon Aileach's shore;\n\nAnd in peace he slept;--O'Donnell More.\n\n----Aubrey de Vere.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BALLAD OF \"BONNY PORTMORE\"\n\nor, the Wicked Revenge.\n\n\nI.\n\n\n|Shall I breathe it? Hush!'twas dark:--\n\n Silence!--few could understand:--\n\n Needful deeds are done--not told.\n\nIn your ear a whisper! Hark!\n\n 'Twas a sworn, unwavering band\n\n Marching through the midnight cold;\n\nRang the frost plain, stiff and stark:\n\n By us, blind, the river rolled.\n\n\n\nII.\n\nSilence! we were silent then:\n\n Shall we boast and brag to-day?\n\n Just deeds, blabbed, have found their price!\n\nSnow made dumb the trusty glen;\n\n Now and then a starry ray\n\n Showed the floating rafts of ice:\n\nWorked our oath in heart and brain:\n\n Twice we halted:--only twice.\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nWhen we reached the city wall\n\n On their posts the warders slept:\n\n By the moat the rushes plained:\n\nHush! I tell you part, not all!\n\n Through the water-weeds we crept;\n\n Soon the sleepers' tower was gained.\n\nMy sister's son a tear let fall--\n\n Righteous deeds by tears are stained.\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nRound us lay a sleeping city:--\n\n Had they wakened, we had died:\n\n Innocence sleeps well, they say.\n\nPirates, traitors, base banditti,\n\n Blood upon their hands undried,\n\n 'Mid their spoils asleep they lay!\n\nMurderers! Justice murders pity!\n\n Night had brought their Judgment Day!\n\n\n\nV.\n\nIn the castle, here and there,\n\n 'Twixt us and the dawning East\n\n Flashed a light, or sank by fits:\n\n\"Patience, brothers! sin it were\n\n Lords to startle at their feast,\n\n Sin to scare the dancers' wits!\"\n\nPatient long in forest lair\n\n The listening, fire-eyed tiger sits!\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nO the loud flames upward springing!\n\n O that first fierce yell within,\n\n And, without, that stormy laughter!\n\nLike rooks across a sunset winging,\n\n Dark they dashed through glare and din,\n\n Under rain of beam and rafter!\n\nO that death-shriek heavenward ringing!\n\n O that wondrous silence after!\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0250]\n\nThe fire-glare showed,'mid glaze and blister,\n\n A boy's cheek wet with tears.'Twas base!\n\nThat boy was first-born of my sister;\n\n Yet I smote him on the face!\n\n\n\nAh! but when the poplars quiver\n\n In the hot noon, cold o'erhead,\n\nSometimes with a spasm I shiver;\n\n Sometimes round me gaze with dread.\n\nAh! and when the silver willow\n\n Whitens in the moonlight gale,\n\nFrom my hectic, grassy pillow,\n\n I hear, sometimes, that infant's wail!\n\n--Aubrey de Vere.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0251]\n\n\n\n\nA BALLAD OF SARSFIELD;\n\nor, The Bursting of the Guns.\n\n\n|Sarsfield rode out the Dutch to rout,\n\n And to take and break their cannon;\n\nTo mass went he at half-past three,\n\n And at four he cross'd the Shannon.\n\n\n\nTirconnel slept. In dream his thoughts\n\n Old fields of victory ran on;\n\nAnd the chieftains of Thomond in Limerick's\n\n towers\n\n Slept well by the banks of Shannon.\n\nHe rode ten miles and he cross'd the ford,\n\n And couch'd in the wood and waited;\n\nTill, left and right, on march'd in sight\n\n That host which the true men hated.\n\n\n\n\"Charge!\" Sarsfield cried; and the green hill-\n\n side,\n\n As they charged, replied in thunder;\n\nThey rode o'er the plain and they rode o'er the\n\n slain,\n\n And the rebel, rout lay under!\n\n\n\nHe burn'd the gear the knaves held dear,--\n\n For his King he fought, not plunder;\n\nWith powder he cramm'd the guns, and ramm'd\n\n Their mouths the red soil under.\n\n\n\nThe spark flash'd out--like a nation's shout\n\n The sound into heaven ascended;\n\nThe hosts of the sky made to earth reply,\n\n And the thunders twain were blended!\n\n\n\nSarsfield rode out the Dutch to rout,\n\n And to take and break their cannon;--\n\nA century after, Sarsfield's laughter\n\n Was echoed from Dungannon.\n\n----Aubrey de Vere.\n\n\n\n\nA BALLAD OF ATHLONE;\n\nor, How they broke down the Bridge\n\n\n|Does any man dream that a Gael can fear?--\n\n Of a thousand deeds let him learn but one!\n\nThe Shannon swept onward, broad and clear,\n\n Between the leaguers and worn Athlone.\n\n\n\n\"Break down the bridge!\"--Six warriors rushed\n\n Through the storm of shot and the storm of\n\n shell:\n\nWith late, but certain, victory flushed\n\n The grim Dutch gunners eyed them well.\n\n\n\nThey wrenched at the planks 'mid a hail of fire:\n\n They fell in death, their work half done:\n\nThe bridge stood fast; and nigh and nigher\n\n The foe swarmed darkly, densely on.\n\n\n\n\"O who for Erin will strike a stroke?\n\n Who hurl yon planks where the waters roar?\"\n\nSix warriors forth from their comrades broke,\n\n And flung them upon that bridge once more.\n\n\n\nAgain at the rocking planks they dashed;\n\n And four dropped dead; and two remained:\n\nThe huge beams groaned, and the arch down\n\n crashed;--\n\n Two stalwart swimmers the margin gained.\n\n\n\nSt Ruth in his stirrups stood up, and cried,\n\n \"I have seen no deed like that in France!\"\n\nWith a toss of his head Sarsfield replied,\n\n \"They had luck, the dogs!'Twas a merry\n\n chance!\"\n\nO many a year upon Shannon's side,\n\n They sang upon moor and they sang upon\n\n Of the twain that breasted that raging tide,\n\n And the ten that shook bloody hands with\n\n Death!\n\n heath\n\n----Aubrey de Vere,\n\n\n\n\nLOVE'S WARNING\n\n[Illustration: 0255]\n\n\n|A fair lady once, with her young lover walked,\n\n Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;\n\nThrough a garden, and sweetly they laughed\n\n and they talked,\n\n While the dews fell over the mulberry tree.\n\nShe gave him a rose--while he sighed for a kiss,\n\n Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;\n\nQuoth he, as he took it, \"I kiss thee in this,\"\n\n While the dews fall over the mulberry tree.\n\n\n\nShe gave him a lily less white than her breast,\n\n Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;\n\nQuoth he, \"'Twill remind me of one I love best,\"\n\n While the dews fall over the mulberry tree.\n\n[Illustration: 9256]\n\nShe gave him a two faces under a hood,\n\n Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;\n\n\"How blest you could make me,\" quoth he,\n\n \"if you would,\"\n\n While the dews fall over the mulberry tree.\n\nShe saw a forget-me-not flower in the grass,\n\n Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;\n\nAh! why did the lady that little flower pass?\n\n While the dews fell over the mulberry tree.\n\nThe young lover saw that she passed it, and\n\n sigh'd,\n\n Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;\n\nThey say his heart broke, and he certainly died,\n\n While the dews fell over the mulberry tree.\n\n\n\nNow all you fair ladies, take warning by this,\n\n Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;\n\nAnd never refuse your young lovers a kiss,\n\n While the dews fall over the mulberry tree.\n\n----Ed. Kenealy.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0257]\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD STORY\n\n... Old as the universe, yet not outworn.\"--_The Island_.\n\n\n|He came across the meadow-pass,\n\n That summer-eve of eves,\n\nThe sunlight streamed along the grass,\n\n And glanced amid the leaves;\n\nAnd from the shrubbery below,\n\n And from the garden trees,\n\nHe heard the thrushes' music flow,\n\n And humming of the bees;\n\nThe garden-gate was swung apart--\n\n The space was brief between;\n\nBut there, for throbbing of his heart,\n\n He paused perforce to lean.