{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_64260/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_64260","id":"gutenberg_64260","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64260","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Celts -- Poetry","English poetry -- Celtic authors"],"text":"THE COLLECTED WORKS OF \u201cFIONA MACLEOD\"\n\n (WILLIAM SHARP)\n\n\n I. Pharais; The Mountain Lovers.\n\n II. The Sin-Eater; The Washer of the Ford, Etc.\n\n III. The Dominion of Dreams; Under the Dark Star.\n\n IV. The Divine Adventure; Iona; Studies in Spiritual History.\n\n V. The Winged Destiny; Studies in the Spiritual History of the\n Gael.\n\n VI. The Silence of Amor; Where the Forest Murmurs.\n\n VII. Poems and Dramas.\n\n The Immortal Hour--_In paper covers._\n\n\n SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM SHARP\n\n I. Poems.\n\n II. Studies and Appreciations.\n\n III. Papers, Critical and Reminiscent.\n\n IV. Literary, Geography, and Travel Sketches.\n\n V. Vistas: The Gipsy Christ and other Prose Imaginings.\n\n\n _Uniform with above, in two volumes_\n\n A MEMOIR OF WILLIAM SHARP\n\n (FIONA MACLEOD)\n\n COMPILED BY MRS WILLIAM SHARP\n\n\n LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN\n\n\n\n\n_The Celtic\nLibrary_\n\n\n LYRA CELTICA\n\n\n\n\nFIRST EDITION 1896\n\nSECOND EDITION (_Revised and Enlarged_) 1924\n\n\n\n\n LYRA CELTICA\n\n AN ANTHOLOGY OF REPRESENTATIVE\n CELTIC POETRY\n\n EDITED BY\n E. A. SHARP AND J. MATTHAY\n\n\n _WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES_\n By WILLIAM SHARP\n\n\n ANCIENT IRISH, ALBAN, GAELIC, BRETON,\n CYMRIC, AND MODERN SCOTTISH AND\n IRISH CELTIC POETRY\n\n\n EDINBURGH: JOHN GRANT\n 31 GEORGE IV. BRIDGE\n 1924\n\n\n\n\n PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY\n OLIVER AND BOYD EDINBURGH\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n \u201c ... _a troubled Eden, rich\n In throb of heart_ ...\u201d\n\n GEORGE MEREDITH\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n PAGE\n\nINTRODUCTION xvii\n\n\nANCIENT IRISH AND SCOTTISH\n\nThe Mystery of Amergin 3\n\nThe Song of Fionn 4\n\nCredhe\u2019s Lament 5\n\nCuchullin in his Chariot 6\n\nDeirdr\u00ea\u2019s Lament for the Sons of Usnach 8\n\nThe Lament of Queen Maev 10\n\nThe March of the Fa\u00ebrie Host 12\n\nVision of a Fair Woman 13\n\nThe Fian Banners 14\n\nThe Rune of St Patrick 17\n\nColumcille cecenit 18\n\nColumcille fecit 20\n\nThe Song of Murdoch the Monk 22\n\nDomhnull Mac Fhionnlaidh: \u201cThe Aged\nBard\u2019s Wish\u201d 23\n\nOssian Sang 28\n\nFingal and Ros-crana 29\n\nThe Night-Song of the Bards 31\n\nThe Death-Song of Ossian 41\n\n\nANCIENT CORNISH\n\nThe Pool of Pilate 44, 45\n\nMerlin the Diviner 46\n\nThe Vision of Seth 47\n\n\nEARLY ARMORICAN\n\nThe Dance of the Sword 53\n\nThe Lord Nann and the Fairy 55\n\nAlain the Fox 58\n\nBran 60\n\nEARLY CYMRIC AND MEDI\u00c6VAL WELSH\n\nThe Soul 67\n\nLLYWARC\u2019H H\u00caN\n\nThe Gorwynion 68\nThe Tercets of Llywawrc\u2019h 72\n\nTALIESIN\n\nSong to the Wind 73\n\nANEURIN\n\nOdes of the Months 75\n\nDAFYDD AP GWILYM\n\nThe Summer 78\nTo the Lark 81\n\nRHYS GOCH (of ERYRI)\n\nTo the Fox 82\n\nRHYS GOCH AP RHICCART\n\nThe Song of the Thrush 83\n\n\nIRISH (MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY)\n\n\u201cA.E.\u201d\n\nSacrifice 87\nThe Great Breath 88\nMystery 89\nBy the Margin of the Great Deep 90\nThe Breath of Light 91\n\nWILLIAM ALLINGHAM\n\n\u00c6olian Harp 92\nThe Fairies 93\n\nTHOMAS BOYD\n\nTo the Lianhuan Shee 95\n\nEMILY BRONT\u00cb\n\nRemembrance 97\n\nSTOPFORD A. BROOKE\n\nThe Earth and Man 98\nSong 99\n\nJOHN K. CASEY\n\nMaire, my Girl 101\nGracie Og Machree 103\n\nGEORGE DARLEY\n\nDirge 104\n\nAUBREY DE VERE\n\nThe Little Black Rose 105\nEpitaph 106\n\nFRANCIS FAHY\n\nKilliney Far Away 107\n\nSIR SAMUEL FERGUSON\n\nCean Dubh Deelish 109\nMolly Asthore 110\nThe Fair Hills of Ireland 112\n\nALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES\n\nHerring is King 113\nThe Rose of Kenmare 115\nThe Song of the Pratee 118\nIrish Lullaby 120\n\nGERALD GRIFFIN\n\nEileen Aroon 121\n\nNORA HOPPER\n\nThe Dark Man 123\nApril in Ireland 124\nThe Wind among the Reeds 125\n\nDOUGLAS HYDE\n\nMy Grief on the Sea 126\nThe Cooleen 127\nThe Breedyeen 128\nNelly of the Top-Knots 130\nI shall not Die for Thee 132\n\nLIONEL JOHNSON\n\nThe Red Wind 133\nTo Morfydd 134\n\nDENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY\n\nA Lament 135\n\nJAMES CLARENCE MANGAN\n\nThe Fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O! 137\nDark Rosaleen 139\nThe One Mystery 142\n\nROSA MULHOLLAND\n\nThe Wild Geese 144\n\nRODEN NO\u00cbL\n\nLament for a Little Child 146\nThe Swimmer 148\nThe Dance 151\nFrom \u201cThe Water-Nymph and the Boy\u201d 152\nA Casual Song 154\nThe Pity of it 155\nThe Old 157\n\nCHARLES P. O\u2019CONOR\n\nMaura Du of Ballyshannon 158\n\nJOHN FRANCIS O\u2019DONNELL\n\nA Spinning Song 160\n\nJOHN BOYLE O\u2019REILLY\n\nA White Rose 161\n\nARTHUR O\u2019SHAUGHNESSY\n\nThe Fountain of Tears 162\n\nFANNY PARNELL\n\nAfter Death 165\n\nT. W. ROLLESTON\n\nThe Dead at Clonmacnois 166\n\nDORA SIGERSON\n\nUnknown Ideal 167\n\nGEORGE SIGERSON\n\nMo C\u00e1ilin Donn 168\n\nJOHN TODHUNTER\n\nAn Irish Love Song 170\nThe Sunburst 171\nSong 173\n\nKATHERINE TYNAN\n\nWinter Sunset 174\nShamrock Song 176\nWild Geese 178\n\nCHARLES WEEKES\n\nDreams 179\nPoppies 180\n\nW. B. YEATS\n\nThey went forth to the Battle, but they always fell 181\nThe White Birds 183\nThe Lake of Innisfree 184\n\n\nSCOTO-CELTIC (MIDDLE PERIOD)\n\nPrologue to \u201cGaul\u201d 187\n\nIn Hebrid Seas 189\n\nCumha Ghriogair Mhic Griogair 191\n\nDrowned 194\n\nALEXANDER MACDONALD\n\nThe Manning of the Birlinn 195\n\nANGUS MACKENZIE\n\nThe Lament of the Deer 201\n\nDUNCAN B\u00c0N MACINTYRE\n\nBen Dorain 203\nThe Hill-Water 208\n\nMARY MACLEOD\n\nSong for Macleod of Macleod 210\n\nMODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC\n\nMonaltri 217\n\nAn Coineachan--A Highland Lullaby 218\n\nA Boat Song 219\n\nJOHN STUART BLACKIE\n\nThe Old Soldier of the Gareloch Head 222\n\nROBERT BUCHANAN\n\nFlower of the World 224\nThe Strange Country 225\nThe Dream of the World without Death 228\nThe Fa\u00ebry Foster-Mother 235\n\nLORD BYRON\n\nWhen we Two Parted 238\nStanzas for Music 239\n\nColin\u2019s Cattle 240\n\nMacCrimmon\u2019s Lament 241\n\nIAN CAMERON\n\nSong 242\n\nJOHN DAVIDSON\n\nA Loafer 243\nIn Romney Marsh 245\n\nJEAN GLOVER\n\nO\u2019er the Muir amang the Heather 246\n\nGEORGE MACDONALD\n\nSong 247\n\nRONALD CAMPBELL MACFIE\n\nSong 249\n\nWILLIAM MACDONALD\n\nA Spring Trouble 250\n\nAMICE MACDONELL\n\nCulloden Moor 251\n\nALICE C. MACDONELL\n\nThe Weaving of the Tartan 252\n\nWILLIAM MACGILLIVRAY\n\nThe Thrush\u2019s Song 254\n\nFIONA MACLEOD\n\nThe Prayer of Women 255\nThe Rune of Age 257\nA Milking Song 259\nLullaby 261\nThe Songs of Ethlenn Stuart 262\nThe Closing Doors 264\nThe Sorrow of Delight 265\n\nNORMAN MACLEOD\n\nFarewell to Fiunary 266\n\nSARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON\n\nA Kiss of the King\u2019s Hand 267\n\nDUGALD MOORE\n\nThe First Ship 268\n\nLADY CAROLINE NAIRNE\n\nThe Land o\u2019 the Leal 269\n\nALEXANDER NICOLSON\n\nSkye 270\n\nSIR NO\u00cbL PATON\n\nMidnight by the Sea 272\nIn Shadowland 273\n\nWILLIAM RENTON\n\nMountain Twilight 274\n\nLADY JOHN SCOTT\n\nDurisdeer 275\n\nEARL OF SOUTHESK\n\nNovember\u2019s Cadence 276\n\nJOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP\n\nCailleach Bein-y-Vreich 277\n\nUNA URQUHART\n\nAn Old Tale of Three 279\n\nANON.\n\nLost Love 280\n\nCONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS\n(WALES)\n\nGEORGE MEREDITH\n\nDirge in Woods 283\nOuter and Inner 284\nNight of Frost in May 286\nHymn to Colour 289\n\nSEBASTIAN EVANS\n\nShadows 292\n\nEBENEZER JONES\n\nWhen the World is Burning 293\nThe Hand 294\n\nEMILY DAVIS\n\nA Song of Winter 296\n\nERNEST RHYS\n\nThe Night Ride 297\nThe House of Hendra 298\n\n\nCONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS\n(MANX)\n\nT. E. BROWN\n\nThe Childhood of Kitty of the Sherragh Vane 307\n\nHALL CAINE\n\nGraih my Chree 309\n\n\nCONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS\n(CORNISH)\n\nA. T. QUILLER COUCH\n\nThe Splendid Spur 317\nThe White Moth 318\n\nSTEPHEN HAWKER\n\nFeatherstone\u2019s Doom 319\nTrebarrow 320\n\nRICCARDO STEPHENS\n\nWitch Margaret 321\nA Ballad 323\nHell\u2019s Piper 325\n\nMODERN AND CONTEMPORARY BRETON\n\nThe Poor Clerk 331\n\nThe Cross by the Way 333\n\nThe Secrets of the Clerk 335\n\nLove Song 336\n\nHERV\u00c9-NO\u00cbL LE BRETON\n\nHymn to Sleep 338\nThe Burden of Lost Souls 340\n\nVILLIERS DE L\u2019ISLE-ADAM\n\nConfession 342\nDiscouragement 343\n\nLECONTE DE LISLE\n\nThe Black Panther 344\nThe Spring 346\n\nLEO-KERMORVAN\n\nThe Return of Taliesen 348\n\nLOUIS TIERCELIN\n\nBy Menec\u2019hi Shore 351\n\n\nTHE CELTIC FRINGE\n\nBLISS CARMAN\n\nSong 355\nThe War-Song of Gamelbar 356\nGolden Rowan 359\nA Sea Child 360\n\nELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON\n\nThe Quest 361\nMoth Song 362\nJune 363\n\nHUGH M\u2018CULLOCH\n\nScent o\u2019 Pines 364\n\nDUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT\n\nThe Reed-Player 365\n\nTHOMAS D\u2019ARCY M\u2018CGEE\n\nThe Celtic Cross 366\n\nMARY C. G. BYRON\n\nThe Tryst of the Night 368\n\nALICE E. GILLINGTON\n\nThe Doom-Bar 369\nThe Seven Whistlers 371\n\nSHANE LESLIE\n\nRequiem 373\n\nPADRAIC COLUM\n\nAn Old Woman of the Roads 374\nA Cradle Song 375\n\nJAMES STEPHENS\n\nThe Coolun 376\nThe Clouds 377\n\nELEANOR HULL\n\nThe Old Woman of Beare 378\n\nTHOMAS MACDONAGH\n\nFrom a \u201cLitany of Beauty\u201d 381\n\nSEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL\n\nI will go with my Father a-ploughing 383\nA Northern Love Song 384\n\nPATRICK MACGILL\n\nFairy Workers 385\n\nFRANCIS LEDWIDGE\n\nThe Shadow People 386\nMy Mother 387\n\nGORDON BOTTOMLEY\n\nLyric from \u201cThe Crier by Night\u201d 388\n\nJAMES H. COUSINS\n\nThe Quest 389\n\nPADRAIC H. PEARSE\n\nThe Fool 390\n\nLORD DUNSANY\n\nThe Return of Song 392\n\nKENNETH MACLEOD\n\nDance to your Shadow 393\nSea Longing 394\nThe Reiving Ship 395\n\nMARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER\n\nLand of Heart\u2019s Desire 396\nOssian\u2019s Midsummer Day-Dream 397\nKishmul\u2019s Galley 398\n\nAGNES MURE MACKENZIE\n\nAignish on the Machair 399\n\nNEIL MUNRO\n\nFingal\u2019s Weeping 400\n\n\nNOTES 403-450\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nIn this foreword I must deal cursorily with a great and fascinating\nsubject, for \u201cLyra Celtica\u201d has extended beyond its original limits, and\nText and Notes have absorbed much of the space which had been allotted\nfor a preliminary dissertation on the distinguishing qualities and\ncharacteristics of Celtic literature.\n\nFor most readers, the interest of an anthology is independent of any\nintroductory remarks: the appeal is in the wares, not in the running\ncommentary of the hawker. For those, however, who have looked for a\ndetailed synthesis, as well as for the Celticists who may have expected\nan ample, or, at least, a more adequately representative selection from\nthe older Celtic literatures, I have a brief word to say before passing\non to the matter in hand.\n\nIn the first place, this volume is no more than an early, and, in a\nsense, merely arbitrary, gleaning from an abundant harvest. For \u201cLyra\nCeltica\u201d is not so much the introduction to a much larger, more organic,\nand more adequately representative work, to be called \u201cAnthologia\nCeltica,\u201d but is rather the outcome of the latter, itself culled from a\nvast mass of material, ancient, medi\u00e6val, and modern. It is, moreover,\nintentionally given over mainly to modern poetry. \u201cAnthologia Celtica\u201d\nmay not appear for a year or two hence, perhaps not for several years;\nfor a systematic effort to compile a scholarly anthology, on\nchronological and comparative lines, of the ancient poetry of Irish and\nScottish Gaeldom, of the Cymric, Armorican, and other Brythonic bards,\nis a task not to be lightly undertaken, or fulfilled in anything like\nsatisfactory degree without that patience and care which only\nenthusiastic love of the subject can give, and for which the extrinsic\nreward is payable in rainbow-gold alone.\n\nIn the second place, all that was intended to be written here, will be\ngiven more fully and more systematically in a volume to be published\nlater: \u201cAn Introduction to the Study of Celtic Literature.\u201d Therein an\neffort is made to illustrate the distinguishing imaginative qualities of\nthe several Celtic races; to trace the origins, dispersion, interfusion,\nand concentration of the early Celtic, Picto-Celtic, and later Goidelic\nand Brythonic peoples, and to reflect Celtic mythop\u0153ic and authentic\nhistory through Celtic poetry and legendary lore. Concurrently there is\nan endeavour to relate, in natural order, the development of the\nliterature of contemporary Wales, Brittany, Ireland, and Celtic\nScotland, from their ancient Cymric, Armorican, Erse, and Alban-Gaelic\ncongeners.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIt is not yet thirty years ago since Matthew Arnold published his\nmemorable and beautiful essay on Celtic Literature, so superficial in\nits knowledge, it is true, but informed by so keen and fine an\ninterpretative spirit; yet already, since 1868, the writings of Celtic\nspecialists constitute quite a library.\n\nOf recent years we have had many works of the greatest value in Celtic\nethnology, philology, history, arch\u00e6ology, art, legendary ballads and\nromances, folk-lore, and literature. Of all the Celtic literatures, that\nwhich was least known, when Arnold wrote, was the Scoto-Gaelic; but now\nwith books such as Skene\u2019s \u201cCeltic Scotland,\u201d Campbell\u2019s \u201cPopular Tales\nof the West Highlands,\u201d with its invaluable supplementary matter, Dr\nCameron\u2019s \u201cReliqui\u00e6 Celtic\u00e6,\u201d and many others, there is no difficulty\nfor the would-be student. Again, it is impossible to overrate the value\nof popular books at once so able, so trustworthy, and so readily\nattainable, as Professor Rhys\u2019s \u201cCeltic Britain,\u201d or Dr Douglas Hyde\u2019s\n\u201cStory of Early Gaelic Literature\u201d; while Breton literature, ancient or\nmodern, has found almost as many, and certainly as able and\nenthusiastic, exponents as that of Wales or that of Ireland. In Ireland\nthere is, with Mr Standish Hayes O\u2019Grady, Dr Douglas Hyde, Dr Sigerson,\nand many more, quite an army of workers in every branch of Celtic\nscience and literature; in Scotland one less numerous perhaps, but not\nless ardent and justly enthusiastic; and in Wales the old Cymric spirit\nsurvives unabated, from the Butt of Anglesea to the marches of Hereford.\nIn Brittany there was, till the other day, Hersart de la Villemarqu\u00e9,\nand now there are M. de Jubainville, M. Loth, M. Anatole Le Braz, M.\nAuguste Brizeux, Charles Le Goffic, Louis Tiercelin, and many more\nphilologists and other students, poets, romancists, and critics.\nCornwall has not been neglected, nor has Man, and even the outlying\nfringe of Celtdom has found interpreters and expounders. In France the\n\u201cRevue Celtique\u201d; in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, Gaelic or Welsh or\nAnglo-Celtic periodicals and \u201cTransactions,\u201d stimulate a wider and\ndeeper interest, and do inestimable service. The writings of men such as\nRenan, De Jubainville, Valroger, and other French Celticists: of\nWindisch, Kuno Meyer, and other Germans: of English specialists such as\nMr Whitley Stokes, Mr Alfred Nutt, and others: these, together, and in\nall their different ways of approach, are, along with the writings of\nnative specialists in Ireland, Wales, and Scotland, accomplishing a work\ngreater than is now to be measured or even accurately apprehended.\n\nTo all who would know something authentic concerning the history of the\nCeltic race since its occupation of these Isles, and of a large section,\nand latterly of a corner, of Western Europe, I would recommend\nProfessor Rhys\u2019s admirable little book, \u201cCeltic Britain,\u201d a volume\nwithin the reach of all. In the Irish National Library, the volumes of\nwhich are sold at a trifling sum, may be had Dr Douglas Hyde\u2019s lucid and\nexcellent exposition of early Gaelic literature; and, among valuable\npopular contributions to Anglo-Celtic Literature, mention should be made\nof the Rev. Nigel MacNeill\u2019s \u201cLiterature of the Highlanders.\u201d These\nthree books alone, each priced at a moderate sum, will give a reader,\nhitherto ignorant of the subject, much trustworthy information on the\nhistory, ethnology, and literature of the Irish and Scottish Gael. I\nknow of no \u201cpopular\u201d book on early Welsh literature, and certainly none\nthat, in trustworthiness, has superseded Stephens\u2019s \u201cLiterature of the\nCymri.\u201d Mr Norris has introduced us to much ancient Cornish writing\nwhich it would have been a pity to let lapse uncollected: and of MM.\nVillemarqu\u00e9, De Jubainville, Valroger, Le Braz, and other Breton\nspecialists I have already spoken.\n\nIt would seem reserved for this coming century, says Dr Hyde, unless a\nvigorous, sustained, and national effort at once be made, to catch the\nlast tones of \u201cthat beautiful, unmixed Aryan language which, with the\nexception of that glorious Greek which has now renewed its youth like\nthe eagle, has left the longest, most luminous, and most consecutive\nliterary track behind it of any of the vernacular tongues of Europe.