\n\n\n\nHe leaned upon the garden-gate;\n\n He looked, and scarce he breathed\n\nWithin the little porch she sate,\n\n With woodbine overwreathed;\n\nHer eyes upon her work were bent,\n\n Unconscious who was nigh;\n\nBut oft the needle slowly went,\n\n And oft did idle lie;\n\nAnd ever to her lips arose\n\n Sweet fragments faintly sung,\n\nBut ever, ere the notes could close,\n\n She hushed them on her tongue.\n\n\n\nHer fancies as they come and go,\n\n Her pure face speaks the while,\n\nFor now it is a flitting glow,\n\n And now a breaking smile;\n\nAnd now it is a graver shade\n\n When holier thoughts are there--\n\nAn Angel's pinion might be stayed\n\n To see a sight so fair;\n\nBut still they hid her looks of light,\n\n Those downcast eyelids pale--\n\nTwo lovely clouds so silken white,\n\n Two lovelier stars that veil.\n\n\n\nThe sun at length his burning edge\n\n Had rested on the hill,\n\nAnd save one thrush from out the hedge,\n\n Both bower and grove were still.\n\nThe sun had almost bade farewell;\n\n But one reluctant ray\n\nStill loved within that porch to dwell,\n\n As charmed there to stay--\n\nIt stole aslant the pear-tree bough,\n\n And through the woodbine fringe,\n\nAnd kissed the maiden's neck and brow,\n\n And bathed her in its tinge.\n\n\n\n\"Oh! beauty of my heart,\" he said,\n\n \"Oh! darling, darling mine,\n\nWas ever light of evening shed\n\n On loveliness like thine?\n\nWhy should I ever leave this spot,\n\n But gaze until I die?\"\n\nA moment from that bursting thought\n\n She felt his footstep nigh.\n\nOne sudden, lifted glance--but one,\n\n A tremor and a start,\n\nSo gently was their greeting done\n\n That who would guess their heart?\n\n\n\nLong, long the sun had sunken down,\n\n And all his golden trail\n\nHad died away to lines of brown,\n\n In duskier hues that fail.\n\n[Illustration: 0260]\n\n\n\nGooglt\n\nThe grasshopper was chirping shrill--\n\n No other living sound\n\nAccompanied the tiny rill\n\n That gurgled under ground--\n\nNo other living sound, unless\n\n Some spirit bent to hear\n\nLow words of human tenderness,\n\n And mingling whispers near.\n\n\n\nThe stars, like pallid gems at first,\n\n Deep in the liquid sky,\n\nNow forth upon the darkness burst,\n\n Sole kings and lights on high;\n\nIn splendour myriad-fold, supreme--\n\n No rival moonlight strove,\n\nNor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam,\n\n Nor more majestic Jove.\n\nBut what if hearts there beat that night\n\n That recked not of the skies,\n\nOr only felt their imaged light\n\n In one another's eyes.\n\n\n\nAnd if two worlds of hidden thought\n\n And fostered passion met,\n\nWhich, passing human language, sought\n\n And found an utterance yet;\n\nAnd if they trembled like to flowers\n\n That droop across a stream,\n\nThe while the silent starry hours\n\n Glide o'er them like a dream;\n\nAnd if, when came the parting time,\n\n They faltered still and clung;\n\nWhat is it all?--in ancient rhyme\n\n Ten thousand times besung--\n\nThat part of Paradise which man\n\n Without the portal knows--\n\nWhich hath been since the world began,\n\n And shall be till its close.\n\n----J. O'Hagan.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BROTHERS: HENRY AND JOHN SHEARS\n\n\n|Tis midnight; falls the lamp-light dull and sickly\n\n On a pale and anxious crowd,\n\nThrough the court, and round the judges,\n\n thronging thickly,\n\n With prayers none dare to speak aloud.\n\nTwo youths, two noble youths, stand prisoners\n\n at the bar--\n\n You can see them through the gloom--\n\nIn pride of life and manhood's beauty, there\n\n they are\n\n Awaiting their death doom.\n\n\n\nAll eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping,\n\n Some, sobbing, turn away,\n\nAnd the strongest men can hardly see for weeping,\n\n So noble and so loved were they.\n\nTheir hands are locked together, those young\n\n brothers,\n\n As before the judge they stand--\n\nThey feel not the deep grief that moves the\n\n others;\n\n For they die for Fatherland.\n\n\n\nThey are pale, but it is not fear that whitens\n\n On each proud high brow;\n\nFor the triumph of the martyr's glory brightens\n\n Around them even now.\n\nThey sought to free their land from thrall of\n\n stranger,--\n\n Was it treason? Let them die;\n\nBut their blood will cry to heaven--the Avenger\n\n Yet will hearken from on high.\n\n\n\nBefore them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely\n\n human,\n\n The base informer bends,\n\nWho, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true\n\n men,\n\n While he clasped their hands as friends.\n\nAy, could fondle the young children of his victim,\n\n Break bread with his young wife,\n\nAt the moment that, for gold, his perjured dictum\n\n Sold the husband and the father's life.\n\n\n\nThere is silence in the midnight--eyes arekeeping\n\n Troubled watch, till forth the jury come;\n\nThere is silence in the midnight--eyes are\n\n weeping--\n\n \"Guilty!\" is the fatal uttered doom,--\n\nFor a moment o'er the brothers' noble faces\n\n Came a shadow sad to see,\n\nThen silently they rose up in their places,\n\n And embraced each other fervently.\n\n\n\nOh! the rudest heart might tremble at such sorrow,\n\n The rudest cheek might blanch at such a scene;\n\nTwice the judge essayed to speak the word--\n\n to-morrow--\n\n Twice faltered, as a woman he had been.\n\nTo-morrow!--Fain the elder would have spoken,\n\n Prayed for respite, tho' it is not death he fears;\n\nBut thoughts of home and wife his heart hath\n\n broken,\n\n And his words are stopped by tears.\n\n\n\nBut the youngest--Oh! he speaks out bold and\n\n clearly:--\n\n \"I have no ties of children or of wife;\n\nLet me die--but spare the brother, who more\n\n dearly\n\n Is loved by me than life.\"\n\nPale martyrs,ye may cease; your days are numbered;\n\n Next noon your sun of life goes down;\n\nOne day between the sentence and the scaffold--\n\n One day between the torture and the crown!\n\n\n\nA hymn of joy is rising from creation;\n\n Bright the azure of the glorious summer sky;\n\nBut human hearts weep sore in lamentation,\n\n For the brothers are led forth to die.\n\nAye; guard them with your cannon and your\n\n lances--\n\n So of old came martyrs to the stake;\n\nAye; guard them--see the people's flashing\n\n glances,\n\n For those noble two are dying for their sake.\n\nYet none spring forth their bonds to sever--\n\n Ah! methinks, had I been there,\n\nI'd have dared a thousand deaths ere ever\n\n The sword should touch their hair.\n\nIt falls!--there is a shriek of lamentation\n\n From the weeping crowd around;\n\nThey're stilled--the noblest hearts within the\n\n nation--\n\n The noblest heads lie bleeding on the ground.\n\nYears have passed since that fatal scene of dying,\n\n Yet life-like to this day\n\nIn their coffins still those severed heads are lying,\n\n Kept by angels from decay.\n\nOh! they preach to us, those still and pallid\n\n features--\n\n Those pale lips yet implore us from their graves\n\nTo strive for our birthright as God's creatures,\n\n Or die, if we can but live as slaves.\n\n----Speranza (Lady Wilde).\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0266]\n\n\n\n\nTHE WITCH-BRIDE\n\n\n|A fair witch crept to a young man's side,\n\nAnd he kiss'd her and took her for his bride.\n\n\n\nBut a Shape came in at the dead of night,\n\nAnd fill'd the room with snowy light.\n\n\n\nAnd he saw how in his arms there lay\n\nA thing more frightful than mouth may say.\n\n\n\nAnd he rose in haste, and follow'd the Shape\n\nTill morning crown'd an eastern cape.\n\n\n\nAnd he girded himself and follow'd still,\n\nWhen sunset sainted the western hill.\n\n\n\nBut, mocking and thwarting, clung to his side,\n\nWeary day!--the foul Witch-Bride\n\n----Wm. Allingham.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0267]\n\n\n\n\nTHE MILKMAID\n\n[Illustration: 0268]\n\n\n|O where are you going so early? he said;\n\nGood luck go with you, my pretty maid;\n\nTo tell you my mind Im half afraid,\n\n But I wish I were your sweetheart.\n\n When the morning sun is shining low,\n\n And the cocks in every farmyard crow,\n\n I'll carry your pail,\n\n O'er hill and dale,\n\n And I'll go with you a-milking.\n\nI'm going a-milking, sir, says she,\n\nThrough the dew, and across the lea;\n\nYou ne'er would even yourself to me,\n\n Or take me for your sweetheart.\n\n When the morning sun, &c.\n\n\n\nNow give me your milking-stool awhile,\n\nTo carry it down to yonder stile;\n\nI'm wishing every step a mile,\n\n And myself your only sweetheart.\n\n When the morning sun, &c.\n\n\n\nO, here's the stile in-under the tree,\n\nAnd there's the path in the grass for me,\n\nAnd I thank you kindly, sir, says she,\n\n And wish you a better sweetheart.\n\n When the morning sun, &c.\n\n\n\nNow give me your milking-pail, says he,\n\nAnd while were going across the lea,\n\nPray reckon your master's cows to me,\n\n Although I'm not your sweetheart.\n\n When the morning sun, &c.\n\n\n\nTwo of them red, and two of them white,\n\nTwo of them yellow and silky bright,\n\nShe told him her master's cows aright,\n\n Though he was not her sweetheart.\n\n When the morning sun, &c.\n\n\n\nShe sat and milk'd in the morning sun,\n\nAnd when her milking was over and done,\n\nShe found him waiting, all as one\n\n As if he were her sweetheart.\n\n When the morning sun, &c.\n\n\n\nHe freely offer'd his heart and hand;\n\nNow she has a farm at her command,\n\nAnd cows of her own to graze the land;\n\n Success to all true sweethearts!\n\n When the morning sun is shining low,\n\n And the cocks in every farmyard crow,\n\n I'll carry your pail\n\n O'er hill and dale,\n\n And I'll go with you a-milking,\n\n---Wm. Allingham.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NOBLEMAN'S WEDDING\n\n\n|I once was guest at a Nobleman's wedding;\n\n Fair was the Bride, but she scarce had been\n\n kind,\n\nAnd now in our mirth, she had tears nigh the\n\n shedding;\n\n Her former true lover still runs in her mind.\n\n\n\nAttired like a minstrel, her former true lover\n\n Takes up his harp, and runs over the strings;\n\nAnd there among strangers, his grief to discover,\n\n A fair maiden's falsehood he bitterly sings.\n\n\n\n\"Now here is the token of gold that was broken;\n\nSeven long years it was kept for your sake;\n\nYou gave it to me as a true lover's token;\n\n No longer I'll wear it, asleep or awake.\"\n\n\n\nShe sat in her place by the head of the table,\n\n The words of his ditty she mark'd them right\n\n well;\n\nTo sit any longer this bride was not able,\n\n So down at the bridegrooms feet she fell.\n\n\"O one, one request, my lord, one and no other,\n\n O this one request will you grant it to me?\n\nTo lie for this night in the arms of my mother,\n\n And ever, and ever thereafter with thee.\"\n\nHer one, one request it was granted her fairly;\n\n Pale were her cheeks as she went up to bed;\n\n And the very next morning, early, early,\n\n They rose and they found this young bride\n\n was dead.\n\nThe bridegroom ran quickly, he held her, he\n\n kiss'd her,\n\nHe spoke loud and low, and listen'd full fain;\n\n He call'd on her waiting-maids round to assist\n\n her,\n\n But nothing could bring the lost breath back\n\n again.\n\nO carry her softly! the grave is made ready;\n\n At head and at foot plant a laurel-bush green;\n\nFor she was a young and a sweet noble lady,\n\n The fairest young bride that I ever have seen.\n\n---Wm. Allingham.\n\n\n\nSt. Margaret's Eve\n\n|I built my castle upon the sea-side,\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\nHalf on the land and half in the tide,\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\nWithin was silk, without was stone,\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\nIt lacks a queen, and that alone.\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\nThe gray old harper sung to me,\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\n\"Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!\"\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\nSaint Margaret's Eve it did befall,\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\nThe tide came creeping up the wall.\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\nI open'd my gate; who there should stand--\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\nBut a fair lady, with a cup in her hand.\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\nThe cup was gold, and full of wine,\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\n\"Drink,\" said the lady, \"and I will be thine.\"\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\n\"Enter my castle, lady fair,\"\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\n\"You shall be queen of all that's there.\"\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\n99 A gray old harper sung to me,\"\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\n\"'Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!'\"\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\n19 In hall he harpeth many a year,\"\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\n\"And we will sit his song to hear.\"\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\n991 love thee deep, I love thee true,\"\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\n\"But ah! I know not how to woo.\"\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\nDown dash'd the cup, with a sudden shock,\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\nThe wine like blood ran over the rock.\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\nShe said no word, but shriek'd aloud,\n\nThe waves roll so gaily O,\n\nAnd vanish'd away from where she stood.\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\nI lock'd and barr'd my castle door,\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\nThree summer days I grieved sore.\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\nFor myself a day and night,\n\n _The waves roll so gaily O_,\n\nAnd two to moan that lady bright.\n\n _Love me true!_\n\n\n\n----Wm. Allingham.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE\n\n\n|When the spinning-room was here,\n\nCame Three Damsels, clothed in white,\n\nWith their spindles every night;\n\nOne and two and three fair Maidens,\n\nSpinning to a pulsing cadence,\n\nSinging songs of Elfin-Mere,\n\nTill the eleventh hour was toll'd,\n\nThen departed through the wold.\n\n_Years ago, and years ago;\n\nAnd the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_.\n\n\n\nThree white Lilies, calm and clear,\n\nAnd they were loved by every one;\n\nMost of all, the Pastor's Son,\n\nListening to their gentle singing,\n\nFelt his heart go from him, clinging\n\nTo these Maids of Elfin-Mere;\n\nSued each night to make them stay,\n\nSadden'd when they went away.