\u201d\nBut, alas, a stronger law than that which man can make or unmake, or\nnations can resolve, is slowly disintegrating the subsoil wherefrom the\nroots of the Celtic speech draw the sole nurture which can give it the\nbeauty and fragrance of life.\n\nSome idea of the vastness of the mass of the as yet untranslated Celtic\nliterature may be had from the notes in books by Dr Douglas Hyde, J. F.\nCampbell, Alfred Nutt, and other specialists. In the National Libraries\nin Great Britain alone it is estimated that, if all the inedited MSS.\nwere printed, they would fill at least twelve hundred or fourteen\nhundred octavo volumes. Those who would realise more adequately the\nextent and importance of this early literature should, besides the\nauthorities already mentioned, consult Eugene O\u2019Curry\u2019s invaluable\n\u201cManners and Customs,\u201d and in particular the section of 130 pp. devoted\nto Education and Literature in Ancient Erinn, which deals with the most\nimportant Irish-Gaelic poets from the earliest times down to the\neleventh century: the likewise invaluable \u201cMyvyrian Archaiology,\u201d which\nsets forth an imposing list of Cymric poets, with much information\nconcerning life in Ancient Wales: and books such as Campbell\u2019s \u201cLeabhar\nna F\u00e9inne,\u201d and \u201cTales of the West Highlands,\u201d MacNeill\u2019s \u201cLiterature of\nthe Highlanders,\u201d and (though for students rather than the general\nreader) the writings of Skene, Anderson, Whitley Stokes, Nutt, and many\nothers.\n\nModern Irish-Celtic literature may be said to date from O\u2019Donovan\u2019s\nsuperb redaction and amplification of \u201cThe Annals of the Four Masters,\u201d\none of the monumental achievements in world-literature, on the side of\nscholarship; and from Keating\u2019s \u201cHistory of Ireland,\u201d on the side of\npopular writing. Since O\u2019Donovan and Keating, the literary activity of\nIreland has again and again re-asserted itself, and is once more so much\nin evidence, in Celtic scholarship and in Anglo-Celtic romance and\npoetry, that the not over-ready attention of England is perforce drawn\nto it.\n\nThe contemporary Anglo-Celtic poetry of Ireland has a quality which no\nother English poetry possesses in like degree: the quality which Matthew\nArnold defined as natural magic--\u201cCeltic poetry drenched in the dew of\nnatural magic.\u201d Obviously, the lover of poetry may at once object that\nShakespere, Milton, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, are English, and Byron,\nBurns, and Scott are Scottish, and not distinctively Anglo-Celtic. Well,\nof Shakespere\u2019s ancestry we know little; and if Celtic enthusiasts\nmaintain that he must have had a strong Celtic strain in his blood,\nthey may be innocent blasphemers, but do not deserve crucifixion for\ntheir iniquity. Milton was of Welsh blood through his maternal descent;\nand Keats is a Celtic name. Keats\u2019 mother\u2019s name is Welsh of the Welsh,\nwhile his genius is as convincingly Celtic in its distinguishing\nqualities as though he were able to trace his descent from Ois\u00ecn or\nFergus Honey-Mouth of \u201cthe Fingalians.\u201d Keats, born a Cockney, is\npre-eminently a Celtic poet, by virtue of the nationality of the brain\nif for no other authentic reason; while Moore, born in Ireland of Celtic\nancestry, is the least Celtic of all modern poets of eminence. So far as\nwe know, Coleridge and Shelley are of unmixed English blood, though who\ncan say there was nothing atavistic in their genius, and that the wild\nlyricism of the one and the glamour and magic of the other were not in\npart the expression of some \u201cancestral voice\u201d?\n\nOf the three great modern Scots, it is still a debatable point if Burns\nwas not more Celtic than \u201cLowland,\u201d that is, by paternal as well as by\nmaternal descent; and it surely is almost unquestionable that, in the\ngeography of the soul, Burns\u2019 natal spot must be sought in the Fortunate\nIsles of Celtdom. Byron, of course, though far more British than\nScottish, and again more Scottish than Celtic, had a strong Celtic\nstrain in his blood; and Scott, as it happens, was of the ancient stock,\nand not \u201cthe typical Lowlander\u201d he is so often designated.[1]\n\nThe truth is, that just as in Scotland we may come upon a type which is\nunmistakably national without being either Anglo-Saxon or Celtic or\nAnglo-Celtic, but which, rightly or wrongly, we take to be Pictish (and\npossibly a survival of an older race still), so, throughout our whole\ncountry, and in Sussex and Hampshire, as well as in Connemara or Argyll,\nwe may at any moment encounter the Celtic brain in the Anglo-Saxon\nflesh. In Scotland, in particular, it may be doubted if there are many\nfamilies native to the soil who have not at least a Celtic strain.\nPeople are apt to forget that Celtic Scotland does not mean only the\nWestern Isles and the Highlands, and that the whole country was at one\ntime Celtic (Goidelic), and before that was again Celtic, when Brythonic\nor Cymric Scotland and the Dalriadic Scoto-Irish of Argyll, and the\nnorthern Picts, who were probably Gaels, or of kindred Celtic origin,\nheld the land, and sowed the human seed whence arose much of the finest\nharvest of a later Scotland.\n\nHere I may conveniently quote a significant passage from \u201cCeltic\nBritain\u201d:--\n\n\u201cThis means, from the Celtic point of view, that the Goidelic race of\nhistory is not wholly Celtic or Aryan, but inherits in part a claim to\nthe soil of these islands, derived from possession at a time when, as\nyet, no Aryan waggoner had driven into Europe; and it is, perhaps, from\ntheir Kynesian ancestry that the Irish of the present day have inherited\nthe lively humour and ready wit, which, among other characteristics,\ndistinguish them from the Celts of the Brythonic branch, most of whom,\nespecially the Kymry, are a people still more mixed, as they consist of\nthe Goidelic element of the compound nature already suggested, with an\nample mixture of Brythonic blood, introduced mostly by the Ordovices.\nAnd as to Welsh, it is, roughly speaking, the Brythonic language, as\nspoken by the Ordovices, and as learned by the Goidelic peoples they\novershadowed in the Principality of Wales. To this its four chief\ndialects still correspond, being those, respectively, of Powys, Gwent\nor Siluria, Dyved or Demetia, and Venedot or Gwynedd.\n\n\u201cSkulls are harder than consonants, and races lurk when languages slink\naway. The lineal descendants of the neolithic aborigines are ever among\nus, possibly even those of a still earlier race. On the other hand, we\ncan imagine the Kynesian impatiently hearing out the last echoes of\npal\u00e6olithic speech; we can guess dimly how the Goidel gradually silenced\nthe Kynesian; we can detect the former coming slowly round to the\nkeynote of the Brython; and, lastly, we know how the Englishman is\nengaged, linguistically speaking, in drowning the voice of both of them\nin our own day. Such, to take another metaphor, are some of the lines\none would have to draw in the somewhat confused picture we have\nsuggested of one wave of speech chasing another, and forcing it to dash\nitself into oblivion on the western confines of the Aryan world; and\nthat we should fondly dream English likely to be the last, comes only\nfrom our being unable to see into a distant future pregnant with untold\nchanges of no less grave a nature than have taken place in the dreary\nwastes of the past.\u201d\n\nTo return: among the great English and Scottish writers of to-day two\nmay be taken as examples of this brain-kinship with a race physically\nalien. Much of the poetry of Algernon Charles Swinburne is distinctively\nCeltic, particularly in its lyric fire and wonderful glow and colour, as\nwell as its epithetical luxuriance; but, indeed, this is hardly a good\ninstance after all, for Mr Swinburne\u2019s north-country ancestry is not\nwithout definite Celtic admixture. \u201cTristram of Lyonesse\u201d is, in its own\nway, as Celtic as \u201cThe Voyage of St Brendan,\u201d and with more of innate\ninevitableness than in those lovely Celtic reflections in the\nessentially English brain of Tennyson, \u201cThe Dream\u201d and \u201cThe Voyage of\nMaelduin.\u201d\n\nAs for Robert Louis Stevenson, come of Lowland stock, and, as he said\nhimself once, \u201cmade up o\u2019 Lallan dust, body and soul,\u201d there is not, so\nfar as I know, any proof that a near paternal or maternal ancestor was\nof Celtic blood. But who, that has studied his genius, can question the\nCeltic strain in him, or who believe that, though \u201cthe Lallan dust\u201d may\nhave been unadulterate for generations, the brain which conceived and\nwrought \u201cThe Merry Men\u201d and \u201cThrawn Janet\u201d was not attuned to Celtic\nmusic? There is a poem of his which seems to me typically Celtic in its\nindescribable haunting charm, its air of I know not what rare music, its\ndeep yearning emotion, and its cosmic note--\n\n \u201cIn the highlands, in the country places,\n Where the old plain men have rosy faces,\n And the young fair maidens\n Quiet eyes;\n Where essential silence cheers and blesses\n And forever in the hill-recesses\n Her more lovely music\n Broods and dies,\n\n O to mount again where erst I haunted;\n Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,\n And the low green meadows\n Bright with sward;\n And when even dies, the million tinted,\n And the night has come, and planets glinted,\n Lo, the valley hollow\n Lamp-bestarred!\n\n O to dream, O to awake and wander\n There, and with delight to take and render,\n Through the trance of silence,\n Quiet breath;\n Lo! for there, among the flowers, and grasses,\n Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;\n Only winds and rivers,\n Life and death.\u201d\n\nOf course there is a certain poignant note common to all poetry, and he\nmight be a zealous Celticist, but a poor worshipper of Apollo, who would\ntry to limit this charm of exquisite regret and longing to Celtic\npoetry. It is an unfrontiered land, this pleasant country in the\ngeography of the soul which we call Bohemia; and here all parochial and\nnational, and even racial distinctions fall away, and Firdausi and\nOis\u00ecn, Omar the Tentmaker and Colum the Saint, and all and every\n\u201cHoney-Mouth\u201d of every land and time, move in equal fellowship. Even in\none of the most haunting quatrains by any modern Anglo-Celtic poet--\n\n \u201cO wind, O mighty melancholy wind,\n Blow through me, blow!\n Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind,\n From long ago\u201d--\n\nwe must not forget the elder music of one who is among the truest of the\npoets of Nature whom the world has seen: though neither in brain nor, so\nfar as we know, in blood, had Wordsworth any kinship with the Celt--the\nmusic \u201cOf old, unhappy, far-off things.\u201d\n\nBy a natural association, \u201cOssian\u201d comes to mind. It is pleasant to\nthink that a book like \u201cLyra Celtica\u201d appears just at the centenary of\nJames Macpherson. Macpherson died in 1796, but long before his death his\nreputed \u201cOssian\u201d had become one of the most vital influences in\nliterature. This is not the occasion to go into the \u201cOssian\u201d dispute. It\nmust suffice to say that the concensus of qualified opinion decides--(1)\nThat Macpherson\u2019s \u201cOssian\u201d is not a genuine rendering of ancient\noriginals; (2) that he worked incoherently upon a genuine but\nunsystematised, unsifted, and fragmentary basis, without which, however,\nhe could have achieved nothing; (3) that inherent evidence disproves\nMacpherson\u2019s sole or even main authorship as well as \u201cOssian\u2019s,\u201d and\nthat he was at most no more than a skilful artificer; (4) that, if he\nwere the sole author, he would be one of the few poetic creators of the\nfirst rank, and worthy of all possible honour; (5) that no single work\nin our literature has had so wide-reaching, so potent, and so enduring\nan influence.\n\nMuch of the tragic gloom, of which \u201cOssian\u201d is a true mirror, colours\neven contemporary Scoto-Celtic poetry; and though in Gaelic there is\nmuch humorous verse, and much poetry of a blithe, bright, and even\njoyous nature, the dominant characteristic is that of gloom, the gloom\nof unavailing regret, of mournful longing, a lament for what cannot be\nagain. True, in a Gaelic poem by Mary Mackellar, a contemporary Highland\npoet, we hear of\n\n Spioraid aosmhoir t\u00ecr nan G\u00e0idheal,\n Ciod an diugh a\u2019s f\u00e0th do \u2019n gh\u00e0irich\n \u2019Dh\u00f9isg thu comhdaichte le aighear,\n As an uaigh \u2019s an robh thu\u2019d \u2019chadal?\n\n (Spirit of the Gaelic earth\n Wherefore is this mirth unwonted\n That hath waked thee from the tomb,\n And to triumph turned thy gloom?)--\n\nbut, alas! that fine line, \u201cSpioraid aosmhoir t\u00ecr nan G\u00e0idheal\u201d is not\nan invocation to the Gaelic muse to arouse herself to a new and blither\nmusic, but is simply part of some congratulatory lines of a \u201cWelcome to\nthe Marquis of Lorne on his union with the Princess Louise\u201d![2]\n\nThe \u201cSpirit of the Gaelic earth\u201d does not make for mirth, as a rule, at\nleast in the Highlands, save in verse of a frankly Bacchanalian or\nsatiric kind.\n\nIn this, there is a marked contrast with the Irish-Gaelic, whose muse\nis laughter-loving though ever with \u201cdewy dark eyes.\u201d\n\nIf, however, the blithe and delightful peasant poetry of Mr Alfred\nPercival Graves, and that so beautifully translated and paraphrased by\nDr Douglas Hyde, be characteristically Irish, so also is such typically\nCeltic poetry as this lyric by the latest Irish singer, Miss Moira\nO\u2019Neill--\n\n\n\u201cSEA WRACK.\u201d\n\n The wrack was dark an\u2019 shiny where it floated in the sea,\n There was no room in the brown boat but only him an\u2019 me;\n Him to cut the sea wrack--me to mind the boat,\n An\u2019 not a word between us the hours we were afloat.\n The wet wrack,\n The sea wrack,\n The wrack was strong to cut.\n\n We laid it on the grey rocks to wither in the sun;\n An\u2019 what should call my lad then to sail from Cushendun?\n With a low moon, a full tide, a swell upon the deep,\n Him to sail the old boat--me to fall asleep.\n The dry wrack,\n The sea wrack,\n The wrack was dead so soon.\n\n There\u2019s a fire low upon the rocks to burn the wrack to kelp;\n There\u2019s a boat gone down upon the Moyle, an\u2019 sorra one to help.\n Him beneath the salt sea--me upon the shore--\n By sunlight or moonlight we\u2019ll lift the wrack no more.\n The dark wrack,\n The sea wrack,\n The wrack may drift ashore.\n\nWhen we come to examine the literature of the four great divisions of\nthe Celtic race, a vast survey lies before us, with innumerable vistas.\nA lifetime might well be given to the study of any one of the ancient\nErse, Alban-Gaelic, Cymric, and Armorican literatures: a lifetime that\nwould yet have to leave much undiscovered, much unrelated. There is room\nfor every student. In old Irish literature alone, though so many\nenthusiasts are now working towards its greater elucidation and the\ntransference of the better part of it into Anglo-Celtic literature,\nthere remain whole tracts, and even regions, of unexploited land. In a\nscore of ways, pioneers have been clearing the ground for us:\nphilologists like Windisch, Loth, Kuno Meyer, Whitley Stokes; literary\nscholars like S. Hayes O\u2019Grady, Campbell of Islay, Cameron of Brodick,\nDr Douglas Hyde; folklorists innumerable, in Scotland, Wales, and\nIreland; romancists like Standish O\u2019Grady, who write across the angle of\nthe historic imagination, and romancists like W. B. Yeats, who write\nacross the angle of the poetic imagination; and poets, an ever-growing\nband of sweet singers, who catch for us the fugitive airs, the exquisite\nfleeting cadences, the haunting, indefinable music of an earlier day.\n\nFrom Ireland the Neo-Celtic Renascence has extended through Gaeldom. The\nconcurrent Welsh development may be independent of this Irish influence,\nand probably is: largely because the poetic imagination of the Cymri of\nto-day was stirred from within, by the stimulus to the national genius\nthrough the world-wide attention drawn by the publication of the\n\u201cMabinogion,\u201d as in turn the Gaelic imagination was stirred by the\nincalculable influence of \u201cOssian\u201d--an influence so great, so deep, so\nwide-reaching, that, as already said, were Macpherson to be proved the\nsole author, were it convincingly demonstrable that he was, not a more\nor less confused and unscholarly interpreter, but himself a creator,\nhimself \u201cOssian,\u201d he would deserve to rank with the three or four great\nancients and moderns who have dug, deep and wide, new channels for the\nsurging flow of human thought. Possibly, at any rate, this may prove to\nbe one good reason for the independence of the Welsh development from\nany Irish stimulus--an impulse from within always being more potent and\nenduring than one from without; but, fundamentally, this independence is\ndue to an organic difference. In a word, the Celtic genius is broadly\ndivisible, even at this day, into two great sections: the Goidelic and\nthe Brythonic or Cymric--let us say, is represented by the Welsh Celt\nand the Gaelic Celt. Those readers or students who approach the\nliterature of either, ancient or modern, but particularly the latter,\nand expect to find identity both of sentiment and in method of\nexpression, will ultimately be as disappointed as one who should, with\nthe same idea, approach Spanish and Portuguese, or Dutch and German, or\nProven\u00e7al and French. In every respect, save that of ancient kinship,\nthe Welsh and the Gaels differ materially. There is, perhaps, more\nlikeness between the Highlander and the Welshman than between the latter\nand the Irishman; but even here the distinctions are considerable, and\nthe Gaelic islesman of Barra or Uist is as different a creature from the\nnative of Glamorgan or Caermarthen as though no racial cousinship united\nthem. But, in the instance of Welsh and Irish, the unlikeness is so\nmarked that the best analogue is that of the Frenchman and the German.\nThe Irish are the French of the Celtic races, the Welsh the Germans. The\ntwo people are distinct in their outer and inner life as well as in\ntheir literature; and for a Connaught man or a Hebridean to go through\nWales would be as foreign an experience as for a Welshman to find\nhimself among the Catholic islesmen of South Uist, or among the moorside\nvillages of Connemara.\n\nTo-day the Gael and Cymri are foreigners. Strangely enough, the section\nof the Celtic race most akin to the Welsh is the Manx--a Goidelic\npeople, and with a Gaelic dialect. The Gael himself, however, does not\nstand out distinctly. Although there is a far greater likeness between\nthe Scoto-Celt and the Irish-Celt than between either and the Welshman,\nthere are traits which unmistakably distinguish them. In Ireland itself,\nthe Celt of the south-east and south differs in more respects than mere\ndialect from his kinsman by the Connaught shore or of the hills of\nConnemara; as, in Scotland, there is a marked distinction between the\n\u201cTuathach\u201d (North Highlander) and the \u201cDeasach\u201d (the South and West\nHighlander). A Farquharson or a Gordon from Aberdeenshire has to shake\nhands across the arms of many a Mackenzie and Macgregor, many a Cameron\nand Macpherson, before he can link in brotherly grip with a MacNeill of\nBarra, a Macdonald of Skye, a Macleod of the Lewis. These distinctions,\nof course, are in their nature parochial rather than racial; but they\nare highly indicative of a fundamental weakness in the Celtic nature,\nand suggest a cogent reason for the failure of the race to cohere into\none compact and indispersable nation, as the central Teutonic races\nmerged into \u201cGermany,\u201d as Gauls, Normans, and Proven\u00e7als merged into\n\u201cFrance,\u201d and as the Brythons, the Teutonic outlanders (Frisians,\nAngles, Jutes, &c.), Saxons, Danes, Normans, and Anglo-Celts merged into\n\u201cEngland,\u201d and, later, into \u201cGreat Britain,\u201d into the \u201cBritish Empire.\u201d\n\nThe most marked Celtic national homogeneity is to be found in Wales.\nWales has ever persisted, and still persists in her moat and her\ndrawbridge. In the preservation of her language is her safeguard.\nWithout Welsh, Wales would be as English as Cumberland or Cornwall. In\nthis way only, knit indissolubly to the flank of England as she is, and\nwithout any natural eastern frontier of mountain range or sea, can she\nisolate herself; and I am convinced that herein we have one main reason\nfor the passionate attachment of the Cymri of to-day to their ancient\nlanguage--an attachment as strong among the unlettered as among ardent\nscholars, and even among those who have no heed for the beauty of\ntraditional literature or, indeed, heed of any kind other than for the\nnarrow personal interests of domesticity.\n\nBut this very isolation of Wales, through her language, has, no doubt,\ninterfered materially with the development of her Anglo-Celtic\nliterature. Contrasted with that of Ireland or that of Scotland, how\nastonishingly meagre it is. All Ireland is aflame with song; Scotland is\nagain becoming the land of old romance. Here and there are a few\nwriters, a poet-romancist like Mr Ernest Rhys, a poet like the late\nEmily Davis, a few novelists who are Welsh by the accident of birth\nrather than by the nationality of the brain. For, of course, Mr George\nMeredith stands so far above all localisation of this kind that it would\nbe out of place to rank him merely as the head of contemporary Wales. He\nis the foremost Anglo-Celtic voice of to-day; so emphatically foremost,\nby the distinguishing qualities of his genius, that if to-morrow he were\nproved to be come of a stock of long unmixed Saxon ancestry never\ndissociated from that southern country of which he is by birth a native,\nwe should be justified in abiding by the far more significant and\nimportant lineage of the brain.\n\nBut this great exception apart, the difference alluded to is\nextraordinary. Wales is so animated by national enthusiasms, pride, and\nincalculable hereditary uplift, that her silence--in English, that\nis--can hardly be accounted for away from the supposition that, in\nclosing her ears against English, she has also set her lips against\nutterance in that tongue.\n\nThe Scoto-Celtic writers of to-day, both in prose and poetry, have\nproduced more Anglo-Celtic literature than Wales has done since the\nbeginning of the century, and with a range, a vitality, a beauty, far\nbeyond anything that has come forth from modern Cymru; and Ireland,\nagain, in poetry at any rate, has given us even more than Scotland.\n\nThe Celtic Renascence, of which so much has been written of late--that\nis, the re-birth of the Celtic genius in the brain of Anglo-Celtic poets\nand the brotherhood of dreamers--is, fundamentally, the outcome of\n\u201cOssian,\u201d and, immediately, of the rising of the sap in the Irish\nnation.\n\nOf the immense and never yet approximately defined Irish-Celtic\ninfluence in literature a fine and true word has been said by one of the\nablest of the Irish fellowship; and I would strongly urge every reader\nto obtain Mr Stopford Brooke\u2019s admirable and stimulating little essay\n\u201cOn the Need and Use of getting Irish Literature into the English\nTongue.\u201d[3] With its conclusion, every lover of English poetry and\nromance will agree.\n\n\u201cWhen we have got the old [Celtic] legendary tales rendered into fine\nprose and verse, I believe we shall open out English poetry to a new and\nexciting world, an immense range of subjects, entirely fresh and full of\ninspiration. Therefore, as I said, get them out into English, and then\nwe may bring England and [Celtdom] into a union which never can suffer\nseparation, and send another imaginative force on earth which may (like\nArthur\u2019s tale) create Poetry for another thousand years.\u201d\n\nThese are inspiring words, and should find an eager response.\n\nMore and more we may hope that the beautiful poetry of Ireland, ancient\nand modern, with its incommunicable charm and exquisite spontaneity;\nthat the strange, elemental, sombre imagination of the West Highlander\nand of the Gael of the Isles; and that the vivid spell of the old Welsh\nbards, will, before long, become a still greater, a still more\nregenerating, and a lasting force and influence in our English\nliterature.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the Notes I have something to say concerning each of the many ancient\nand modern writers drawn upon for this representative anthology, so need\nnot here enter into further detail of the kind.\n\nObviously, it would be impossible to make a work of this nature as\nwelcome to the Celtic scholar as to the general reader. No one in the\nleast degree acquainted with ancient Gaelic and Cymric literature could\nfail to note how merely superficial this section of \u201cLyra Celtica\u201d is.\nTherefore, let me again aver that this anthology has been compiled, not\nfor the specialist, but for the lover of poetry; and to serve, for the\nmany who have no knowledge of \u201cAnglo-Celtic\u201d as distinct from\n\u201cAnglo-Saxon\u201d poetry, as a small Pisgah whence to gain a glimpse into a\nstrange and beautiful land, a land wherein, as in a certain design by\nWilliam Blake, the sun, the moon, and the morning star all shine\ntogether, and where the horizons are spanned by fugitive rainbows ever\nmarvellously dissolving and more marvellously re-forming.\n\nThe effort of the Editor has been to give, not always the finest or most\nunquestionably authentic examples of early Celtic poetry, but the most\ncharacteristic. Thus only could some idea be conveyed of the physiognomy\nof this ancient literature.\n\nIn the first section, that representative of Early Gaelic, a long period\nof time is covered. A whole heroic age lies between that strange\npantheistic utterance of Amergin, who is now accepted as the earliest\nErse poet of whom we have authentic record, and the hymns of Columba:\nand the quaint \u201cShaving Hymn\u201d of Murdoch the Monk, though it precedes\nthe Ossianic fragments, relates to a much nearer period of history than\nthey do. Of these Ossianic fragments, it is not needful to say more here\nthan that, in their actual form, they are no more genuinely old than,\nfor example, are many of the lovely fantasias on old themes by modern\nIrish poets. They are, at most, fundamentally ancient, and are given\nhere on this plea, and not as the translations of Macpherson. The day is\ngone when the stupid outcry against Macpherson\u2019s \u201cOssian,\u201d as no more\nthan a gigantic fraud, finds a response among lovers of literature. We\nall know, now, that Macpherson\u2019s \u201cOssian\u201d is not a genuine translation\nof authentic =Dana Ois\u00ecn mhic Fhionn=, but, for all its great and enduring\nbeauty, a clumsily-constructed, self-contradictory, and sometimes\ngrotesquely impossible rendering of disconnected, fugitive, and, for the\nmost part, oral lore. Of the genuineness of this legendary lore there is\nno longer any doubt in the minds of those native and alien students, who\nalone are qualified to pronounce a definite verdict on this long\ndisputed point. It would have been easy to select other Ossianic\nfragments; but as, in this anthology, the spirit and not the letter was\neverything, it was considered advisable to make as apt a compromise with\nMacpherson\u2019s \u201cOssian\u201d as practicable. Ancient poetry of the nature of\npieces such as \u201cThe Song of Fionn\u201d (page 4) convey little to the\nordinary reader, not only on account of their puzzling allusions to\nevents and persons of whom the Englishman is not likely to have heard,\nor from the strangeness of their style, as because of the remoteness of\nthe underlying sentiment and mental standpoint. And of this there can be\nno question: that the ancient poetry, the antique spirit, breathes\nthroughout this eighteenth-century restoration, and gives it enduring\nlife, charm, and all the spell of cosmic imagination. It may well be,\nindeed, that the literary historian has another signal discovery to\nmake, and, in definitively dissociating Ois\u00ecn of the F\u00e9inn and Ossian of\nBadenoch, prove convincingly that James Macpherson was not even the\nauthor (of the greater part at any rate) of the matter that has been\ninterpolated into the original, inchoate, traditional bardic lore.\n\nHowever much or little appeal \u201cOssian\u201d may have for English readers of\nto-day, there can surely be no doubt that all who have the spirit of\npoetry must recognise the charm of the ancient Celtic imagination in\ncompositions such as \u201cCredhe\u2019s Lament\u201d (page 5). This lovely haunting\nlament, from the \u201cBook of Lismore,\u201d comes in its English form from that\ninvaluable work of Mr S. Hayes O\u2019Grady, \u201cSilva Gadelica.\u201d Of how much\nCeltic poetry, modern as well as ancient, is not this, though variously\nexpressed, the refrain: \u201cMelodious is the crane, and O melodious is the\ncrane, in the marshlands of Druim-d\u00e1-thr\u00e9n! \u2019tis she that may not save\nher brood alive!\u201d\n\nFor the remarkable continuity of both expression and sentiment which\ncharacterises Celtic poetry, ancient and modern, let the student turn,\nfor example, to the most famous Gaelic poem in Scotland to-day, Duncan\nB\u00e0n Macintyre\u2019s \u201cBen Dorain,\u201d and compare it with this \u201cLay of Arran\u201d by\nCaeilte, the Ossianic bard--Arran, no longer Arran of the many stags,\nbut still one of the loveliest of the Scottish isles, and touched on\nevery headland and hill with the sunset glamour of the past.\n\n\nCAEILTE--LAY OF ARRAN.[4]\n\n \u201cArran of the many stags--the sea impinges on her very shoulders!\n an island in which whole companies were fed--and with ridges among\n which blue spears were reddened! Skittish deer are on her\n pinnacles, soft blackberries upon her waving heather; cool water\n there is upon her rivers, and mast upon her russet oaks! Greyhounds\n there were in her, and beagles; blaeberries and sloes of the\n blackthorn; dwellings with their backs set close against her woods,\n and the deer fed scattered by her oaken thickets! A crimson crop\n grew on her rocks, in all her glades a faultless grass; over her\n crags affording friendly refuge, leaping went on and fawns were\n skipping! Smooth were her level spots--her wild swine they were\n fat; cheerful her fields (this is a tale that may be credited), her\n nuts hung on her forest hazel\u2019s boughs, and there was sailing of\n long galleys past her! Right pleasant their condition all when the\n fair weather sets in: under her rivers\u2019 brinks trouts lie; the\n sea-gulls wheeling round her grand cliff answer one the other--at\n every fitting time delectable is Arran!\u201d\n\nAgain, most readers will be able to apprehend the delight of the\nbarbaric outlook in compositions such as \u201cCuchullin in His Chariot,\u201d\nwhich has been excerpted from Hector MacLean\u2019s \u201cUltonian Hero Ballads\u201d;\nor the fantastic beauty of \u201cThe March of the Faerie Host,\u201d as rendered\nby Prof. Kuno Meyer after the original in \u201cThe Book of Lismore\u201d; or the\nlovely portrait of a beautiful woman, by a Highland poet of old, the\n\u201cAisling air Dhreach Mna; or, Vision of a Fair Woman.\u201d Possibly, too,\neven Celtic scholars may not be displeased to read here English metrical\nparaphrases, such as Sir Samuel Ferguson\u2019s \u201cLament of Deirdr\u00ea for the\nSons of Usnach,\u201d[5] or Mr T. W. Rolleston\u2019s haunting \u201cThe Lament of\nQueen Maev\u201d; or, again, in dubiously authentic fragments such as \u201cFingal\nand Ros-crana,\u201d to have an opportunity to trace the \u201cinner self\u201d of many\na familiar ballad or legend.\n\nThe Breton section, also, is represented equally slightly, though\nperhaps not inadequately, all things considered. \u201cThe Dance of the\nSword\u201d is, probably, fundamentally one of the most ancient of Celtic\nbardic utterances. In the modern selection, it will be a surprise to\nmany readers to encounter names so familiar to lovers of French poetry\nas Leconte de Lisle and Villiers de l\u2019Isle-Adam. There are many\ncontemporary Breton poets of distinction, but it was feasible to select\nno more than one or two. Auguste Brizeux and Charles Le Goffic may be\ntaken as typical exemplars of the historically re-creative and the\nindividually impressionistic methods. Unfortunately neither is\nrepresented here. It was desirable to select at least one poet who still\nuses the old Armorican tongue; but in my translation from\nLeo-Kermorvan\u2019s \u201cTaliesen\u201d (as again in that of Tiercelin\u2019s \u201cBy Menec\u2019hi\nShore\u201d), I have not attempted a rhymed version, as in the original, or\nin the French version published in the \u201cAnthologie.\u201d There are very few\ntranslators who can be faithful both to the sound and sense, in the\nattempt concurrently to reproduce identity of form, music, and\nsubstance; and, as a rule, therefore, rhythmic prose, or an unrhymed\nmetrical version, is likely to prove more interesting as well as more\ntruly interpretative.\n\nOut of the rich garth of ancient and medi\u00e6val Welsh poetry, the Editor\nhas culled only a few blossoms. They contain, at least, something of\nthat lyric love of Nature which is so distinctively Celtic, and is the\nchief charm of the poetic literature of Wales. It is earnestly to be\nhoped that some poet-scholar will give us before long, in English, an\nanthology of the best contemporary Welsh poetry.\n\nOf living poets who write in Gaelic, there are more in Scotland than in\nIreland. The Hebrides have been a nest of singers, since Mary Macleod\ndown to the youngest of the Uist poets of to-day; and though there is\nnot at present any Alexander Macdonald or Duncan B\u00e0n Macintyre, there\nare many singers who have a sweet and fine note, and many writers whose\npoems have beauty, grace, and distinction. Perhaps the last fine product\nof the pseudo-antique school is the \u201cSean D\u00e0na\u201d[6] of Dr John Smith,\nlate in the last century; but occasionally there occurs in our own day a\nnoteworthy instance of the re-telling of the old tales in the old way.\nIn \u201cThe Celtic Monthly,\u201d and other periodicals, much good Gaelic verse\nis to be found, and it is no exaggeration to say that at this moment\nthere are more than a hundred Gaelic singers in Western Scotland whose\npoetry is as fresh and winsome, and, in point of form as well as\nsubstance, as beautiful, as any that is being produced throughout the\nrest of the realm. The Gaelic Muse has also found a home in Canada, and\nit is interesting to note that one of the longest of recent Gaelic poems\nwas written by a Highlander in far-away Burmah.