\n\n_Years ago, and years ago;\n\nAnd the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_.\n\n\n\nHands that shook with love and fear\n\nDared put back the village clock,--\n\nFlew the spindle, turn'd the rock,\n\nFlow'd the song with subtle rounding,\n\nTill the false \"eleven\" was sounding;\n\nThen these Maids of Elfin-Mere\n\nSwiftly, softly left the room,\n\nLike three doves on snowy plume.\n\n_Years ago, and years ago;\n\nAnd the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_.\n\n\n\nOne that night who wander'd near\n\nHeard lamentings by the shore,\n\nSaw at dawn three stains of gore\n\nIn the waters fade and dwindle.\n\nNevermore with song and spindle\n\nSaw we Maids of Elfin-Mere.\n\nThe Pastor's Son did pine and die;\n\nBecause true love should never lie.\n\n_Years ago, and years ago;\n\nAnd the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_.\n\n----Wm. Allingham.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAITHLESS KNIGHT\n\n\n|It is a careless pretty may, down by yon river-\n\n side;\n\nHer face, the whole world's pleasure, she gladly\n\n hath espied;\n\nAnd tossing back her golden hair, her singing\n\n echoes wide;\n\nWhen gaily to the grassy shore a youthful\n\n knight doth ride.\n\n\n\nAnd vaulting from his courser, that stoops the\n\n head to drink,\n\nAnd greeting well this Maiden fair, by running\n\n waters brink,\n\nHe throws about her slender neck a chain of\n\n costly link:\n\nToo courteous he for glamourie, as any may\n\n might think.\n\n\n\nAll through the flowery meadows, in the\n\n summer evening warm,\n\nThe rippling river murmurs low, the dancing\n\n midges swarm;\n\nBut far away the pretty may, nor makes the\n\n least alarm,\n\nSits firm on lofty saddle-bow, within the young\n\n knight's arm.\n\n\n\nNow months are come, and months are gone,\n\n with sunshine, breeze, and rain;\n\nThe song on grassy river-shore you shall not\n\n hear again;\n\nThe proud knight spurs at tournament, in\n\n Germany or Spain,\n\nOr sues in silken bow'r to melt some lady's\n\n high disdain.\n\n\n\nAnd thus in idle hour he dreams--\"I've\n\n wander'd east and west;\n\nI've whisper'd love in many an ear, in earnest or\n\n in jest;\n\nThat summer day--that pretty may--perhaps\n\n she loved me best?\n\nI recollect her face, methinks, more often than\n\n the rest.\"\n\n----Wm Allingham.\n\n\n\n\nMICHAEL DWYER\n\n\n|At length brave Michael Dwyer and his un-\n\n daunted men\n\nWere hunted o'er the mountains, and tracked\n\n into the glen;\n\nThe stealthy soldiers followed, with ready blade\n\n and ball,\n\nAnd swore to trap the outlaw that night in wild\n\n Emall.\n\n\n\nThey prowled about the valley, and toward the\n\n dawn of day\n\nDiscovered where the faithful and fearless\n\n heroes lay;\n\nAround the little cottage they formed into a ring,\n\nAnd called out \"Michael Dwyer! Surrender to\n\n the King!\"\n\n\n\nThus answered Michael Dwyer--\"Into this\n\n house we came\n\nUnasked by those who own it; they cannot be\n\n to blame;\n\nThen let those guiltless people, unquestioned,\n\n pass you through;\n\nAnd when they've passed in safety, I'll tell you\n\n what we'll do.\"\n\n\n\n'Twas done. \"And now,\" said Dwyer, \"your\n\n work you may begin;\n\nYou are a hundred outside--we're only four\n\n within;\n\nWe've heard your haughty summons, and this\n\n is our reply--\n\nWe're true United Irishmen--we'll fight until\n\n we die.\"\n\n\n\nThen burst the war's red lightning, then poured\n\n the leaden rain;\n\nThe hills around re-echoed the thunder peals\n\n again;\n\nThe soldiers falling round him brave Dwyer\n\n sees with pride;\n\nBut, ah! one gallant comrade is wounded by his\n\n side.\n\n\n\nYet there are three remaining, good battle still\n\n to do;\n\nTheir hands are strong and steady, their aim is\n\n quick and true--\n\nBut hark that furious shouting the savage\n\n soldiers raise!\n\nThe house is fired around them!--the roof is in\n\n a blaze!\n\n\n\nAnd brighter every moment the lurid flame arose,\n\n And louder swelled the laughter and cheering\n\n of their foes;\n\nThen spake the brave M'Alister, the weak and\n\n wounded man--\n\n\"You can escape, my comrades, and this shall\n\n be your plan.\n\n\n\n\"Place in my hands a musket, then lie upon the\n\n floor,\n\nI'll stand before the soldiers, and open wide the\n\n door;\n\nThey'll pour into my bosom the fire of their array,\n\nThen, while their guns are empty, dash through\n\n them, and away!\"\n\n\n\nHe stood before his foemen, revealed amidst\n\n the flame;\n\nFrom out their levelled pieces the wished-for\n\n volley came;\n\nUp sprang the three survivors, for whom the\n\n hero died,\n\nBut only Michael Dwyer burst through the\n\n ranks outside.\n\n\n\nHe baffled his pursuers, who followed like the\n\n wind,\n\nAnd swam the River Slaney, and left them far\n\n behind;\n\nBut many a scarlet soldier he promised soon\n\n should fall\n\nFor those, his gallant comrades, who died in\n\n wild Emall.\n\n----T. D. Sullivan.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0281]\n\n\n\n\nRANDALL M'DONALD\n\n\n|The lady of Antrim rose with the morn,\n\n And donn'd her grandest gear;\n\nAnd her heart beat fast, when a sounding horn\n\n Announced a suitor near;\n\nHers was a heart so full of pride,\n\n That love had little room,\n\nGood faith, I would not wish me such bride,\n\n For all her beautiful bloom.\n\n\n\nOne suitor there came from the Scottish shore,\n\n Long, and lithe, and grim,\n\nAnd a younger one from Dunluce hoar,\n\n And the lady inclined to him.\n\n\"But hearken ye, nobles both,\" she said,\n\n As soon as they sat to dine--\n\n\"The hand must prove its chieftainry,\n\n That putteth a ring on mine.\n\n\n\n\"But not in the lists with armed hands,\n\n Must this devoir be done,\n\nYet he who wins my broad, broad lands\n\n Their lady may count as won.\n\nYe both were born upon the shore,--\n\n Were bred upon the sea,\n\nNow let me see you ply the oar,\n\n For the land you love--and me!\n\n\n\n\"The chief that first can reach the strand\n\n May mount at morn and ride,\n\nAnd his long day's ride shall bound his land,\n\n And I will be his bride!\"\n\nM'Quillan felt hope in every vein\n\n As the bold, bright lady spoke--\n\nAnd McDonald glanced over his rival again,\n\n And bow'd with a bargeman's stroke.\n\n\n\n'Tis summer upon the Antrim shore--\n\n The shore of shores it is--\n\nWhere the white old rocks deep caves arch o'er,\n\n Unfathom'd by man I wis--\n\nWhere the basalt breast of our isle flings back\n\n The Scandinavian surge,\n\nTo howl through its native Scaggerack,\n\n Chanting the Viking's dirge.\n\n\n\n'Tis summer--the long white lines of foam\n\n Roll lazily to the beach,\n\nAnd man and maid from every home\n\n Their eyes o'er the waters stretch.\n\nOn Glenarm's lofty battlements\n\n Sitteth the lady fair,\n\nAnd the warm west wind blows softly\n\n Through the links of her golden hair.\n\n\n\nThe boats in the distant offing\n\n Are marshaird prow to prow;\n\nThe boatmen cease their scoffing,\n\n And bend to the rowlocks now;\n\nLike glory-guided steeds they start--\n\n Away o'er the waves they bound;\n\nEach rower can hear the beating heart\n\n Of his brother boatman sound.\n\n\n\nNearer! nearer! on they come,\n\n Row, McDonald, row!\n\nFor Antrim's princely castle home,\n\n Its lands, and its lady, row!\n\nThe chief that first can grasp the strand\n\n May mount at morn and ride,\n\nAnd his long day's ride shall bound his land,\n\n And she shall be his bride!\n\n\n\nHe saw his rival gain apace,\n\n He felt the spray in his wake--\n\nHe thought of her who watch'd the race\n\n Most dear for her dowry sake!\n\nThen he drew his skein from out its sheath,\n\n And lopt off his left hand,\n\nAnd pale and fierce, as a chief in death,\n\n He hurl'd it to the strand!\n\n\n\n\"The chief that first can grasp the strand,\n\n May mount at morn and ride;\"\n\nOh, fleet is the steed which the bloody hand,\n\n Through Antrim's glens doth guide!\n\nAnd legends tell that the proud ladye\n\n Would fain have been unbann'd,\n\nFor the chieftain who proved his chieftainry\n\n Lorded both wife and land.\n\n-----T. D. M'Gee.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0285]\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEMON OF THE GIBBET\n\n\n|There was no west, there was no east,\n\n No star abroad for eyes to see;\n\nAnd Norman spurred his jaded beast\n\n Hard by the terrible gallows-tree.\n\n\n\n\"O, Norman, haste across this waste,--\n\n For something seems to follow me!\"\n\n\"Cheer up, dear Maud, for, thanked be God,\n\n We nigh have passed the gallows-tree!\"\n\n\n\nHe kissed her lip: then--spur and whip!\n\n And fast they fled across the lea!\n\nBut vain the heel, and rowel steel,--\n\n For something leaped from the gallows-tree!\n\n\n\n\"Give me your cloak, your knightly cloak,\n\n That wrapped you oft beyond the sea!\n\nThe wind is bold, my bones are old,\n\n And I am cold on the gallows-tree.\"\n\n\n\n\"O holy God! O dearest Maud,\n\n Quick, quick, some prayers--the best that be!\n\nA bony hand my neck has spanned,\n\n And tears my knightly cloak from me!\"\n\n\n\n\"Give me your wine,--the red, red wine,\n\n That in the flask hangs by your knee!\n\nTen summers burst on me accurst,\n\n And I'm athirst on the gallows-tree!\"\n\n\n\n\"O Maud, my life, my loving wife!\n\n Have you no prayer to set us free?\n\nMy belt unclasps,--a demon grasps,\n\n And drags my wine-flask from my knee!\"\n\n\"Give me your bride, your bonnie bride,\n\n That left her nest with you to flee!\n\nO she hath flown to be my own,\n\n For I'm alone on the gallows-tree!\"\n\n\"Cling closer, Maud, and trust in God!\n\n Cling close!--Ah, heaven, she slips from me!\"\n\nA prayer, a groan, and he alone\n\n Rode on that night from the gallows-tree.\n\n---Fitz-James O'Brien.\n\n\n\n\nKILBRANNON\n\n[Illustration: 9287]\n\n\n|My love, braid up thy golden locks,\n\n And don thy silken shoon,\n\nWe'll sit upon Kilbrannon's rocks,\n\n Where shines the silvery moon;\n\nAnd bring thy little babe with thee,\n\n For his dear father's sake,\n\nThe lands where he'll be lord to see,\n\n By lone Kilbrannon lake.\"\n\nShe's braided up her golden locks,\n\n She's donned her silken shoon,\n\nAnd they're away to Kilbrannon's rocks\n\n By the cold light of the moon;\n\nSir Hubert he took both wife and child\n\n Upon that night of woe,\n\nAnd hurled them over the rocks so wild,\n\n To the lake's blue depths below.\n\n\n\nAnd he has married another may,\n\n With the locks of ebonie,\n\nAnd her looks are sweet, and her heart is gay,\n\n Yet a woeful wight is he;\n\nHe wakes the woods with his bugle horn,\n\n But his heart is heavy and sore;\n\nAnd he ever shuns those crags forlorn\n\n By lone Kilbrannon shore.\n\n\n\nFor down in the lake the dead won't rest,\n\n That vengeful murdered one;\n\nWith her little babe at her pulseless breast,\n\n She walks the waters lone;\n\nAnd she calls at night her murderer's name,\n\n And will call for evermore,\n\nTill the huge rocks melt in doomsday flame,\n\n By wild Kilbrannon shore.\n\n----R. D. Joyce.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GREEN DOVE AND THE RAVEN\n\n\n|There was a dove with wings of green,\n\n Glistening o'er so radiantly,\n\nWith head of blue and golden sheen,\n\n All sad and wearily\n\nSitting two red blooms between\n\n On lovely Barna's wild-wood tree.\n\n\n\nThere was a letter 'neath its wing,\n\n Written by a fair ladye,\n\nSafely bound with silken string\n\n So light and daintily,\n\nAnd in that letter was a ring,\n\n On lovely Barna's wild-wood tree.\n\n\n\nThere was a raven, black and drear,\n\n Stained with blood all loathsomely,\n\nPerched upon the branches near,\n\n Croaking mournfully,\n\nAnd he said, \"O dove, what bring'st thou here\n\n To lovely Barna's wild-wood tree?\"\n\n\n\n\"I'm coming from a ladye gay,\n\n To the young heir of sweet Glenore,\n\nHis ring returned, it is to say\n\n She'll never love him more,--\n\nAlas the hour! alas the day! --\n\n By murmuring Funcheon's fairy shore.\"\n\n\n\n\"O dove, outspread thy wings of green;\n\n I'll guide thee many a wild-wood o'er;\n\nI'll bring thee where I last have seen\n\n The young heir of Glenore,\n\nBeneath the forest's sunless screen,\n\n By murmuring Funcheon's fairy shore.\"\n\n\n\nO'er many a long mile did they flee,\n\n The dove, the raven stained with gore,\n\nAnd found beneath the murderer's tree\n\n The young heir of Glenore,--\n\nA bloody, ghastly corpse was he,\n\n By murmuring Funcheon's fairy shore.\n\n\n\n\"Go back, go back, thou weary dove,--\n\n To the cruel maid tell o'er and o'er,\n\nHe's death's and mine, her hate or love\n\n Can never reach him more--\n\nTo his ice-cold heart in Molagga's grove,\n\n By murmuring Funcheon's fairy shore.\"\n\n----R. D. Joyce.\n\n\n\n\nMANNIX THE COINER\n\n\n|Mannix the coiner and Neville the Piper--\n\n Rebels and outlaws, jolly as thrushes;\n\nThey lived in a lane where they had a great\n\n reign\n\n Of piping and coining, and drinking like\n\n fishes.\n\nNeville he swore, with wild fury,\n\n That Mannix should share with him half the\n\n prog;\n\nThen Mannix jump'd up, in a hurry,\n\n And sent off the wife for a gallon of grog.\n\n\"Well done!\" said the piper; \"Play up!\" said\n\n the coiner,\n\n \"We've gold in our pockets and grog on the\n\n brain;\n\nThe _law_ and the gallows are made in the\n\n palace,\n\n While we, who defy them, rejoice in the\n\n lane!\"\n\n\n\nWhen the grog was brought in, they soon\n\n _swiggd_ it,\n\n And Neville then _rasp'd_ up another gay tune,\n\nAnd bold Mannix merrily jigg'd it,\n\n As brisk as a bee in the meadows of June.\n\n\"Well done!\" said the piper--\"Play up!\" said\n\n the coiner,\n\n \"We are the _boys_ that can _live everywhere!_\n\nLife, without fun, is like spring without sun--\n\n So we'll _flash_ it away, and the devil may care!\n\n\n\n\"Those guineas--whoever may take'em--\n\n Are but flying tokens to worldly fools lent,\n\nAnd I am the _boy_ that can make'em,\n\n As bright as e'er came from the Sassenach\n\n mint!\"\n\n\"Well done!\" said the piper--\"Play up!\" said\n\n the coiner,\n\n \"My _golden character_ I'll always maintain!\n\nAnd, compared with the schemers who rule and\n\n befool us,\n\n We're real honest men and good _boys_ in the\n\n lane!\"\n\n\n\nThen Mannix put fire to his grisset,\n\n And out of his mould he shook many a _shiner_,\n\nBut ere he had time to impress it,\n\n In _roll'd_ the peelers and snaffled the coiner,\n\nSo there was an end to the piping and coining,\n\n And a ruction was kick'd up, but no one was\n\n slain,--\n\n\"I'm done!\" said the coiner--\"Cheer up,\" said\n\n the piper,\n\n \"Fortune will favour the brave in the lane.\"\n\n\n\n\"We have you, at last!\" cried the peelers,\n\n \"Tho' many a day we have chased you in vain!\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Mannix, \"your dungeons and jailors\n\n May all be high hang'd--and farewell to the\n\n lane!