\n\n\u201cThe Highlander\u201d (and in this and the following passage I quote the\nwords of Professor Mackinnon, from his Inaugural Address on his\nsuccession to the Celtic Chair at Edinburgh University) \u201cThe Highlander\nmay be truly described as the child of music and song. For many a long\nyear his language is the language, for the most part, of the uneducated\nclasses. And yet, amid surroundings which too often are but mean and\nwretched, without the advantages of education beyond what his native\nglen supplied, he has contrived to enliven his lot by the cultivation of\nsuch literature as the local bards, the traditions of the clan, and the\npopular tales of the district supplied. He has attempted, not\nunsuccessfully, to live not for the day and hour alone, but, in a true\nsense, to live the life of the spirit! He has produced a mass of lyric\npoetry which, in rhythmical flow, purity of sentiment, and beauty of\nexpression, can compare favourably with the literature of more powerful\nand more highly-civilised communities.\n\n\u201cIn the highest efforts of Gaelic literature, in the prose of Norman\nMacleod, in the masterpieces of the lyric poets, in the \u201cSean D\u00e0na\u201d of\nDr Smith, and above all, in the poems of Ossian, whether composed by\nJames Macpherson or the son of Fingal, the intellect of the Scottish\nCelt, in its various moods and qualities, finds its deepest and fullest\nexpression. Here we have humour, pathos, passion, vehemence, a rush of\nfeeling and emotion not always under restraint, and apt to run into\nexaggeration and hyperbole--characteristics which enter largely into the\nmental and spiritual organisation of the people. But above and beneath\nall these, there is a touch of melancholy, a \u2018cry of the weary,\u2019\npervading the spirit of the Celt. Ossian gives expression to this\nsentiment in the touching line which Matthew Arnold, the most\nsympathetic and penetrating critic of the Celtic imagination, with the\ntrue instinct of genius, prefixes to his charming volume, \u2018On the Study\nof Celtic Literature\u2019:\n\n \u201c\u2018They went forth to the war, but they always fell.\u2019\u201d\n\nProfessor Mackinnon goes on to adduce a familiar legend, which may again\nbe quoted, for we are all now waiting for that longed-for blast which\nshall arouse the spell-bound trance wherein sleeps \u201cAnima Celtica.\u201d The\n=F\u00e9inn=, he says, were laid spell-bound in a cave which no man knew of. At\nthe mouth of the cave hung a horn, which if ever any man should come and\nblow three times, the spell would be broken, and the =F\u00e9inn= would arise,\nalive and well. A hunter, one day wandering in the mist, came on this\ncave, saw the horn, and knew what it meant. He looked in and saw the\n=F\u00e9inn= lying asleep all round the cave. He lifted the horn and blew one\nblast. He looked in again, and saw that the =F\u00e9inn= had wakened, but lay\nstill with their eyes staring, like those of dead men. He took the horn\nagain, blew another blast, and instantly the =F\u00e9inn= all moved, each\nresting on his elbow. Terrified at their aspect, the hunter turned and\nfled homewards. He told what he had seen, and, accompanied by friends,\nwent to search for the cave. They could not find it; it has never again\nbeen found; and so there still sit, each resting on his elbow, waiting\nfor the final blast to rouse them into life, the spell-bound heroes of\nthe old Celtic world.\n\nOf the modern and larger section of \u201cLyra Celtica\u201d I need say little\nhere. To avoid confusion, the Editor has refrained from representing\npoets whose \u201cCeltic strain\u201d is more or less obviously disputable; hence\nthe wise ignoring of the claims even of Scott and Burns. Byron was more\nCeltic in blood than in brain, and is represented really by virtue of\nthis accidental kinship.\n\nIreland, Scotland, Wales, Man, Cornwall, and Brittany are all more or\nless adequately represented; and among the poets are some whose voices\nwill be new to most readers. One or two writers, also, have been drawn\nupon as representatives of the distinctively Anglo-Celtic section of\nEngland. Finally, \u201cgreater Gaeldom\u201d--the realm of the Irish and Scottish\nGaels in the United States, Canada, and Australasia--is also\nrepresented; and one, at any rate, of these outlanders is a poet who has\nwon distinction on both sides of the Atlantic.\n\nIf it be advisable to select one poet, still \u201cwith a future,\u201d as\npre-eminently representative of the Celtic genius of to-day, I think\nthere can be little doubt that W. B. Yeats\u2019 name is that which would\noccur first to most lovers of contemporary poetry. He has grace of touch\nand distinction of form beyond any of the younger poets of Great\nBritain, and there is throughout his work a haunting beauty, and a\nhaunting sense of beauty everywhere perceived with joy and longing, that\nmake its appeal irresistible for those who feel it at all. He is equally\nhappy whether he deals with antique or with contemporary themes, and in\nalmost every poem he has written there is that exquisite remoteness,\nthat dream-like music, and that transporting charm which Matthew Arnold\nheld to be one of the primary tests of poetry, and, in particular, of\nCeltic poetry.\n\nAs an example of Mr Yeats\u2019 narrative method, with legendary themes, I\nmay quote this from his beautiful \u201cWanderings of Ois\u00ecn\u201d (rather\naffectedly and quite needlessly altered to =Usheen= in the latest\nversion)--\n\n \u201cFled foam underneath us, and round us a wandering and milky smoke,\n High as the saddle-girth, covering away from our glances the tide;\n And those that fled, and that followed, from the foampale distance broke;\n The immortal desire of immortals we saw in their faces, and sighed.\n\n I mused on the chase with the Fenians, and Bran, Sgeolan, Lomair,\n And never a song sang Neave, and over my fingertips\n Came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist-cold hair,\n And now the warmth of sighs, and after the quiver of lips.\n\n Were we days long or hours long in riding, when rolled in a grisly peace,\n An isle lay level before us, with dripping hazel and oak?\n And we stood on a sea\u2019s edge we saw not; for whiter than new washed fleece\n Fled foam underneath us, and round us a wandering and milky smoke.\n\n And we rode on the plains of the sea\u2019s edge--the sea\u2019s edge\n barren and gray,\n Gray sands on the green of the grasses and over the dripping trees,\n Dripping and doubling landward, as though they would hasten away\n Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan of the seas.\n\n But the trees grew taller and closer, immense in their wrinkling bark;\n Dropping--a murmurous dropping--old silence and that one sound;\n For no live creatures lived there, no weasels moved in the dark--\n Long sighs arose in our spirits, beneath us bubbled the ground.\n\n And the ears of the horse went sinking away in the hollow night,\n For, as drift from a sailor slow drowning the gleams of the\n world and the sun,\n Ceased on our hands and our faces, on hazel and oak leaf, the light,\n And the stars were blotted above us, and the whole of the world was one.\u201d\n\nOften, too, there occur in his verse new and striking imagery, as in the\nsuperb epithetical value of the fourth line in the concluding stanza of\n\u201cThe Madness of King Goll,\u201d one of the most beautiful of his poems--\n\n \u201cAnd now I wander in the woods\n When summer gluts the golden bees,\n Or in autumnal solitudes\n Arise the leopard-coloured trees;\n Or when along the wintry strands\n The cormorants shiver on their rocks;\n I wander on, and wave my hands,\n And sing, and shake my heavy locks.\n The gray wolf knows me; by one ear\n I lead along the woodland deer;\n The hares ran by me growing bold.\n =They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me,\n the beech leaves old.=\u201d\n\nIndeed, through all his work, \u201cThey will not hush; the leaves a-flutter,\nthe beech leaves old\u201d--the mystic leaves of life, touched by the wind of\nold romance. We can imagine him hearing often that fairy lure which his\n\u201cStolen Child\u201d listed and yielded to--\n\n \u201cCome away, O human child!\n To the waters and the wild\n With a fairy, hand in hand,\n For the world\u2019s more full of weeping than you can understand.\u201d\n\nFor him always there is the Beauty of Beauty, the Passion of Passion:\nthe \u201cRose of the World.\u201d\n\n\n \u201cWho dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?\n For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,\n Mournful that no new wonder may betide,\n Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,\n And Usna\u2019s children died.\n\n We and the labouring world are passing by:\n Amid men\u2019s souls, that waver and give place,\n Like the pale waters in their wintry race,\n Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,\n Lives on this lonely face.\u201d\n\nIt is the lonely face that haunts the dreams of poets of all races and\nages: that \u201cLady Beauty\u201d enthroned\n\n \u201cUnder the arch of life, where love and death,\n Terror and mystery, guard her shrine....\u201d\n\nThe vision of which we follow--\n\n \u201cHow passionately, and irretrievably,\n In what fond flight, how many ways and days!\u201d\n\nAnd of all races, none has so worshipped the \u201cRose of the World\u201d as has\nthe Celt.\n\n\u201cNo other human tribe,\u201d says Renan, \u201chas carried so much mystery into\nlove. No other has conceived with more delicacy the ideal of woman, nor\nbeen more dominated by her. It is a kind of intoxication, a madness, a\ngiddiness. Read the strange =mabinogi= of \u2018P\u00e9r\u00e9dur,\u2019 or its French\nimitation, \u2018Parceval le Gallois\u2019; these pages are dewy, so to say, with\nfeminine sentiment. Woman appears there as a sort of vague vision\nintermediate between man and the supernatural world. There is no other\nliterature which offers anything analogous to this. Compare Guinevere\nand Iseult to those Scandinavian furies Gudruna and Chrimhilde, and you\nwill acknowledge that woman, as chivalry conceived her--that ideal of\nsweetness and beauty set up as the supreme object of life--is a\ncreation neither classic, Christian, nor Germanic, but in reality\nCeltic.\u201d\n\nAnd having quoted from Ernest Renan, himself one of the greatest of\nmodern Celts, and a Celt in brain and genius as well as by blood, race,\nand birth, let me interpolate here a paraphrase of some words of his in\nthat essay on \u201cLa Poesie de la Race Celtique,\u201d which was to intellectual\nFrance what Matthew Arnold\u2019s essay was to intellectual England.\n\nIf, he says, the eminence of races should be estimated according to the\npurity of their blood and inviolability of national character, there\ncould be none able to dispute supremacy with the Celtic race. Never has\nhuman family lived more isolated from the world, nor less affected by\nforeign admixture.\n\nRestricted by conquest to forgotten isles and peninsulas, the Celtic\nrace has habitually striven to oppose an impassable barrier to all alien\ninfluences. It has ever trusted in itself, and in itself alone, and has\ndrawn its mental and spiritual nurture from its own resources.\n\nHence that powerful individuality, that hatred of the stranger, which up\nto our day has formed the essential characteristic of the Celtic\npeoples. The civilisation of Rome hardly reached them, and left among\nthem but few traces. The Germanic invasion flowed back on them, but it\ndid not affect them at all. At the present hour they still resist an\ninvasion, dangerous in quite another way, that of modern civilisation,\nso destructive of local varieties and national types. Ireland in\nparticular (and there, perhaps, is the secret of her irremediable\nweakness) is the sole country of Europe where the native can produce\nauthentic documents of his remote unbroken lineage, and designate with\ncertainty, up to pre-historic ages, the race from which he sprang.\n\nOne does not enough reflect on how strange it is that an ancient race\nshould continue down to our day, and almost under our eyes, in some\nislands and peninsulas of the West, its own life, more and more diverted\nfrom it, it is true, by the noise from without, but still faithful to\nits language, its memories, its ideals, and its genius. We are\nespecially apt to forget that this small race, contracted now to the\nextreme confines of Europe, in the midst of those rocks and mountains\nwhere its enemies have driven it, is in possession of a literature,\nwhich in the Middle Ages exerted an immense influence, changed the\ncurrent of European imagination, and imposed upon almost the whole of\nChristianity its poetical motifs. It is, however, only necessary to open\nauthentic monuments of Celtic genius to convince oneself that the race\nwhich created these has had its own original method of thought and\nfeeling; and that nowhere does the eternal illusion dress itself in more\nseductive colours. In the grand concert of the human species, no family\nequals this, for penetrating voices which go to the heart. Alas! if it,\nalso, is condemned to disappear, this fading glory of the West! Arthur\nwill not return to his enchanted isle, and Saint Patrick was right in\nsaying to Ossian: \u201cThe heroes whom you mourn are dead; can they live\nagain?\u201d\n\nA strange melancholy characterises the genius of the Celtic race. For\nall the blithe songs and happy abandon of so many Irish singers, the\nIrish themselves have given us the most poignant, the most\nhauntingly-sad lyric cries in all modern literature. Renan fully\nrecognises this, and how, even in the heroic age, the melancholy of\ninappeasible regret, of insatiable longing, is as obvious as in our own\nday, when spiritual weariness is as an added crown of thorns. Whence\ncomes this sadness, he asks? Take the songs of the sixth century bards;\nthey mourn more defeats than they sing victories. The history of the\nCeltic race itself is but a long complaint, the lament of exiles, the\ngrief of despairing flights beyond the seas. If occasionally it seems to\nmake merry, a tear ever lurks behind the smile; it rarely knows that\nsingular forgetfulness of the human state and of its destinies which is\ncalled gaiety. But, if its songs of joy end in elegies, nothing equals\nthe delicious sadness of these national melodies.\n\nNevertheless, concludes the most famous of modern Breton writers, we are\nstill far from believing that the Celtic race has said its last word.\nAfter having exercised all the godly and worldly chivalries, sought with\nP\u00e9r\u00e9dur the Holy Graal and the Beautiful, dreamed with Saint Brandan of\nmystical Atlantides, who knows what the Celtic genius would produce in\nthe domain of the intelligence if it should embolden itself to make its\nentrance into the world, and if it subjected its rich and profound\nnature to the conditions of modern thought? Few races have had a\npoetical infancy as complete as the Celtic--mythology, lyricism, epic,\nromanesque imagination, religious enthusiasm, nothing have they lacked.\nWhy should philosophic thought be lacking? Germany, which had begun by\nscience and criticism, has finished with poetry; why should not the\nCeltic races, which began with poetry, not end with a new and vivid\ncriticism of actual life as it now is? It is not so far from the one to\nthe other as we are apt to suppose; the poetical races are the\nphilosophical races, and philosophy is at bottom but a manner of poetry\nlike any other. When one thinks that Germany fronted, less than a\ncentury ago, the revelation of its genius; that everywhere national\nidiosyncrasies, which seemed effaced, have suddenly risen again in our\nday more alive than ever, one is persuaded that it is rash to set a law\nfor the discontinuances and awakenings of races. Modern civilisation,\nwhich seemed made to absorb them, may, perhaps, be but the forcing-house\nfor a new and more superb efflorescence.\n\nNo, it is no \u201cdisastrous end\u201d: whether the Celtic peoples be slowly\nperishing or are spreading innumerable fibres of life towards a richer\nand fuller, if a less national and distinctive existence. From Renan,\nthe high priest of the Breton faith, to the latest of his kindred of the\nGael, there is a strange new uprising of hope. It is realised that the\nDream is nigh dreamed: and then ...\n\n \u201cTill the soil--bid cities rise--\n Be strong, O Celt--be rich, be wise--\n But still, with those divine grave eyes,\n Respect the realm of Mysteries.\u201d\n\nLet me conclude, then, in the words of the most recent of those many\neager young Celtic writers whose songs and romances are charming the now\nintent mind of the Anglo-Saxon. \u201cA doomed and passing race. Yes, but not\nwholly so. The Celt has at last reached his horizon. There is no shore\nbeyond. He knows it. This has been the burden of his song since Malvina\nled the blind Ois\u00ecn to his grave by the sea. \u2018Even the Children of Light\nmust go down into darkness.\u2019 But this apparition of a passing race is no\nmore than the fulfilment of a glorious resurrection before our very\neyes. For the genius of the Celtic race stands out now with averted\ntorch, and the light of it is a glory before the eyes, and the flame of\nit is blown into the hearts of the mightier conquering people. The Celt\nfalls, but his spirit rises in the heart and the brain of the\nAnglo-Celtic peoples, with whom are the destinies of the generations to\ncome.\u201d\n\n WILLIAM SHARP.\n\n _Read these faint runes of Mystery,_\n _O Celt, at home and o\u2019er the sea;_\n _The bond is loosed--the poor are free--_\n _The world\u2019s great future rests with thee!