\"\n\nThen off ran the coiner, and loud laughed the\n\n piper,\n\n As his friend disappear'd thro' night's darkness\n\n and rain,\n\nLike a shaft from a quiver, he plung'd o'er the\n\n river,\n\n And left the bold peelers befool'd in the lane.\n\n----M. Hogan.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0293]\n\n\n\n\nMY MAURIA NI MILLE\u00d4N\n\n\n|Will you come where golden furze I mow,\n\n My Mauria ni Mille\u00f4n?\"\n\n 'To bind for you I'd gladly go,\n\n My Bliss on Earth, mine own.\n\nTo chapel, too, I would repair,\n\nThough not to aid my soul in prayer,\n\nBut just to gaz\u00e9 with rapture where\n\n You stand, _mo buchal baun_\" *\n\n\n\n\"Will you rove the garden glades with me,\n\n O Flower of Maids, alone?\"\n\n\"What wondrous scenes therein to see,\n\n My Bliss on Earth, mine own?\"\n\n\"The apples from green boughs to strike,\n\nTo watch the trout leap from the lake,\n\nAnd caress a pretty _cailin_ ** like\n\n My Mauria ni Mille\u00f4n.\n\n\n\n\"Will you seek with me the dim church aisle,\n\n O Mauria ni Mille\u00f4n?\"\n\n\"What pleasant scenes to see the while,\n\n My Bliss on Earth, mine own?\"\n\n\"We'd list the chanting voice and prayer\n\nOf foreign pastor preaching there,\n\nO, we'd finish the marriage with my fair\n\n White Flower of Maids alone.\"\n\n\n\n * _Mo buchal baun_, my fair boy. ** _Cailin_, maiden.\n\nShe sought the dim church aisle with me,\n\n My Bliss on Earth, most fair!\n\nShe sought the dim church aisle with me,\n\n O grief! O burning care!\n\n[Illustration: 0295]\n\nI plunged my glittering, keen-edged blade\n\nIn the bosom of that loving maid,\n\nTill gushed her heart's blood, warm and red,\n\n Down on the cold ground there.\n\n\n\n\"Alas! what deed is this you do?\n\n My Bliss on Earth, _mo store!_ *\n\nWhat woful deed is this you do,\n\n O youth whom I adore?\n\nAh, spare our child and me, my love,\n\nAnd the seven lands of earth I'll rove\n\nEre cause of grief to you I prove\n\n For ever--ever more.\"\n\n\n\nI bore her to the mountain peak,\n\n The Flower of Maids, so lone!\n\nI bore her to the mountain bleak,\n\n My thousand woes, _mo vrone._ **\n\nI cast my _cota_ *** round her there,\n\nAnd,'mid the murky mists of air,\n\nI fled with bleeding feet and bare\n\n From Mauria ni Milleon.\n\n---Anon. Translated by G. Sigerson.\n\n\n\n * _Mo store_, my treasure. ** _Mo vrone_, my grief.\n\n *** _Cota_, the long frieze great-coat of the peasantry.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LADYE'S ROCK\n\n\n|A faery dwells in a cove by the sea,\n\nStately as maiden of high degree;\n\n And ever and aye by night and by day\n\nShe carols a melody clear and free.\n\n\n\nMany a stout and stalwart knight\n\nShe has tempted over the waters bright:\n\n With dance and with song she has led them\n\n along\n\nTo the deadly realms of endless night.\n\n\n\nAnd it befell one noontide hour\n\n(Dark was the sky with a glooming shower!)\n\n A gallant knight his troth did plight\n\nTo a fair ladye in a lonely tower.\n\n\n\n\"Sir Knight, Sir Knight!\" said the proud\n\n ladye,\n\n\"Haste to the faery who dwells by the sea;\n\n And tryst at the Scar with the evening star--\n\nSo shall I prove thy love to me.\"\n\n\n\nHe mounted his charger, and gallop'd away\n\nBy down and valley and cove and bay:\n\n He chaunted a song as he cantered along\n\nBy the dismal coast at close of day.\n\n\n\nThe wind blew fresh and the foam ran high;\n\nNaught he heard but the seamew's cry,\n\n Till he came to the cave by the crisping wave\n\nWhere the billow lies calm and the breezes die.\n\n\n\nThere, over the sea-weed and over the shells\n\nAnd the tufted glens and the heathery dells,\n\n O'er cave and dale, in the twilight pale,\n\nThe blissful melody floats and swells.\n\n\n\nThe knight grew faint as he ambled along,\n\nAnd his heart beat high to the charmed song;\n\n Never thought he of the lorn ladye\n\nAs he tript the pebbles and shells among.\n\n\n\nThe Faery stood in a curve of the sand,\n\nAnd she waved to the Knight with her delicate\n\n hand,\n\n And on to a light on the waters bright\n\nShe pointed afar with her silvery wand.\n\n\n\n(Her tresses are dark as the tangle that lies\n\nIn the calm blue deep at the red sunrise,\n\n And they never have rest on her beautiful\n\n breast,\n\nThat heaves and falls as the melody sighs.)\n\n\n\nThe fickle Knight follow'd her pearl-white feet,\n\nFor his bosom was thrill'd with the roundel sweet;\n\n She stept on the sea with frolic and glee,\n\nAnd he spurr'd his charger dark and fleet.\n\n\n\nA meadow it seem'd, the bright green sea,\n\nIt seem'd a level and flowery lea;\n\n Nor foam nor spray was dash'd away,\n\nAs the good steed over the tide did flee.\n\n\n\nOn to an isle of purple light\n\nThe Faery led him with rapid flight;\n\n She waved her hand, she poised her wand,\n\nAnd the billows roll'd over the faithless Knight.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0299]\n\n\n\nAh, what will become of the sweet ladye\n\nWho prays for her lover on bended knee\n\n By the pointed Scar that looms afar\n\nO'er tarn and turret and winding lea?\n\n\n\nShe heard a hoof-pace faint and far,\n\nAs she pored on the pallid evening star.\n\n Through the distant dell arose and fell\n\nThe clattering hoofs of a steed of war.\n\n\n\nShe sprang to her feet; she clomb the Scar;\n\nAnd watch'd for the galloping steed of war,\n\n As the sound came near both loud and clear\n\nFrom the wood lying under the evening star.\n\n\n\nLo, to the tarn a horseman sped;\n\nPale was his face and his eyes were dead;\n\n He lifted his spear as he gallop'd anear,\n\nAnd on and on the phantom fled!\n\n\n\nO wildly cried the lorn ladye,\n\nAnd tore her tresses that floated free,\n\n Then madly leapt to the tarn that slept\n\nUnder the cliff by the winding lea.\n\n\n\nAnd oft when the sad pale evening star\n\nTouches the tip of the rifted Scar,\n\n A maiden's cry comes shuddering by,\n\nAnd wakes the echoings near and far.\n\n---E. J. Armstrong.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WRECK OFF MIZEN-HEAD\n\nI.\n\n\n|O, who could lie a-snoring\n\n Or who carousing be\n\nWhile such a storm is roaring\n\n And raving o'er the sea?...\n\nA Ship to death is drifting.\n\nFaint hands in prayer uplifting,\n\nWith hearts in anguish failing,\n\nThe wives and mothers, wailing,\n\n Look out from cliff and lea;\n\nAnd beacon-fires are glowing,\n\nAnd, fierce and fiercer growing,\n\nThe sleety blasts are blowing\n\n O'er rock and roof and tree.\n\nCome out from giddy dances\n\nAnd songs and vain romances\n\nAnd idle dreams and trances,\n\n And man the boat with me.\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\"Come down while thunders deaden\n\n The minute-guns afar,\n\nAnd the lightnings as they redden\n\n Make pale the signal's star;\n\nCome down where waves are leaping\n\nAnd the stricken folk stand weeping,\n\nOur gallant boat uncover,\n\nAnd through the wet sand shove her,\n\n And speed her o'er the bar;\n\nFor though she's but a light one,\n\nFor such a sea a slight one,\n\nShe's a trim one and a tight one,\n\n And where to-night is he\n\nWhose yearning would not waken\n\nTo help the lives forsaken?\n\nCome down with hearts unshaken,\n\n And brave the deep with me!\"\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nSo Guy the ever-daring\n\n One fierce September night,\n\nWhile beacon-fires were flaring\n\n Along the Mizen's height--\n\nAs I, from pastimes shrinking,\n\nOf Rose's scorn was thinking--\n\nCried, all at once upspringing\n\n'Mid dance and mirth and singing\n\n And games and laughters light;\n\nAnd Hugh the eager-hearted\n\nOut to the portal darted,\n\nAnd Wolfe and Wilfred started\n\n And Donald, Ralph, and I;\n\nAnd, prayers and sweet imploring\n\nFrom maiden lips ignoring,\n\nWith spirits wildly soaring\n\n We faced the seas and sky.\n\n\n\nIV.\n\nAs down the beach descending\n\n We drave the quivering boat,\n\nA gleam of moonlight, rending\n\n The darkness, showed afloat\n\nThe labouring Vessel, shattered,\n\nWith tackle rent and tattered,\n\nAmid the tempest heaving,\n\nHer course to ruin cleaving;\n\n Then fast the surf we smote,\n\nAnd, boldly toward her steering,\n\nStill Guy our courage cheering,\n\nThe deadly breakers clearing,\n\n We strained across the tide;\n\nAnd on,'mid lightnings gleaming,--\n\nThe winds about us screaming,\n\nThe rain in rivers streaming,--\n\n We struggled to her side.\n\n\n\nV.\n\nThe Vessel still to seaward\n\n Came drifting down the bay,\n\nAnd, steering into leeward\n\n In surf and rain and spray,\n\nAthwart her sides we floated;\n\nAnd there on deck we noted,\n\nWith faces outward gazing,\n\nTheir piteous hands upraising\n\n As all forlorn they lay,\n\nA helpless band together\n\n(Like birds in wintry weather\n\nWith feather pressed to feather\n\n Close huddled from the blast);\n\nA moment, weirdly flashing,\n\nWe saw them,'mid the lashing\n\nOf billows wildly dashing\n\n O'er bulwark, deck and mast.\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nFour times we all but touched her,\n\n Four times adrift were flung,\n\nThe fifth I sprang and clutched her,\n\n And leech-like there I clung;\n\nAnd thus to Guy's enclasping,\n\nWith one arm tightly grasping,\n\nThose famished forms I lowered,\n\nTill, well-nigh overpowered,\n\n I trembled where I hung.\n\nThen Guy and Wilfred, straining,\n\nNew strength from victory gaining,\n\nDrew down the last remaining,\n\n Till all were safely stowed;\n\nAnd shoreward with our treasure,\n\nAll pain transformed to pleasure,\n\nWith oars in mirthful measure\n\n At break of dawn we rowed.\n\n\n\nVII.\n\nAy, well do I remember\n\n The morning stormy-bright\n\nThat dawn of wild September,\n\n As through the breakers white\n\nWe rowed the brave boat laden\n\nWith man and babe and maiden,\n\nWhile o'er the sandy spaces,\n\nThe dawn-beams on their faces,\n\n Looked out with straining sight\n\nThe crowd that there had waited,\n\nEach heart with anguish freighted,\n\nAs slow the storm abated\n\n Along the Brittas strand;\n\nAnd how they cheered us, rending\n\nThe winds, as slow ascending,\n\nBeneath our burthens bending,\n\n We waded to the land;\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\nAnd when the last was landed,\n\n And homeward faint and cold\n\nWe turned, how, eager-handed,\n\n (Guy leading as of old),\n\nHigh on their shoulders proudly\n\nThey set me, cheering loudly,\n\nAnd bore me on, declaring\n\nThe triumph of my daring;--\n\n And how my love I told\n\nThat eve amid the gloaming\n\nTo Rose as we were roaming\n\nWhere Aughrim stream was foaming,\n\n And how she smiled and sighed,\n\nAnd,'mid the sunset's splendour,\n\nLaying her white hand slender\n\nIn mine in love's surrender,\n\n My prayer no more denied.\n\n----G. F. Savage-Armstrong.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0306]\n\nThe Sailor Girl\n\n[Illustration: 9307]\n\n|When the Wild Geese were flying to Flanders\n\n away,\n\nI clung to my Desmond beseeching him stay,\n\nBut the stern trumpet sounded the summons to\n\n sea,\n\nAnd afar the ship bore him, _Mabouchal machree_.*\n\nAnd first he sent letters, and then he sent none,\n\nAnd three times into prison I dreamt he was\n\n thrown;\n\nSo I shore my long tresses, and stain'd my face\n\n brown,\n\nAnd went for a sailor from Limerick Town.\n\n * My heart's own boy.\n\nOh! the ropes cut my fingers, but steadfast I\n\n strove,\n\nTill I reached the Low Country in search of my\n\n love.\n\nThere I heard how at Namur his heart was so\n\n high,\n\nThat they carried him captive, refusing to fly.\n\nWith that to King William himself I was\n\n brought,\n\nAnd his mercy for Desmond with tears I be-\n\n sought.\n\nHe considered my story, then smiling, says he,\n\n\"The young Irish rebel for your sake is free.\n\n\"Bring the varlet before us. Now, Desmond\n\n O'Hea,\n\nMyself has decided your sentence to-day.\n\nYou must marry your sailor with bell, book, and\n\n ring,\n\nAnd here is her dowry,\" cried William the King!\n\n----A. P. Graves.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0308]\n\n\n\n\nJOHNNY COX\n\n\n|As in the good ship Annabel\n\n We coasted off Corfu,\n\nA sudden storm upon us fell,\n\n And tore our timbers true\n\n And rent our sails in two.\n\n\n\nOur top-mast tumbled by the board,\n\n Our mizeh-mast as well;\n\nThrough flapping canvas, scourging cord,\n\n Above like our death-bell--\n\n We hear the thunder knell.\n\n\n\n\"Now cut away!\" our Captain cries,\n\n \"And like a cork she floats;\"\n\nBut axe in hand, with scowling eyes,\n\n Set teeth and cursing throats,\n\n The Lascars loose the boats.\n\n\n\nWhen Johnny Cox, who lay below,\n\n From off his fever-bed,\n\nComes staggering up, a ghastly show\n\n As if from out the dead,\n\n And drives them back in dread.\n\n\n\n\"What! quit your posts, ye cowards all?\n\n Here's ballast then for you!\"\n\nWith that he heaves a cannon-ball\n\n Full crash the cutler through,\n\n And saves the ship and crew.\n\n\n\nBut he, our hero, ere the rocks\n\n We rounded, drooped and died;\n\nAnd we should lower you, Johnny Cox,\n\n Lamenting o'er the side--\n\n Into the moaning tide.\n\n----A. P. Graves.\n\n\n\n\nA SONG OF THE EXMOOR HUNT\n\n\n|Awake, arise! The south wind sighs,\n\n Beneath a cloudy curtain\n\nOld Sol is snoozing in the skies,\n\n There's scent to-day for certain.\n\nAnd down deep o'er Slowley Steep\n\n The harbourer swears he shall drop, boys,\n\nOn brow, bay, bay and tray,\n\n Tray and three on top, boys!\n\n\n\nLook up, a stream of sporting pink\n\n Along the ridge is rushing,\n\nMorn's ashen cheek you'd almost think\n\n To rosy red was blushing;\n\nBut few, few, so smart of hue\n\n And spick and span from the shop, boys,\n\nShall stick to-day to brow, bay,\n\n Tray and three on top, boys!\n\n\n\nWhat ho! the tufters on a find\n\n Are turning to the nor'ard.\n\nHark back! hark back!'tis but a hind!\n\n The stag himself! Hark for'ard!\n\nO'er hedge, spine, sedge and rhine,\n\n Full cry we course and hop, boys,\n\nBehind brow, bay and tray,\n\n Tray and three on top, boys!\n\n\n\nPast Dunster towers and Wootton bowers,\n\n Up Cutcombe Crest he's gliding.\n\nHere, roadster friends, your fun it ends,\n\n We've done with arm-chair riding,\n\nAnd full sail, head to tail,\n\n Down Dunkery side we drop, boys,\n\nOn brow, bay, bay, and tray,\n\n Tray and three on top, boys!\n\n\n\nWe've chucked a City swell to the pig\n\n In his mixen at Cloutsham Corner;\n\nWe've hung our artist by his wig,\n\n Like Absalom, in Horner,\n\nTill hard pressed by all our best\n\n From Boscombe Head full flop, boys,\n\nGoes brow, bay, bay and tray,\n\n Tray and three on top, boys!\n\n\n\nA boat! a boat! the Weirmen float,\n\n And after him go racing;\n\nBut see! to shore he heads once more,\n\n His foes with fury facing.\n\nAnd back, back! he hurls the pack,\n\n Or heaves them, neck and crop, boys,\n\nTill now, now, down goes brow,\n\n Bay, tray, and three on top, boys!\n\n\n\nYet only five of all the hive\n\n That set on foot the sport, boys,\n\nRode straight and true the whole hunt thro'\n\n And mingled at the mort, boys!