_\n\n _Till the soil--bid cities rise--_\n _Be strong, O Celt--be rich, be wise--_\n _But still, with those divine grave eyes,_\n _Respect the realm of Mysteries._\n _The Book of Orm._\n\n\n\n\n I\n\n ANCIENT IRISH\n AND SCOTTISH\n\n\n\n\nThe Mystery of Amergin.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE]\n\n I am the wind which breathes upon the sea,\n I am the wave of the ocean,\n I am the murmur of the billows,\n I am the ox of the seven combats,\n I am the vulture upon the rocks,\n I am a beam of the sun,\n I am the fairest of plants,\n I am a wild boar in valour,\n I am a salmon in the water,\n I am a lake in the plain,\n I am a word of science,\n I am the point of the lance of battle,\n I am the God who creates in the head [i.e. of man]\n the fire [i.e. the thought].\n Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain?\n Who announces the ages of the moon [If not I]?\n Who teaches the place where couches the sun [If not I]?\n\n\n\n\nThe Song of Fionn.\n\n\n May-day, delightful time! How beautiful the colour!\n The blackbirds sing their full lay. Would that L\u00e6g were here!\n The cuckoos sing in constant strains. How welcome is the noble\n Brilliance of the seasons ever! On the margin of the branching woods\n The summer swallows skim the stream: the swift horses seek the pool:\n The heather spreads out her long hair: the weak fair bog-down grows.\n Sudden consternation attacks the signs; the planets, in\n their courses running, exert an influence:\n The sea is lulled to rest, flowers cover the earth.\n\n\n\n\nCredhe\u2019s Lament.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE]\n\nThe haven roars, and O the haven roars, over the rushing race of\n=Rinn-d\u00e1-bharc=! the drowning of the warrior of loch d\u00e1 chonn, that is\nwhat the wave impinging on the strand laments. Melodious is the crane,\nand O melodious is the crane, in the marshlands of =Druim-d\u00e1-thr\u00e9n=! \u2019tis\nshe that may not save her brood alive: the wild dog of two colours is\nintent upon her nestlings. A woeful note, and O a woeful note, is that\nwhich the thrush in Drumqueen emits! but not more cheerful is the wail\nthat the blackbird makes in Letterlee. A woeful sound, and O a woeful\nsound, is that the deer utters in Drumdaleish! dead lies the doe of\n=Druim Silenn=: the mighty stag bells after her. Sore suffering to me, and\nO suffering sore, is the hero\u2019s death--his death, that used to lie with\nme!... Sore suffering to me is Cael, and O Cael is a suffering sore,\nthat by my side he is in dead man\u2019s form! That the wave should have\nswept over his white body--that is what hath distracted me, so great was\nhis delightfulness. A dismal roar, and O a dismal roar, is that the\nshore-surf makes upon the strand! seeing that the same hath drowned the\ncomely noble man, to me it is an affliction that Cael ever sought to\nencounter it. A woeful booming, and O a boom of woe, is that which the\nwave makes upon the northward beach! beating as it does against the\npolished rock, lamenting for Cael, now that he is gone. A woeful fight,\nand O a fight of woe, is that the wave wages against the southern shore!\nAs for me my span is determined!... A woeful melody, and O a melody of\nwoe, is that which the heavy surge of Tullachleish emits! As for me: the\ncalamity that is fallen upon me having shattered me, for me prosperity\nexists no more. Since now Crimthann\u2019s son is drowned, one that I may\nlove after him there is not in being. Many a chief is fallen by his\nhand, and in the battle his shield never uttered outcry!\n\n\n\n\nCuchullin in his Chariot.\n\n\n\u201cWhat is the cause of thy journey or thy story?\u201d\n\n The cause of my journey and my story\n The men of Erin, yonder, as we see them,\n Coming towards you on the plain.\n The chariot on which is the fold, figured and cerulean,\n Which is made strongly, handy, solid;\n Where were active, and where were vigorous;\n And where were full-wise, the noble hearted folk;\n In the prolific, faithful city;--\n Fine, hard, stone-bedecked, well-shafted;\n Four large-chested horses in that splendid chariot;\n Comely, frolicsome.\n\n\n\u201cWhat do we see in that chariot?\u201d\n\n The white-bellied, white-haired, small-eared,\n Thin-sided, thin-hoofed, horse-large, steed-large horses;\n With fine, shining, polished bridles;\n Like a gem; or like red sparkling fire;--\n Like the motion of a fawn, wounded;\n Like the rustling of a loud wind in winter;--\n Coming to you in that chariot.--\n\n\n\u201cWhat do we see in that chariot?\u201d\n\n We see in that chariot,\n The strong, broad-chested, nimble, gray horses,--\n So mighty, so broad-chested, so fleet, so choice;--\n Which would wrench the sea skerries from the rocks.--\n The lively, shielded, powerful horses;--\n So mettlesome, so active, so clear-shining;--\n Like the talon of an eagle \u2019gainst a fierce beast;\n Which are called the beautiful Large-Gray--\n The fond, large =Meactroigh=.\n\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE]\n\n\n\u201cWhat do we see in that chariot?\u201d\n\n We see in that chariot,\n The horses; which are white-headed, white-hoofed, slender-legged,\n Fine-haired, sturdy, imperious;\n Satin-bannered, wide-chested;\n Small-aged, small-haired, small-eared;\n Large-hearted, large-shaped, large-nostriled;\n Slender-waisted, long-bodied,--and they are foal-like;\n Handsome, playful, brilliant, wild-leaping;\n Which are called the =Dubh=-=Seimhlinn=.\n\n\n\u201cWho sits in that chariot?\u201d\n\n He who sits in that chariot,\n Is the warrior, able, powerful, well-worded,\n Polished, brilliant, very graceful.--\n There are seven sights on his eye;\n And we think that that is good vision to him;\n There are six bony, fat fingers,\n On each hand that comes from his shoulder;\n There are seven kinds of fair hair on his head;--\n Brown hair next his head\u2019s skin,\n And smooth red hair over that;\n And fair-yellow hair, of the colour of gold;\n And clasps on the top, holding it fast;--\n Whose name is Cuchullin, =Seimh=-=suailte=,\n Son of Aodh, son of Agh, son of other Aodh.--\n His face is like red sparkles;--\n Fast-moving on the plain like mountain fleet-mist;\n Or like the speed of a hill hind;\n Or like a hare on rented level ground.--\n It was a frequent step--a fast step--a joyful step;--\n The horses coming towards us:--\n Like snow hewing the slopes;--\n The panting and the snorting,\n Of the horses coming towards thee.\n\n\n\n\nDeirdr\u00ea\u2019s Lament for the Sons of Usnach\n\n\n The lions of the hill are gone,\n And I am left alone--alone--\n Dig the grave both wide and deep,\n For I am sick, and fain would sleep!\n\n The falcons of the wood are flown,\n And I am left alone--alone--\n Dig the grave both deep and wide,\n And let us slumber side by side.\n\n The dragons of the rock are sleeping,\n Sleep that wakes not for our weeping--\n Dig the grave, and make it ready,\n Lay me on my true-love\u2019s body.\n\n Lay their spears and bucklers bright\n By the warriors\u2019 sides aright;\n Many a day the three before me\n On their link\u00e8d bucklers bore me.\n\n Lay upon the low grave floor,\n \u2019Neath each head, the blue claymore;\n Many a time the noble three\n Reddened their blue blades for me.\n\n Lay the collars, as is meet,\n Of the greyhounds at their feet;\n Many a time for me have they\n Brought the tall red deer to bay.\n\n In the falcon\u2019s jesses throw,\n Hook and arrow, line and bow;\n Never again, by stream or plain,\n Shall the gentle woodsmen go.\n\n Sweet companions, were ye ever--\n Harsh to me, your sister, never;\n\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE]\n\n Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,\n Were with you as good\u2019s a palace.\n\n O, to hear my true-love singing,\n Sweet as sounds of trumpets ringing;\n Like the sway of ocean swelling\n Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.\n\n O! to hear the echoes pealing\n Round our green and fairy shealing,\n When the three, with soaring chorus,\n Passed the silent skylark o\u2019er us.\n\n Echo now, sleep, morn and even--\n Lark alone enchant the heaven!\n Ardan\u2019s lips are scant of breath,\n Neesa\u2019s tongue is cold in death.\n\n Stag, exult on glen and mountain--\n Salmon, leap from loch to fountain--\n Heron, in the free air warm ye--\n Usnach\u2019s sons no more will harm ye!\n\n Erin\u2019s stay no more you are,\n Rulers of the ridge of war;\n Never more \u2019twill be your fate\n To keep the beam of battle straight!\n\n Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,\n Traitors false and tyrants strong,\n Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,\n For Barach\u2019s feast and Conor\u2019s gold!\n\n Woe to Eman, roof and wall!\n Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!--\n Tenfold woe and black dishonour\n To the foul and false Clan Conor!\n\n Dig the grave both wide and deep,\n Sick I am, and fain would sleep!\n Dig the grave and make it ready,\n Lay me on my true-love\u2019s body.\n\n\n\n\nThe Lament of Queen Maev.\n\n\n Raise the Cromlech high!\n Mac Moghcorb is slain,\n And other men\u2019s renown\n Has leave to live again.\n\n Cold at last he lies\n \u2019Neath the burial stone.\n All the blood he shed\n Could not save his own.\n\n Stately, strong he went,\n Through his nobles all,\n When we paced together\n Up the banquet-hall.\n\n Dazzling white as lime,\n Was his body fair,\n Cherry-red his cheeks,\n Raven-black his hair.\n\n Razor-sharp his spear,\n And the shield he bore,\n High as champion\u2019s head--\n His arm was like an oar.\n\n Never aught but truth\n Spake my noble king;\n Valour all his trust\n In all his warfaring.\n\n As the fork\u00e8d pole\n Holds the roof-tree\u2019s weight,\n So my hero\u2019s arm\n Held the battle straight.\n\n Terror went before him,\n Death behind his back,\n Well the wolves of Erinn\n Knew his chariot\u2019s track.\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE]\n\n Seven bloody battles\n He broke upon his foes,\n In each a hundred heroes\n Fell beneath his blows.\n\n Once he fought at Fossud,\n Thrice at Ath-finn-fail.\n \u2019Twas my king that conquered\n At bloody Ath-an-Sca\u00ecl.\n\n At the Boundary Stream\n Fought the Royal Hound,\n And for Bernas battle\n Stands his name renowned.\n\n Here he fought with Leinster--\n Last of all his frays--\n On the Hill of Cucorb\u2019s Fate\n High his Cromlech raise.\n\n\n\n\nThe March of the Faerie Host.\n\n\n In well-devised battle array,\n Ahead of their fair chieftain\n They march amidst blue spears,\n White curly-headed bands.\n\n They scatter the battalions of the foe,\n They ravage every land I have attacked,\n Splendidly they march to combat\n An impetuous, distinguished, avenging host!\n\n No wonder though their strength be great:\n Sons of kings and queens are one and all.\n On all their heads are\n Beautiful golden-yellow manes:\n\n With smooth, comely bodies,\n With bright blue-starred eyes,\n With pure crystal teeth,\n With thin red lips:\n\n Good they are at man-slaying.\n\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT ERSE]\n\n\n\n\nVision of a Fair Woman.\n\n(Aisling air Dhreach Mna.)\n\n\n Tell us some of the charms of the stars:\n Close and well set were her ivory teeth;\n White as the canna upon the moor\n Was her bosom the tartan bright beneath.\n\n Her well-rounded forehead shone\n Soft and fair as the mountain-snow;\n Her two breasts were heaving full;\n To them did the hearts of heroes flow.\n\n Her lips were ruddier than the rose;\n Tender and tunefully sweet her tongue;\n White as the foam adown her side\n Her delicate fingers extended hung.\n\n Smooth as the dusky down of the elk\n Appeared her shady eyebrows to me;\n Lovely her cheeks were, like berries red;\n From every guile she was wholly free.\n\n Her countenance looked like the gentle buds\n Unfolding their beauty in early spring;\n Her yellow locks like the gold-browed hills;\n And her eyes like the radiance the sunbeams bring.\n\n\n\n\nThe Fian Banners.\n\n\n The Norland King stood on the height\n And scanned the rolling sea;\n He proudly eyed his gallant ships\n That rode triumphantly.\n\n And then he looked where lay his camp,\n Along the rocky coast,\n And where were seen the heroes brave\n Of Lochlin\u2019s famous host.\n\n Then to the land he turn\u2019d, and there\n A fierce-like hero came;\n Above him was a flag of gold,\n That waved and shone like flame.\n\n \u201cSweet bard,\u201d thus spoke the Norland King,\n \u201cWhat banner comes in sight?\n The valiant chief that leads the host,\n Who is that man of might?\u201d\n\n \u201cThat,\u201d said the bard, \u201cis young MacDoon,\n His is that banner bright;\n When forth the F\u00e9inn to battle go,\n He\u2019s foremost in the fight.\u201d\n\n \u201cSweet bard, another comes; I see\n A blood-red banner toss\u2019d\n Above a mighty hero\u2019s head\n Who waves it o\u2019er a host?\u201d\n\n \u201cThat banner,\u201d quoth the bard, \u201cbelongs\n To good and valiant Rayne;\n Beneath it feet are bathed in blood\n And heads are cleft in twain.\u201d\n\n \u201cSweet bard, what banner now I see\n A leader fierce and strong\n Behind it moves with heroes brave\n Who furious round him throng?\u201d\n\n \u201cThat is the banner of Great Gaul:\n That silken shred of gold,\n Is first to march and last to turn,\n And flight ne\u2019er stained its fold.\u201d\n\n \u201cSweet bard, another now I see,\n High o\u2019er a host it glows,\n Tell whether it has ever shone\n O\u2019er fields of slaughtered foes?\u201d\n\n \u201cThat gory flag is Cailt\u2019s,\u201d quoth he,\n \u201cIt proudly peers in sight;\n It won its fame on many a field\n In fierce and bloody fight.\u201d\n\n \u201cSweet bard, another still I see;\n A host it flutters o\u2019er;\n Like bird above the roaring surge\n That laves the storm-swept shore.\u201d\n\n \u201cThe Broom of Peril,\u201d quoth the bard,\n \u201cYoung Oscur\u2019s banner, see:\n Amidst the conflict of dread chiefs\n The proudest name has he.\u201d\n\n The banner of great Fionn we raised;\n The Sunbeam gleaming far,\n With golden spangles of renown\n From many a field of war.\n\n The flag was fastened to its staff\n With nine strong chains of gold,\n With nine times nine chiefs for each chain;\n Before it foes oft rolled.\n\n \u201cRedeem your pledge to me,\u201d said Fionn;\n \u201cAnd show your deeds of might\n To Lochlin as you did before\n In many a gory fight.\u201d\n\n Like torrents from the mountain heights\n That roll resistless on;\n So down upon the foe we rushed,\n And victory won.\n\n[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC]\n\n\n\n\nThe Rune of St Patrick.\n\n\u201cThe Faedh Fiada\u201d; or, \u201cThe Cry of the Deer.\u201d\n\n\n At Tara to-day in this fateful hour\n I place all Heaven with its power,\n And the sun with its brightness,\n And the snow with its whiteness,\n And fire with all the strength it hath,\n And lightning with its rapid wrath,\n And the winds with their swiftness along their path,\n And the sea with its deepness,\n And the rocks with their steepness,\n And the earth with its starkness:\n All these I place,\n By God\u2019s almighty help and grace,\n Between myself and the powers of darkness.\n\n\n\n\nColumcille cecenit.\n\n\n O, Son of my God, what a pride, what a pleasure\n To plough the blue sea!\n The waves of the fountain of deluge to measure\n Dear Eir\u00e9 to thee.\n\n We are rounding Moy-n-Olurg, we sweep by its head, and\n We plunge through Loch Foyle,\n Whose swans could enchant with their music the dead, and\n Make pleasure of toil.\n\n The host of the gulls come with joyous commotion\n And screaming and sport,\n I welcome my own \u201cDewy-Red\u201d from the ocean\n Arriving in port.[7]\n\n O Eir\u00e9, were wealth my desire, what a wealth were\n To gain far from thee,\n In the land of the stranger, but there even health were\n A sickness to me!\n\n Alas for the voyage O high King of Heaven\n Enjoined upon me,\n For that I on the red plain of bloody Cooldrevin\n Was present to see.\n\n How happy the son is of Dima; no sorrow\n For him is designed,\n He is having, this hour, round his own hill in Durrow\n The wish of his mind.\n\n The sounds of the winds in the elms, like the strings of\n A harp being played,\n The note of the blackbird that claps with the wings of\n Delight in the glade.\n\n[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC]\n\n With him in Ros-Grencha the cattle are lowing\n At earliest dawn,\n On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooing\n And doves in the lawn.\n\n Three things am I leaving behind me, the very\n Most dear that I know,\n Tir-Leedach I\u2019m leaving, and Durrow and Derry,\n Alas, I must go!\n\n Yet my visit and feasting with Comgall have eased me\n At Cainneach\u2019s right hand,\n And all but thy government, Eir\u00e9, has pleased me,\n Thou waterfall land.\n\n\n\n\nColumcille fecit.\n\n\n Delightful would it be to me to be in Uchd Ailiun\n On the pinnacle of a rock,\n That I might often see\n The face of the ocean;\n That I might see its heaving waves\n Over the wide ocean,\n When they chant music to their Father\n Upon the world\u2019s course;\n That I might see its level sparkling strand,\n It would be no cause of sorrow;\n That I might hear the song of the wonderful birds,\n Source of happiness;\n That I might hear the thunder of the crowding waves\n Upon the rocks;\n That I might hear the roar by the side of the church\n Of the surrounding sea;\n That I might see its noble flocks\n Over the watery ocean;\n That I might see the sea-monsters,\n The greatest of all wonders;\n That I might see its ebb and flood\n In their career;\n That my mystical name might be, I say,\n =Cul ri Erin=;[8]\n That contrition might come upon my heart\n Upon looking at her;\n That I might bewail my evils all,\n Though it were difficult to compute them;\n That I might bless the Lord\n Who conserves all,\n Heaven with its countless bright orders,\n Land, strand and flood;\n That I might search the books all,\n That would be good for my soul;\n At times kneeling to beloved Heaven;\n At times psalm singing;\n At times contemplating the King of Heaven,\n Holy the chief;\n At times at work without compulsion,\n This would be delightful.\n At times plucking duilisc from the rocks;\n At times at fishing;\n At times giving food to the poor;\n At times in a =carcair=:[9]\n The best advice in the presence of God\n To me has been vouchsafed.\n The King whose servant I am will not let\n Anything deceive me.\n\n\n\n\nThe Song of Murdoch the Monk.\n\n\n Murdoch, whet thy knife, that we may shave our crowns to the Great King.\n Let us sweetly give our vow, and the hair of both our\n heads to the Trinity.\n I will shave mine to Mary; this is the doing of a true heart:\n To Mary shave thou these locks, well-formed, soft-eyed man.\n Seldom hast thou had, handsome man, a knife on thy hair to shave it;\n Oftener has a sweet, soft queen comb\u2019d her hair beside thee.\n Whenever it was that we did bathe, with Brian of the well-curled locks,\n And once on a time that I did bathe at the well of the\n fair-haired Boroimhe,\n I strove in swimming with Ua Chais, on the cold waters of the Fergus.\n When he came ashore from the stream, Ua Chais and I strove in a race:\n These two knives, one to each, were given us by Duncan Cairbreach;\n No knives were better: shave gently then, Murdoch.\n Whet your sword, Cathal, which wins the fertile Banva;\n Ne\u2019er was thy wrath heard without fighting, brave, red-handed Cathal.\n Preserve our shaved heads from cold and from heat, gentle\n daughter of Iodehim,\n Preserve us in the land of heat, softest branch of Mary.\n\n[Sidenote: DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH]\n\n\n\n\nThe Aged Bard\u2019s Wish.\n\n(Miann a\u2019 Bhaird Aosda.)\n\n\n O, lay me by the gentle stream\n Which glides with stealing course;\n Lay my head beneath the shady boughs,\n And thou, O sun, be mild upon my rest.\n\n There, in the flowery grass,\n Where the breeze sighs softly on the bank,\n My feet shall be bathed with the dew\n When it falls on the silent vale.\n\n There, on my lone green heap,\n The primrose and the daisy shall bloom over my head,\n And the wild bright star of St John\n Shall bend beside my cheek.\n\n Above, on the steeps of the glen,\n Green flowering boughs shall spread,\n And sweet, from the still grey craigs,\n The birds shall pour their songs.\n\n There, from the ivied craig,\n The gushing spring shall flow,\n And the son of the rock shall repeat\n The murmur of its fall.\n\n The hinds shall call around my bed;\n The hill shall answer to their voice,\n When a thousand shall descend on the field,\n And feed around my rest.\n\n The calves shall sport beside me\n By the stream of the level plain,\n And the little kids, weary of their strife,\n Shall sleep beneath my arm.\n\n Far in the gentle breeze\n The stag cries on the field;\n The herds answer on the hill,\n And descend to meet the sound.\n\n I hear the steps of the hunter!\n His whistling darts--his dog upon the hill.\n The joy of youth returns to my cheek\n At the sound of the coming chase!\n\n My strength returns at the sounds of the wood;\n The cry of hounds--the thrill of strings.\n Hark! the death-shout--\u201c=The deer has fallen!=\u201d\n I spring to life on the hill!\n\n I see the bounding dog,\n My companion on the heath;\n The beloved hill of our chase,\n The echoing craig of woods.\n\n I see the sheltering cave\n Which often received us from the night,\n When the glowing tree and the joyful cup\n Revived us with their cheer.\n\n Glad was the smoking feast of deer,\n Our drink was from Loch Treig, our music its hum of waves;\n Though ghosts shrieked on the echoing hills,\n Sweet was our rest in the cave.\n\n I see the mighty mountain,\n Chief of a thousand hills;\n The dream of deer is in its locks,\n Its head is the bed of clouds.\n\n I see the ridge of hinds, the steep of the sloping glen,\n The wood of cuckoos at its foot,\n The blue height of a thousand pines,\n Of wolves, and roes, and elks.\n\n[Sidenote: DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH]\n\n Like the breeze on the lake of firs\n The little ducks skim on the pool,\n At its head is the strath of pines,\n The red rowan bends on its bank.\n\n There, on the gliding wave,\n The fair swan spreads her wing,\n The broad white wing which never fails\n When she soars amidst the clouds.\n\n Far wandering over ocean\n She seeks the cold dwelling of seals,\n Where no sail bends the mast,\n Nor prow divides the wave.\n\n Come to the woody hills\n With the lament of thy love;\n Return, O swan, from the isle of waves,\n And sing from thy course on high.\n\n Raise thy mournful song--\n Pour the sad tale of thy grief;\n The son of the rock shall hear the sound,\n And repeat thy strain of woe.\n\n Spread thy wing over ocean,\n Mount up on the strength of the winds;\n Pleasant to my ear is thy sound,\n The song of thy wounded heart.\n\n O youth! thou who hast departed,\n And left my grey and helpless hairs,\n What land has heard on its winds\n Thy cry come o\u2019er its rocks?\n\n Are the tears in thy eye, O maiden?\n Thou of the lovely brow and lily hand;\n Brightness be around thee for ever!\n Thou shalt return no more from the narrow bed!\n\n Tell me, O winds! since now I see them not,\n Where grow the murmuring reeds?\n The reeds which sigh where rest the trout\n On their still transparent fins.\n\n O raise and bear me on your hands,\n Lay my head beneath the young boughs,\n That their shade may veil my eyes\n When the sun shall rise on high.\n\n And thou, O gentle sleep!\n Whose course is with the stars of night;\n Be near with thy dreams of song\n To bring back my days of joy.\n\n My soul beholds the maid!\n In the shade of the mighty oak,\n Her white hand beneath her golden hair,\n Her soft eye on her beloved.\n\n He is near--but she is silent,\n His beating heart is lost in song,\n Their souls beam from their eyes--\n Deer stand on the hill!\n\n The song has ceased!--\n Their bosoms meet;--\n Like the young and stainless rose\n Her lips are pressed to his!--\n\n Blessed be that commune sweet!\n Recalling the joy which returns no more--\n Blessed be thy soul, my love!\n Thou maid with the bright flowing locks.\n\n Hast thou forsaken me, O dream!\n Once more return again!\n Alas! thou art gone, and I am sad--\n Bless thee, my love--farewell!\n\n[Sidenote: DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH]\n\n Friends of my youth, farewell!\n Farewell, ye maids of love!\n I see you now no more--with you is summer still,\n With me--the winter night!\n\n O lay me by the roaring fall,\n By the sound of the murmuring craig,\n Let the cruit and the shell be near,\n And the shield of my father\u2019s wars.\n\n O breeze of Ocean come,\n With the sound of thy gentle course,\n Raise me on thy wings, O wind,\n And bear me to the isle of rest;\n\n Where the heroes of old are gone,\n To the sleep which shall wake no more\n Open the hall of Ossian and Daol--\n The night is come--the bard departs!\n\n Behold my dim grey mist!--\n I go to the dwelling of bards on the hill!\n Give me the airy cruit and shell for the way--\n And now--my own loved cruit and shell--farewell!\n\n\n\n\nOssian Sang.\n\n\n Sweet is the voice in the land of gold,\n And sweeter the music of birds that soar,\n When the cry of the heron is heard on the wold,\n And the waves break softly on Bundatrore.\n\n Down floats on the murmuring of the breeze\n The call of the cuckoo from Cossahun,\n The blackbird is warbling among the trees,\n And soft is the kiss of the warming sun.\n\n The cry of the eagle of Assaroe\n O\u2019er the court of Mac Morne to me is sweet,\n And sweet is the cry of the bird below\n Where the wave and the wind and the tall cliff meet.\n\n Finn mac Cool is the father of me,\n Whom seven battalions of Fenians fear:\n When he launches his hounds on the open lea\n Grand is their cry as they rouse the deer.\n\n[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC]\n\n\n\n\nFingal and Ros-crana.\n\n\nROS-CRANA.\n\nBy night, came a dream to Ros-crana! I feel my beating soul. No vision\nof the forms of the dead came to the blue eyes of Erin. But, rising from\nthe wave of the north, I beheld him bright in his locks. I beheld the\nson of the king. My beating soul is high. I laid my head down in night:\nagain ascended the form. Why delayest thou thy coming, young rider of\nstormy waves!\n\nBut, there, far-distant, he comes; where seas roll their green ridges in\nmist! Young dweller of my soul; why dost thou delay----\n\n\nFINGAL.\n\nIt was the soft voice of Moi-lena! the pleasant breeze of the valley of\nroes! But why dost thou hide thee in shades? Young love of heroes, rise.\nAre not thy steps covered with light? In thy groves thou appearest,\nRos-crana, like the sun in the gathering of clouds. Why dost thou hide\nthee in shades? Young love of heroes, rise.\n\n\nROS-CRANA.\n\nMy fluttering soul is high! Let me turn from steps of the king. He has\nheard my secret voice, and shall my blue eyes roll in his presence? Roe\nof the hill of moss, toward thy dwelling I move. Meet me, ye breezes of\nMora! as I move through the valley of the winds. But why should he\nascend his ocean? Son of heroes, my soul is thine! my steps shall not\nmove to the desert; the light of Ros-crana is here.\n\n\nFINGAL.\n\nIt was the light tread of a ghost, the fair dweller of eddying winds.\nWhy deceivest thou me with thy voice? Here let me rest in shades.\nShouldst thou stretch thy white arm from thy grove, thou sunbeam of\nCormac of Erin----\n\n\nROS-CRANA.\n\nHe is gone; and my blue eyes are dim; faint-rolling, in all my tears.\nBut, there, I behold him, alone; king of Selma, my soul is thine. Ah me!\nwhat clanging of armour! Colc-ulla of Atha is near!\n\n[Sidenote: OLD GAELIC]\n\n\n\n\nThe Night-Song of the Bards.\n\n[Five bards passing the night in the house of a chief, who was a poet\nhimself, went severally to make their observations on, and returned with\nan extempore description of, night.]\n\n\nFIRST BARD.\n\nNight is dull and dark. The clouds rest on the hills. No star with green\ntrembling beam; no moon looks from the sky. I hear the blast in the\nwood, but I hear it distant far. The stream of the valley murmurs; but\nits murmur is sullen and sad. From the tree at the grave of the dead the\nlong-howling owl is heard. I see a dim form on the plain! It is a ghost!\nit fades, it flies. Some funeral shall pass this way: the meteor marks\nthe path.\n\nThe distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill. The stag lies on\nthe mountain moss: the hind is at his side. She hears the wind in his\nbranchy horns. She starts, but lies again.\n\nThe roe is in the cleft of the rock; the heath-cock\u2019s head is beneath\nhis wing. No beast, no bird is abroad, but the owl and the howling fox:\nshe on a leafless tree; he in a cloud on the hill.\n\nDark, panting, trembling, sad, the traveller has lost his way. Through\nshrubs, through thorns, he goes, along the gurgling rill. He fears the\nrock and the fen. He fears the ghost of night. The old tree groans to\nthe blast; the falling branch resounds. The wind drives the withered\nburrs, clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread of a\nghost! He trembles amidst the night.\n\nDark, dusky, howling, is night, cloudy, windy, and full of ghosts! The\ndead are abroad! my friends, receive me from the night.\n\n\nSECOND BARD.\n\nThe wind is up, the shower descends. The spirit of the mountain shrieks.\nWoods fall from high. Windows flap.[10] The growing river roars. The\ntraveller attempts the ford. Hark! that shriek! he dies! The storm\ndrives the horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble\nas drives the shower, beside the shouldering bank.\n\nThe hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut; he wakes the fire\ndecayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills the chinks with heath.\nLoud roar two mountain streams which meet beside his booth.[11]\n\nSad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits. The tree resounds\nabove him. The stream roars down the rock. He waits for the rising moon\nto guide him to his home.\n\nGhosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their voice between the\nsqualls of wind. Their songs are of other worlds.\n\nThe rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar, and windows flap.\nCold drops fall from the roof. I see the starry sky. But the shower\ngathers again. The west is gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal;\nreceive me, my friends, from night.\n\n\nTHIRD BARD.\n\nThe wind still sounds between the hills, and whistles through the grass\nof the rock. The firs fall from their place. The turfy hut is torn. The\nclouds, divided, fly over the sky, and show the burning stars. The\nmeteor, token of death! flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on\nthe hill. I see the withered fern, the dark-browed rock, the fallen oak.\nWho is that in his shroud beneath the tree, by the stream?\n\nThe waves dark-tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky sides. The boat is\nbrimful in the cove; the oars on the rocking tide. A maid sits sad\nbeside the rock, and eyes the rolling stream. Her lover promised to\ncome. She saw his boat, when yet it was light, on the lake. Is this his\nbroken boat on the shore? Are these his groans on the wind?\n\nHark! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow descends. The tops of the\nhills are white. The stormy winds abate. Various is the night and cold;\nreceive me, my friends, from night.\n\n\nFOURTH BARD.\n\nNight is calm and fair; blue, starry, settled is night. The winds, with\nthe clouds, are gone. They sink behind the hill. The moon is up on the\nmountain. Trees glister, streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the\nsettled lake; bright the stream of the vale.\n\nI see the trees overturned; the shocks of corn on the plain. The wakeful\nhind rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on the distant field.\n\nCalm, settled, fair is night! Who comes from the place of the dead? That\nform with the robe of snow, white arms, and dark-brown hair! It is the\ndaughter of the chief of the people: she that lately fell! Come, let us\nview thee, O maid! Thou that hast been the delight of heroes! The blast\ndrives the phantom away; white, without form, it ascends the hill.\n\nThe breezes drive the blue mist, slowly, over the narrow vale. It rises\non the hill, and joins its head to heaven. Night is settled, calm, blue,\nstarry, bright with the moon. Receive me not, my friends, for lovely is\nthe night.\n\n\nFIFTH BARD.\n\nNight is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in the west. Slow\nmoves that pale beam along the shaded hill. The distant wave is heard.\nThe torrent murmurs on the rock. The cock is heard from the booth.[12]\nMore than half the night is past. The house-wife, groping in the gloom,\nre-kindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that day approaches, and\ncalls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hill, and whistles on his way. A\nblast removes the cloud. He sees the starry plough of the north. Much of\nthe night is to pass. He nods by the mossy rock.\n\nHark! the whirlwind is in the wood! A low murmur in the vale! It is the\nmighty army of the dead returning from the air.\n\nThe moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on that lofty rock.\nLong are the shadows of the trees. Now it is dark over all. Night is\ndreary, silent, and dark; receive me, my friends, from night.\n\n\nTHE CHIEF.\n\nLet clouds rest on the hills: spirits fly, and travellers fear. Let the\nwinds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams and\nwindows flap, and green-winged meteors fly! Rise the pale moon from\nbehind her hills, or inclose her head in clouds! Night is alike to me,\nblue, stormy, or gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is\npoured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return\nno more.\n\nWhere are our chiefs of old? Where are our kings of mighty name? The\nfields of their battles are silent. Scarce their mossy tombs remain. We\nshall also be forgot. This lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not\nbehold the ruins in grass. They shall ask of the aged, \u201cWhere stood the\nwalls of our fathers?\u201d\n\nRaise the song, and strike the harp; send round the shells of joy.\nSuspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths and maids begin the dance. Let\nsome grey bard be near me, to tell the deeds of other times; of kings\nrenowned in our land, of chiefs we behold no more. Thus let the night\npass until morning shall appear in our halls. Then let the bow be at\nhand, the dogs, the youths of the chase. We shall ascend the hill with\nday, and awake the deer.\n\n[Sidenote: OSSIAN]\n\n\n\n\nComala.\n\n\n FINGAL\n HYDALLAN\n COMALA\n MELILCOMA} Daughters of\n DERSAGRENA} Morni\n BARDS\n\n\nDERSAGRENA.\n\nThe chase is over. No noise on Ardven but the torrent\u2019s roar! Daughter\nof Morni, come from Crona\u2019s banks. Lay down the bow and take the harp.\nLet the night come on with songs, let our joy be great on Ardven.\n\n\nMELILCOMA.