\n\nNow name, name those sons of fame,\n\n Who'll match them nearer and farther?\n\nJim Scarlett, Bissett, and Basset were there,\n\n With Parson Jack Russell and Arthur.\n\n----A. P. Graves.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF THE GHOST\n\n\n|When all were dreaming but Pastheen Power,\n\nA light came streaming beneath her bower,\n\nA heavy foot at her door delayed,\n\nA heavy hand on the latch was laid.\n\n\n\n\"Now who dare venture at this dark hour,\n\nUnbid to enter my maiden bower?\"\n\n\"Dear Pastheen, open the door to me,\n\nAnd your true lover you'll surely see.\"\n\n\n\n\"My true lover, so tall and brave,\n\nLives exiled over the angry wave.\"\n\n\"Your true love's body lies on the bier,\n\nHis faithful spirit is with you here.\"\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0313]\n\n\"His look was cheerful, his voice was gay;\n\nYour speech is fearful, your face is grey;\n\nAnd sad and sunken your eye of blue,\n\nBut Patrick, Patrick, alas!'tis you.\"\n\n\n\nEre dawn was breaking she heard below\n\nThe two cocks shaking their wings to crow.\n\n\"O hush you, hush you, both red and grey,\n\nOr you will hurry my love away.\n\n\n\n\"O hush your crowing, both grey and red,\n\nOr he'll be going to join the dead;\n\nO cease from calling his ghost to mould,\n\nAnd I'll come crowning your combs with gold.\"\n\n\n\nWhen all were dreaming but Pastheen Power,\n\nA light went streaming from out her bower,\n\nAnd on the morrow when they awoke,\n\nThey knew that sorrow her heart had broke.\n\n---A. P. Graves.\n\n\n\n\nA SEA STORY\n\n\n|Silence.--A while ago\n\n Shrieks went up piercingly;\n\nBut now is the ship gone down;\n\n Good ship, well manned, was she.\n\nThere's a raft that's a chance of life for one,\n\n This day upon the sea.\n\n\n\nA chance for one of two;\n\n Young, strong, are he and he,\n\nJust in the manhood prime,\n\n The comelier, verily,\n\nFor the wrestle with wind and weather\n\n and wave,\n\n In the life upon the sea.\n\n\n\nOne of them has a wife\n\n And little children three;\n\nTwo that can toddle and lisp;\n\n And a suckling on the knee.\n\nNaked they'll go and hunger sore,\n\n If he be lost at sea.\n\n\n\nOne has a dream of home,\n\n A dream that well may be;\n\nHe never has breathed it yet;\n\n She never has known it, she:\n\nBut some one will be sick at heart,\n\n If he be lost at sea.\n\n\n\n\"Wife and kids and home!\"--\n\n Wife, kids nor home has he!--\n\n\"Give us a chance, Bill!\" Then,\n\n \"All right, Jem!\" Quietly\n\nA man gives up his life for a man,\n\n This day upon the sea.\n\n----E. H. Hickey.\n\n\n\n\nGEOFFREY BARRON\n\n[Illustration: 9316]\n\n\n|Geoffrey Barron of Clonmel\n\n Dies the traitor's death.\n\nHark the toll of the death-bell!\n\n Pray! the chimes saith.\n\nFreton has set his ring\n\n And the ink is dry\n\nOn the warrant that shall bring\n\n Geoffrey Barron to die.\n\n\n\nMany an one in Limerick Street,\n\n With a pale face\n\nPasses, and with hurrying feet\n\n By the market-place.\n\nThere the scaffold blurs the sun:\n\n And when noon is high\n\nThat most shameful hill upon,\n\n Geoffrey Barron shall die.\n\n\n\nO were Owen Roe but here\n\n That's stark in his grave,\n\nHe should smite with sword and spear\n\n Every crop-ear knave,\n\nUlulu! but Owen's dead!\n\n And the hour is nigh\n\nWhen shall fall the comeliest head,\n\n For Geoffrey Barron must die.\n\n\n\nHe stood up a six-foot man,\n\n Strong as an oak:\n\nDown his neck gold love-locks ran\n\nStrength and manhood in his smile,\n\n On a grass-green cloak.\n\n Laughter in his eye:\n\nNoble, without wile or guile,\n\n Geoffrey Barron must die.\n\n\n\nWhen they led him to the place\n\n Where the General stood\n\n'Mid his crop-ears, lank of face,\n\n Godly men of blood;\n\nPrayed the dying man, \"A boon!\n\n Mine own house is nigh,\n\nLet me rest there till the noon,\n\n When Geoffrey Barron shall die.\"\n\n\n\nClocks had struck three-quarters chime,\n\n When he went in:\n\nAll the bells rang out noon-time\n\n With great shock and din,\n\nWhen the old house-door flew wide,\n\n And in noon-day's eye,\n\nAll in splendour like a bride,\n\n Came Geoffrey Barron to die.\n\n\n\nTaffeta as white as milk\n\n Made all his suit:\n\nThreads of silver in the silk\n\n Trailed like moonlight through't.\n\nSilver cap and white feather;\n\n Stepping proud and high,\n\nIn his shoon of white leather,\n\n Came Geoffrey Barron to die.\n\n\n\nThen the Roundhead General said,\n\n Fingering his sword:\n\n\"Art thou coming to be wed\n\n Like a heathen lord?\n\nGo! thy bride the scaffold is:\n\n Give her sigh for sigh,\n\nBreath for breath and kiss for kiss!\n\n For Geoffrey Barron must die.\"\n\n\n\nBut he laughed out as he ran\n\n Up the black steps:\n\n\"Never happier bridegroom man\n\n With his wife's lips!\n\nIf for some mortal woman's sake\n\n In silks should go I,\n\nI shall for Heaven the same pains take:\n\n Now Geoffrey Barron must die.\"\n\n\n\n\"Sweet death,\" he laughed, \"that I have\n\n wooed\n\n On many a stiff field,\n\nSweet are the eyes below the hood\n\n To my glad eyes revealed!\n\nSweet death that leads us home to Christ,\n\n Whose leal man am I!\n\nAnd sweet the altar and the priest,\n\n Now Geoffrey Barron must die!\"\n\n\n\nHe kissed the Cross on his breast,\n\n Then smiled with rapt eyes\n\nAs they beheld the vision blest\n\n Of Christ in Paradise.\n\nO many die for God and the green!\n\n But never an one saw I\n\nGo out with such a bridegroom mien\n\n As Geoffrey Barron to die!\n\n----K. Tynan (Hinkson).\n\n\n\n\nFATHER GILLIGAN\n\n[Illustration: 9320]\n\n\n|The old priest Peter Gilligan\n\n Was weary night and day,\n\nFor half his flock were in their beds,\n\n Or under green sods lay.\n\n\n\nOnce while he nodded on a chair,\n\n At the moth-hour of eve,\n\nAnother poor man sent for him,\n\n And he began to grieve.\n\n\n\n\"I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,\n\n For people die and die;\"\n\nAnd after cried he, \"God forgive!\n\n My body spake, not I!\"\n\n\n\nAnd then, half-lying on the chair,\n\n He knelt, prayed, fell asleep;\n\nAnd the moth-hour went from the fields,\n\n And stars began to peep.\n\n\n\nThey slowly into millions grew,\n\n And leaves shook in the wind;\n\nAnd God covered the world with shade,\n\n And whispered to mankind.\n\n\n\nUpon the time of sparrow chirp\n\n When the moths came once more,\n\nThe old priest Peter Gilligan\n\n Stood upright on the floor.\n\n\n\n\"_Mavrone, mavrone!_ the man has died,\n\n While I slept on the chair;\"\n\nHe roused his horse out of its sleep,\n\n And rode with little care.\n\n\n\nHe rode now as he never rode,\n\n By rocky lane and fen;\n\nThe sick man's wife opened the door:\n\n \"Father! you come again!\"\n\n\n\n\"And is the poor man dead?\" he cried.\n\n \"He died an hour ago.\"\n\nThe old priest Peter Gilligan\n\n In grief swayed to and fro.\n\n\n\n\"When you were gone he turned and died,\n\n As merry as a bird.\"\n\nThe old priest Peter Gilligan\n\n He knelt him at that word.\n\n\n\n\"He who hath made the night of stars\n\n For souls who tire and bleed,\n\nSent one of His great angels down\n\n To help me in my need.\n\n\n\n\"He who is wrapped in purple robes,\n\n With planets in his care,\n\nHad pity on the least of things\n\n Asleep upon a chair.\"\n\n----W. B. Yeats.\n\n\n\n[Illustration: 0322]","title":"Popular British Ballads, Ancient and Modern, Vol. 4 (of 4)","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":39753}