\n\nNight comes apace, thou blue-eyed maid! Grey night grows dim along the\nplain. I saw a deer at Crona\u2019s stream; a mossy bank he seemed through\nthe gloom, but soon he bounded away. A meteor played round his branching\nhorns! The awful faces of other times looked from the clouds of Crona!\n\n\nDERSAGRENA.\n\nThese are the signs of Fingal\u2019s death. The king of shields is fallen!\nand Caracul prevails. Rise, Comala, from thy rock: daughter of Sarno,\nrise in tears! The youth of thy love is low; his ghost is on our hills.\n\n\nMELILCOMA.\n\nThere Comala sits forlorn! two grey dogs near shake their rough ears,\nand catch the flying breeze. Her red cheek rests upon her arm, the\nmountain-wind is in her hair. She turns her blue eyes toward the fields\nof his promise. Where art thou, O Fingal? The night is gathering around!\n\n\nCOMALA.\n\nO Carun of the streams! Why do I behold thy waters rolling in blood? Has\nthe noise of the battle been heard; and sleeps the King of Morven?\nRise, moon, thou daughter of the sky! Look from between thy clouds, rise\nthat I may behold the gleam of his steel, on the field of his promise.\nOr rather let the meteor, that lights our fathers through the night,\ncome, with its red beam, to show me the way to my fallen hero. Who will\ndefend me from sorrow? Who from the love of Hydallan? Long shall Comala\nlook before she can behold Fingal in the midst of his host; bright as\nthe coming forth of the morning, in the cloud of an early shower.\n\n\nHYDALLAN.\n\nDwell, thou mist of gloomy Crona, dwell on the path of the king! Hide\nhis steps from mine eyes, let me remember my friend no more. The bands\nof battle are scattered, no crowding tread is round the noise of his\nsteel. O Carun! roll thy streams of blood, the chief of the people is\nlow.\n\n\nCOMALA.\n\nWho fell on Carun\u2019s sounding banks, son of the cloudy night? Was he\nwhite as the snow of Ardven? Blooming as the bow of the shower? Was his\nhair like the mist of the hill, soft and curling in the day of the sun?\nWas he like the thunder of heaven in battle? Fleet as the roe of the\ndesert?\n\n\nHYDALLAN.\n\nO that I might behold his love, fair leaning from her rock! Her red eye\ndim in tears, her blushing cheek half hid in her locks! Blow, O gentle\nbreeze! Lift thou the heavy locks of the maid, that I may behold her\nwhite arm, her lovely cheek in her grief.\n\n\nCOMALA.\n\nAnd is the son of Comhal fallen, chief of the mournful tale? The thunder\nrolls on the hill! The lightning flies on wings of fire! They frighten\nnot Comala; for Fingal is low. Say, chief of the mournful tale, fell the\nbreaker of the shields?\n\n\nHYDALLAN.\n\nThe nations are scattered on their hills; they shall hear the voice of\nthe king no more.\n\n\nCOMALA.\n\nConfusion pursue thee over thy plains! Ruin overtake thee, thou king of\nthe world! Few be thy steps to thy grave; and let one virgin mourn thee!\nLet her be like Comala, tearful in the days of her youth! Why hast thou\ntold me, Hydallan, that my hero fell? I might have hoped a little while\nhis return, I might have thought I saw him on the distant rock; a tree\nmight have deceived me with his appearance; the wind of the hill might\nhave been the sound of his horn in mine ear. O that I were on the banks\nof Carun! that my tears might be warm on his cheek!\n\n\nHYDALLAN.\n\nHe lies not on the banks of Carun; on Ardven heroes raise his tomb. Look\non them, O moon! from thy clouds; be thy beam bright on his breast, that\nComala may behold him in the light of his armour!\n\n\nCOMALA.\n\nStop, ye sons of the grave, till I behold my love! He left me at the\nchase alone. I knew not that he went to war. He said he would return\nwith the night; the King of Morven is returned! Why didst thou not tell\nme that he would fall, O trembling dweller of the rock? Thou sawest him\nin the blood of his youth; but thou didst not tell Comala!\n\n\nMELILCOMA.\n\nWhat sound is that on Ardven? Who is that, bright in the vale? Who comes\nlike the strength of rivers, when their crowded waters glitter to the\nmoon?\n\n\nCOMALA.\n\nWho is it but the foe of Comala, the son of the king of the world? Ghost\nof Fingal! Do thou from thy cloud direct Comala\u2019s bow. Let him fall like\nthe hart of the desert. It is Fingal in the crowd of his ghosts. Why\ndost thou come, my love, to frighten and please my soul?\n\n\nFINGAL.\n\nRaise, ye bards, the song; raise the wars of the streamy Carun! Caracul\nhas fled from our arms along the fields of his pride. He sets far\ndistant like a meteor, that incloses a spirit of night, when the winds\ndrive it over the heath, and the dark woods are gleaming around. I heard\na voice, or was it the breeze of my hills? Is it the huntress of Ardven,\nthe white-handed daughter of Sarno? Look from thy rocks, my love; let me\nhear the voice of Comala!\n\n\nCOMALA.\n\nTake me to the cave of my rest, O lovely son of death!\n\n\nFINGAL.\n\nCome to the cave of my rest. The storm is past, the sun is on our\nfields. Come to the cave of my rest, huntress of echoing Ardven!\n\n\nCOMALA.\n\nHe is returned with his fame. I feel the right hand of his wars. But I\nmust rest beside the rock till my soul returns from my fear. O let the\nharp be near! Raise the song, ye daughters of Morni!\n\n[Sidenote: OSSIAN]\n\n\nDERSAGRENA.\n\nComala has slain three deer on Ardven, the fire ascends on the rock; go\nto the feast of Comala, king of the woody Morven!\n\n\nFINGAL.\n\nRaise, ye sons of song, the wars of the streamy Carun; that my\nwhite-handed maid may rejoice: while I behold the feast of my love.\n\n\nBARDS.\n\nRoll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle are fled! The steed\nis not seen on our fields; the wings of their pride spread in other\nlands. The sun will now rise in peace, and the shadows descend in joy.\nThe voice of the chase will be heard; the shields hang in the hall. Our\ndelight will be in the war of the ocean, our hands shall grow red in the\nblood of Lochlin. Roll, streamy Carun, roll in joy, the sons of battle\nfled!\n\n\nMELILCOMA.\n\nDescend, ye light mists from high! Ye moonbeams, lift her soul! Pale\nlies the maid at the rock. Comala is no more!\n\n\nFINGAL.\n\nIs the daughter of Sarno dead, the white-bosomed maid of my love? Meet\nme, Comala, on my heaths, when I sit alone at the streams of my hills!\n\n\nHYDALLAN.\n\nCeased the voice of the huntress of Ardven? Why did I trouble the soul\nof the maid? When shall I see thee, with joy, in the chase of the\ndark-brown hinds?\n\n\nFINGAL.\n\nYouth of the gloomy brow! No more shalt thou feast in my halls. Thou\nshalt not pursue my chase, my foes shall not fall by thy sword. Lead me\nto the place of her rest that I may behold her beauty. Pale she lies at\nthe rock, cold winds lift her hair. Her bow-string sounds in the blast,\nher arrow was broken in her fall. Raise the praise of the daughter of\nSarno! Give her name to the winds of Heaven!\n\n\nBARDS.\n\nSee! Meteors gleam around the maid! See! Moonbeams lift her soul! Around\nher, from their clouds, bend the awful faces of her fathers; Sarno of\nthe gloomy brow! The red-rolling eyes of Fidallan! When shall thy white\nhand arise? When shall thy voice be heard on our rocks? The maids shall\nseek thee on the heath but they shall not find thee. Thou shalt come, at\ntimes, to their dreams, to settle peace in their soul. Thy voice shall\nremain in their ears, they shall think with joy on the dreams of their\nrest. Meteors gleam around the maid, and moon-beams lift her soul.\n\n[Sidenote: OSSIAN]\n\n\n\n\nThe Death-Song of Ossian.\n\n\nSuch were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king\nheard the music of harps, the tales of other times! The chiefs gathered\nfrom all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the Voice\nof Cona! The first among a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue;\nmy soul has failed! I hear, at times, the ghosts of the bards, and learn\ntheir pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call of\nyears! They say, as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he\nlie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame! Roll on, ye\ndark-brown years; ye bring no joy on your course! Let the tomb open to\nOssian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest.\nMy voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a sea-surrounded\nrock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the\ndistant mariner sees the waving trees!\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nANCIENT CORNISH\n\n\n\n\n_The Pool of Pilate._\n\n\n [_Wayfarer loq._\n\n _Guel yv thy\u2019mmo vy may fe\n mos the wolhy ow dule\n a Thesempes\n me a vyn omma yn dour\n may fons y guyn ha glan lour\n a vostethes_\n\n ......\n\n _Ellas pan fema gynys\n ancow sur yw dynythys\n Scon thy\u2019mmo vy\n ny\u2019m bus bywe na fella\n an dour re wruk thy\u2019m henna\n yn pur deffry._\n\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT CORNISH]\n\n\n\n\nThe Pool of Pilate.\n\n\n [Wayfarer loq.\n\n It is best to me that it be so\n Go to wash my hands\n Immediately\n I will, here in the water,\n That they may be white, and clean enough\n From dirt.\n\n[He washes his hands in the water and dies immediately.]\n\n Alas that I was born!\n Death surely is come\n Soon to me.\n Life is no longer for me,\n The water has done that to me\n Very clearly.\n\n\n\n\nMerlin the Diviner.\n\n\n Merlin! Merlin! where art thou going\n So early in the day, with thy black dog?\n Oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi!\n Oi! oi! oi! ioi! oi!\n\n I have come here to search the way,\n To find the red egg;\n The red egg of the marine serpent,\n By the sea-side in the hollow of the stone.\n I am going to seek in the valley\n The green water-cress, and the golden grass,\n And the top branch of the oak,\n In the wood by the side of the fountain.\n\n Merlin! Merlin! retrace your steps;\n Leave the branch on the oak,\n And the green water-cress in the valley,\n As well as the golden grass;\n And leave the red egg of the marine serpent,\n In the foam by the hollow of the stone.\n Merlin! Merlin! retrace thy steps,\n There is no diviner but God.\n\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT CORNISH DRAMA]\n\n\n\n\nThe Vision of Seth.\n\n\n[Adam bids Seth journey to the Gate of Paradise--the way to be known to\nhim because of the burnt imprints of the feet of himself and Eve on the\nday they were driven forth, sere marks never grass-grown since--and,\nafter telling him to ask for the oil of mercy, blesses him, and sees him\ngo.]\n\nCHERUBIN.\n\n Seth, what is thy errand,\n That thou wouldst come so long a way?\n Tell me soon.\n\nSETH.\n\n O angel, I will tell thee:\n My father is old and weary,\n He would not wish to live longer;\n\n And through me he prayed thee\n To tell the truth\n Of the oil promised to him\n Of mercy in the last day.\n\nCHERUBIN.\n\n Within the gate put thy head,\n And behold it all, nor fear,\n Whatever thou seest,\n And look on all sides;\n Examine well every particular;\n Search out everything diligently.\n\nSETH.\n\n Very joyfully I will do it;\n I am glad to have permission\n To know what is there,\n To tell it to my father.\n\n[And he looks, and turns round, saying:--]\n\n Fair field is this;\n Unhappy he who lost the country:\n And the tree, it is to me\n A great wonder that it is dry;\n But I believe that it is dry,\n And all made bare, for the sin\n Which my father and mother sinned.\n Like the prints of their feet,\n They are all dry, like herbs.\n Alas, that the morsel was eaten.\n\nCHERUBIN.\n\n O Seth, thou art come\n Within the Gate of Paradise;\n Tell me what thou sawest.\n\nSETH.\n\n All the beauty that I saw\n The tongue of no man in the world can\n Tell it ever.\n Of good fruit, and fair flowers,\n Minstrels and sweet song,\n A fountain bright as silver;\n And four springs, large indeed,\n Flowing from it,\n That there is a desire to look at them.\n\n In it there is a tree,\n High with many boughs;\n But they are all bare, without leaves.\n And around it, bark\n There was none, from the stem to the head\n All its boughs are bare.\n\n And at the bottom, when I looked,\n I saw its roots\n Even into hell descending,\n In the midst of great darkness.\n And its branches growing up,\n Even to heaven high in light;\n And it was without bark altogether,\n Both the head and the boughs.\n\nCHERUBIN.\n\n Look yet again within,\n And all else thou shalt see\n Before thou come from it.\n\nSETH.\n\n I am happy that I have permission;\n I will go to the gate immediately,\n That I may see further good.\n\n [He goes, and looks, and returns.\n\nCHERUBIN.\n\n Dost thou see more now,\n Than what there was just now?\n\nSETH.\n\n There is a serpent in the tree;\n An ugly beast, without fail.\n\nCHERUBIN.\n\n Go yet a third time to it,\n And look better at the tree.\n Look, what you can see in it,\n Besides roots and branches.\n\n [Again he goes up.\n\nSETH.\n\n Cherub, angel of the God of grace,\n In the tree I saw,\n High up on the branches,\n A little child newly born;\n And he was swathed in cloths,\n And bound fast with napkins.\n\nCHERUBIN.\n\n The Son of God it was whom thou sawest,\n Like a little child swathed.\n He will redeem Adam, thy father,\n With his flesh and blood too,\n When the time is come,\n And thy mother, and all the good people.\n\n He is the oil of mercy,\n Which was promised to thy father;\n Through his death, clearly,\n All the world will be saved.\n\nSETH.\n\n Blessed be he:\n O God, now I am happy;\n Knowing the truth all plainly,\n I will go from thee.\n\nCHERUBIN.\n\n Take three kernels of the apple,\n Which Adam, thy father, ate.\n When he dies, put them, without fail,\n Between his teeth and tongue.\n From them thou wilt see\n Three trees grow presently;\n For he will not live more than three days\n After thou reachest home.\n\nSETH.\n\n Blessed be thou every day;\n I honour thee ever very truly:\n My father will be very joyful,\n If he soon passes from life.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nANCIENT ARMORICAN\n\n(Breton)\n\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON]\n\n\n\n\nThe Dance of the Sword.\n\n(Ha Korol ar C\u2019Hleze.)\n\n\n Blood, wine, and glee,\n Sun, to thee,--\n Blood, wine, and glee!\n Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!\n Fire, fire! steel and fire!\n Oak! oak, earth, and waves!\n Waves, oak, earth and oak!\n\n Glee of dance and song,\n And battle-throng,--\n Battle, dance, and song!\n Fire! fire! steel, etc.\n\n Let the sword blades swing\n In a ring,--\n Let the sword blades swing!\n Fire! fire! steel, etc.\n\n Song of the blue steel,\n Death to feel,--\n Song of the blue steel!\n Fire! fire! steel, etc.\n\n Fight, whereof the sword\n Is the Lord,--\n Fight of the fell sword!\n Fire! fire! steel, etc.\n\n Sword, thou mighty king\n Of battle\u2019s ring,--\n Sword thou mighty king!\n Fire! fire! steel, etc.\n\n With the rainbow\u2019s light\n Be thou bright,--\n With the rainbow\u2019s light!\n Fire! fire! steel, Oh! steel!\n Fire, fire! steel and fire!\n Oak! oak, earth and waves!\n Waves, oak, earth, and oak!\n\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON]\n\n\n\n\nThe Lord Nann and the Fairy.\n\n(Aotron Nann Hag ar Gorrigan.)\n\n\n The good Lord Nann and his fair bride\n Were young when wedlock\u2019s knot was tied--\n Were young when death did them divide.\n\n But yesterday that lady fair\n Two babes as white as snow did bear;\n A man-child and a girl they were.\n\n \u201cNow, say what is thy heart\u2019s desire,\n For making me a man-child\u2019s sire?\n \u2019Tis thine, whate\u2019er thou may\u2019st require,--\n\n \u201cWhat food soe\u2019er thee lists to take,\n Meat of the woodcock from the lake,\n Meat of the wild deer from the brake.\u201d\n\n \u201cOh, the meat of the deer is dainty food!\n To eat thereof would do me good,\n But I grudge to send thee to the wood.\u201d\n\n The Lord of Nann, when this he heard,\n Hath gripp\u2019d his oak spear with never a word;\n His bonny black horse he hath leap\u2019d upon,\n And forth to the greenwood hath he gone.\n\n By the skirts of the wood as he did go,\n He was ware of a hind as white as snow.\n\n Oh, fast she ran, and fast he rode,\n That the earth it shook where his horse-hoofs trode.\n\n Oh, fast he rode, and fast she ran,\n That the sweat to drop from his brow began--\n\n That the sweat on his horse\u2019s flank stood white;\n So he rode and rode till the fall o\u2019 the night.\n\n When he came to a stream that fed a lawn,\n Hard by the grot of a Corrigaun.\n\n The grass grew thick by the streamlet\u2019s brink,\n And he lighted down off his horse to drink.\n\n The Corrigaun sat by the fountain fair,\n A-combing her long and yellow hair.\n\n A-combing her hair with a comb of gold,--\n (Not poor, I trow, are those maidens cold).--\n\n \u201cNow who\u2019s the bold wight that dares come here\n To trouble my fairy fountain clear?\n\n \u201cEither thou straight shall wed with me,\n Or pine for four long years and three;\n Or dead in three days\u2019 space shall be.\u201d\n\n \u201cI will not wed with thee, I ween,\n For wedded man a year I\u2019ve been;\n\n \u201cNor yet for seven years will I pine,\n Nor die in three days for spell of thine;\n\n \u201cFor spell of thine I will not die,\n But when it pleaseth God on high.\n\n \u201cBut here, and now, I\u2019d leave my life,\n Ere take a Corrigaun to wife.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cO mother, mother! for love of me,\n Now make my bed, and speedily,\n For I am sick as a man can be.\n\n \u201cOh, never the tale to my lady tell;\n Three days and ye\u2019ll hear my passing bell;\n The Corrigaun hath cast her spell.\u201d\n\n Three days they pass\u2019d, three days were sped,\n To her mother-in-law the ladye said;\n\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON]\n\n \u201cNow tell me, madam, now tell me, pray,\n Wherefore the death-bells toll to-day?\n\n \u201cWhy chaunt the priests in the street below,\n All clad in their vestments white as snow?\u201d\n\n \u201cA strange poor man, who harbour\u2019d here,\n He died last night, my daughter dear.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut tell me, madam, my lord, your son--\n My husband--whither is he gone?\u201d\n\n \u201cBut to the town, my child, he\u2019s gone;\n And at your side he\u2019ll be back anon.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhat gown for my churching were\u2019t best to wear,--\n My gown of grain, or of watchet fair?\u201d\n\n \u201cThe fashion of late, my child, hath grown,\n That women for churching black should don.\u201d\n\n As through the churchyard porch she stept,\n She saw the grave where her husband slept.\n\n \u201cWho of our blood is lately dead,\n That our ground is new raked and spread?\u201d\n\n \u201cThe truth I may no more forbear,\n My son--your own poor lord--lies there!\u201d\n\n She threw herself on her knees amain,\n And from her knees ne\u2019er rose again.\n\n That night they laid her, dead and cold,\n Beside her lord, beneath the mould;\n When, lo!--a marvel to behold!--\n\n Next morn from the grave two oak-trees fair,\n Shot lusty boughs high up in air;\n\n And in their boughs--oh wondrous sight!--\n Two happy doves, all snowy white--\n\n That sang, as ever the morn did rise,\n And then flew up--into the skies!\n\n\n\n\nAlain the Fox.\n\n\n The bearded fox is yelping, yelp, yelping through the glades;\n Woe to the foreign rabbits! His eyes are two keen blades.\n\n His teeth are keen; his feet are swift; his nails are red with blood.\n Alain the fox is yelping war: yelp, yelping in the wood.\n\n The Bretons making sharp their arms of terror I did see,\n It was on cuirasses of Gaul, not stones of Brittany.\n\n The Bretons reaping did I see, upon the fields of war;\n It was not notched reaping-hooks, but swords of steel they bore.\n\n They reapt no wheat of our own land, they reaped not our rye;\n But the beardless ears, the beardless ears of Gaul and Saxony.\n\n I saw upon the threshing-floor the Bretons threshing corn:\n I saw the beaten chaff fly out from beardless ears off-torn.\n\n It was not with their wooden flails the Bretons thresht the wheat;\n But with their iron boar-spears and with their horses\u2019 feet.\n\n I heard the cry when threshing\u2019s done, the joy-cry onward borne\n Far, far from Mont-Saint-Michel to the valleys of Elorn:\n\n From the abbey of Saint Gildas far on to the Land\u2019s-End rocks.\n In Brittany\u2019s four corners give a glory to the Fox!\n\n[Sidenote: ANCIENT BRETON]\n\n From age to age give glory to the Fox a thousand times!\n But weep ye for the rhymer, though he recollect his rhymes!\n\n For he that sang this song the first since then hath never sung:\n Ah me, alas! Unhappy man! The Gauls cut out his tongue.\n\n But though no more he hath a tongue, a heart is always his:\n He has both hand and heart to shoot his arrowy melodies.\n\n\n\n\nBran.\n\n(The Crow.)\n\n\n Wounded full sore is Bran the knight;\n For he was at Kerloan fight;\n At Kerloan fight, by wild seashore\n Was Bran-Vor\u2019s grandson wounded sore;\n And, though we gained the victory,\n Was captive borne beyond the sea.\n He when he came beyond the sea,\n In the close keep wept bitterly.\n \u201cThey leap at home with joyous cry\n While, woe is me, in bed I lie.\n Could I but find a messenger,\n Who to my mother news would bear!\u201d\n They quickly found a messenger;\n His best thus gave the warrior:\n \u201cHeed thou to dress in other guise,\n My messenger, dress beggar-wise!\n Take thou my ring, my ring of gold,\n That she thy news as truth may hold!\n Unto my country straightway go,\n It to my lady mother show!\n Should she come free her son from hold,\n A flag of white do thou unfold!\n But if with thee she come not back,\n Unfurl, ah me, a pennon black!\u201d\n\n So, when to Leon-land he came,\n At supper table sat the dame,\n At table with her family,\n The harpers playing as should be.\n \u201cDame of the castle, hail! I bring\n From Bran your son this golden ring,\n His golden ring and letter too;\n Read it, oh read it, straightway through!\u201d\n \u201cYe harpers, cease ye, play no more,\n For with great grief my heart is sore!\n My son (cease harpers, play no more!)\n In prison, and I did not know!\n Prepare to-night a ship for me!\n To-morrow I go across the sea.\u201d\n\n The morning of the next, next day\n The Lord Bran question\u2019d, as he lay:\n \u201cSentinel, sentinel, soothly say!\n Seest thou no vessel on its way?\u201d\n \u201cMy lord the knight, I nought espy\n Except the great sea and the sky.\u201d\n The Lord Bran askt him yet once more,\n Whenas the day\u2019s course half was o\u2019er;\n \u201cSentinel, sentinel, soothly say!\n Seest thou no vessel on its way?\u201d\n \u201cI can see nothing, my lord the knight,\n Except the sea-birds i\u2019 their flight.\u201d\n The Lord Bran askt him yet again,\n Whenas the day was on the wane;\n \u201cSentinel, sentinel, soothly say!\n Seest thou no vessel on its way?\u201d\n Then that false sentinel, the while\n Smiling a mischief-working smile;\n \u201cI see afar a misty form--\n A ship sore beaten by the storm.\u201d\n \u201cThe flag? Quick give the answer back!\n The banner? Is it white or black?\u201d\n \u201cFar as I see, \u2019tis black, Sir knight,\n I swear it by the coal\u2019s red light.\u201d\n When this the sorrowing knight had heard\n Again he never spoke a word;\n But turn\u2019d aside his visage wan;\n And then the fever fit began.\n\n Now of the townsmen askt the dame,\n When at the last to shore she came,\n \u201cWhat is the news here, townsmen, tell!\n That thus I hear them toll the bell?\u201d\n An aged man the lady heard,\n And thus he answer\u2019d to her word:\n \u201cWe in the prison held a knight;\n And he hath died here in the night.\u201d\n Scarcely to end his words were brought,\n When the high tower that lady sought;\n Shedding salt tears and running fast,\n Her white hair scatter\u2019d in the blast,\n So that the townsmen wonderingly\n Full sorely marvell\u2019d her to see;\n Whenas they saw a lady strange,\n Through their streets so sadly range\n Each one in thought did musing stand;\n \u201cWho is the lady, from what land?\u201d\n Soon as the donjon\u2019s foot she reacht,\n The porter that poor dame beseecht;\n \u201cOpe, quickly ope, the gate for me!\n My son! My son! Him would I see!\u201d\n Slowly the great gate open drew;\n Herself upon her son she threw,\n Close in her arms his corpse to strain,\n The lady never rose again.\n\n There is a tree, that doth look o\u2019er\n From Kerloan\u2019s battle-field to th\u2019 shore;\n An oak. Before great Evan\u2019s face\n The Saxons fled in that same place.\n Upon that oak in clear moonlight,\n Together come the birds at night;\n Black birds and white, but sea birds all;\n On each one\u2019s brow a blood-stain small,\n With them a raven gray and old;\n With her a crow comes young and bold.\n Both with soil\u2019d wings, both wearied are;\n They come beyond the seas from far:\n And the birds sing so lovelily\n That silence comes on the great sea.\n All sing in concert sweet and low\n Except the raven and the crow.\n Once was the crow heard murmuring:\n \u201cSing, little birds, ye well may sing!\n Sing, for this is your own countrie!\n Ye died not far from Brittany!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nEARLY CYMRIC AND MEDI\u00c6VAL WELSH\n\n\n\n\nThe Soul.\n\n(From \u201cThe Black Book of Caermarthen.\u201d)\n\n\n[Sidenote: EARLY CYMRIC]\n\n Soul, since I was made in necessity blameless\n True it is, woe is me that thou shouldst have come to my design,\n Neither for my own sake, nor for death, nor for end, nor for beginning.\n It was with seven faculties that I was thus blessed,\n With seven created beings I was placed for purification;\n I was gleaming fire when I was caused to exist;\n I was dust of the earth, and grief could not reach me;\n I was a high wind, being less evil than good;\n I was a mist on a mountain seeking supplies of stags;\n I was blossoms of trees on the face of the earth.\n If the Lord had blessed me, He would have placed me on matter.\n Soul, since I was made----\n\n\n\n\nThe Gorwynion.\n\n\n The tops of the ash glisten, that are white and stately,\n When growing on the top of the dingle:\n The breast rackt with pain, longing is its complaint.\n\n Brightly glitters the top of the cliff at the long midnight hour;\n Every ingenious person will be honoured:\n \u2019Tis the duty of the fair, to afford sleep to him that is in pain.\n\n Brightly glistens the willow tops; the fish are merry in the lakes,\n Blustering is the wind over the tops of the small branches:\n Nature over learning doth prevail.\n\n Brightly glisten the tops of the furze; have confidence with the wise,\n But from the unwise tear thyself afar;\n Besides God there is none that sees futurity.\n\n Brightly glisten the clover tops: the timid has no heart;\n Wearied out are the jealous ones:\n Cares attend the weak.\n\n Brightly glisten the tops of reed-grass; furious is the jealous,\n If any should perchance offend him:\n \u2019Tis the maxim of the prudent to love with sincerity.\n\n Brightly glare the tops of the mountains from the blustering of winter,\n Full are the stalks of reeds; heavy is oppression:\n Against famine bashfulness will vanish.\n\n Brightly glare the tops of mountains assail\u2019d by winter cold;\n Brittle are the reeds; the mead is incrusted over;\n Playful is the heedless in banishment.\n\n[Sidenote: LLYWARC\u2019H HEN]\n\n Bright are the tops of the oaks, bitter are the ash branches;\n Before the duck, the dividing waves are seen:\n Confident is deceit; care is deeply rooted in my heart.\n\n Brightly glisten the tops of the oaks, bitter are the ash branches;\n Sweet is the sheltering hedge; the wave is a noisy grinner;\n The cheek cannot conceal the trouble of the heart.\n\n Bright is the top of the eglantine; hardship dispenses with forms,\n Let everyone keep his fire-side:\n The greatest blemish is ill-manners.\n\n Brightly glitters the top of the broom; may the lover have a home;\n Very yellow seem the clustered branches;\n Shallow is the ford; sleep visits the contented mind.\n\n Brightly glitters the top of the apple-tree;\n the prosperous is circumspect.\n In the long day the stagnant pool is warm;\n Thick is the veil on the light of the blind prisoner.\n\n Very glittering are the hazel-tops by the hill of Dig;\n Every prudent one will be free from harm;\n \u2019Tis the act of the mighty to keep a treaty.\n\n Glittering are the tops of the reeds; the fat are drowsy\n And the young imbibe instruction;\n None but the foolish will break faith.\n\n Glittering is the top of the lily; let every bold one be a drinker;\n The word of a tribe is superior;\n \u2019Tis usual for the unjust to break his word.\n\n Bright are the tops of heath; miscarriage attends the timid;\n Boldly laves the water on its banks.\n Tis the maxim of the just to keep his word.\n\n The tops of the rushes glitter; the kine are gentle;\n Running are my tears this day,\n Social comfort from man there is not.\n\n Glittering are the tops of fern, yellow is the wild marygold;\n The sea is a fence for blind ones:\n Swift and active are the young men.\n\n Glittering are the tops of the service-tree; care attends the old;\n The bees frequent the wilds;\n Vengeance only to God belongs.\n\n Brightly glitters the tops of the oak; incessant is the tempest;\n The bees are high in their flight, brittle is the charr\u2019d brushwood,\n The wanton is apt to laugh too frequently.\n\n The hazel grove brightly glitters, even and uniform seem the brakes;\n And with leaves the oaks envelop themselves;\n Happy is he who sees the one he loves!\n\n Glittering seems the top of the oak; coolly purls the stream;\n I wish to obtain the top of the birchen grove;\n Abruptly goes the arrow of the haughty to give pain.\n\n Brightly glitters the top of the hard holly, that opens its golden leaves;\n When all are asleep on the surrounding walls,\n God slumbers not when He means to give deliverance.\n\n[Sidenote: LLYWARC\u2019H HEN]\n\n Glittering are the tops of the willows, brittle and tender;\n In the long day of summer the war-horse flags,\n Those that have mutual friendships will not offend.\n\n Glittering are the tops of rushes, the stems are full of prickles;\n When drawn under the pillow;\n The wanton mind will be haughty.\n\n Bright is the top of the hawthorn; confident is the fight of the steed;\n It behoves the dependant to be grateful;\n May it be good what the speedy messenger brings.\n\n Glittering are the tops of cresses; warlike is the steed;\n Trees are fair ornaments of the ground;\n Joyful is the soul with the one it loves.\n\n Brightly glares the top of the bush, valuable is the steed;\n Reason joined with strength is effectual;\n Let the unskilful be void of strength.\n\n Glittering are the tops of the brakes, birds are their fair jewels;\n The long day is the gift of the radiant light,\n Mercy was formed by God, the most beneficent.\n\n Glittering are the elmwood tops, sweet the music of the grove;\n Boisterous among the trees the wind doth whistle;\n Interceding with the obdurate will not avail.\n\n Glittering are the tops of elder-trees; bold is the solitary songster;\n Accustomed is the violent to oppress;\n By want of care the food in hand may be lost.\n\n\n\n\nThe Tercets of Llywarc\u2019h.\n\n\n Entangling is the snare, clustered is the ash;\n The ducks are in the pond; white breaks the wave;\n More powerful than a hundred is the counsel of the heart.\n\n Long the night, boisterous is the sea-shore;\n Usual a tumult in a congregation;\n The vicious will not agree with the good.\n\n Long the night, boisterous is the mountain,\n The wind whistles over the tops of trees;\n Ill-nature will not deceive the discreet.\n\n The saplings of the green-topped birch\n Will extricate my foot from the shackle;\n Disclose not thy secret to a youth.\n\n The saplings of oaks in the grove\n Will extricate my foot from the chain;\n Disclose no secret to a maid.\n\n The saplings of the leafy oaks\n Will extricate my foot from the prison;\n Divulge no secret to a babbler.\n\n The saplings of bramble have berries on them;\n The thrush is on her nest;\n The liar will never be silent.\n\n Rain without, the fern is drenched;\n White the gravel of the sea; there is spray on the margin;\n Reason is the fairest lamp for man.\n\n Rain without, near is the shelter,\n The furze yellow; the cow-parsnip withered and dry;\n God the Creator! why hast thou made me a coward?\n\n Rain without, my hair is drenched;\n Full of complaint is the feeble; steep the cliff;\n Pale white is the sea; salt is the brine.\n\n Rain without, the ocean is drenched;\n The wind whistles over the tops of the reeds;\n After every feat, still without the genius.\n\n\n\n\nSong to the Wind.\n\n\n[Sidenote: TALIESIN]\n\n Discover thou what is\n The strong creature from before the flood,\n Without flesh, without bone,\n Without vein, without blood,\n Without head, without feet;\n It will neither be older nor younger\n Than at the beginning;\n For fear of a denial,\n These are no rude wants\n With creatures.\n Great God! how the sea whitens\n When first it comes!\n Great are its gusts\n When it comes from the south;\n Great are its evaporations\n When it strikes on coasts.\n It is in the field, it is in the wood,\n Without hand and without foot,\n Without signs of old age,\n Though it be co-eval\n With the five ages or periods;\n And older still,\n Though they be numberless years.\n It is also so wide;\n As the surface of the earth;\n And it was not born,\n Nor was it seen.\n It will cause consternation\n Wherever God willeth.\n On sea, and on land,\n It neither sees, nor is seen.\n Its course is devious,\n And will not come when desired\n On land and on sea\n It is indispensable.\n It is without an equal,\n It is four-sided;\n It is not confined,\n It is incomparable;\n It comes from four quarters;\n It will not be advised,\n It will not be without advice.\n It commences its journey\n Above the marble rock.\n It is sonorous, it is dumb,\n It is mild,\n It is strong, it is bold,\n When it glances over the land.\n It is silent, it is vocal,\n It is clamorous,\n It is the most noisy\n On the face of the earth.\n It is good, it is bad,\n It is extremely injurious.\n It is concealed,\n Because sight cannot perceive it.\n It is noxious, it is beneficial;\n It is yonder, it is here;\n It will discompose,\n But will not repair the injury;\n It will not suffer for its doings,\n Seeing it is blameless.\n It is wet, it is dry,\n It frequently comes,\n Proceeding from the heat of the sun,\n And the coldness of the moon.\n The moon is less beneficial,\n Inasmuch as her heat is less.\n One Being has prepared it,\n Out of all creatures,\n By a tremendous blast,\n To wreak vengeance\n On Maelgwn Gwynedd.\n\n\n\n\nOdes of the Months.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ANEURIN]\n\n Month of January--smoky is the vale;\n Weary the wine-bearer; strolling the minstrel;\n Lean the cow; seldom the hum of the bee;\n Empty the milking fold; void of meat the kiln;\n Slender the horse; very silent the bird;\n Long to the early dawn; short the afternoon;\n Justly spoke Cynfelyn,\n \u201cPrudence is the best guide for man.\u201d\n\n Month of February--scarce are the dainties;\n Wakeful the adder to generate its poison;\n Habitual is reproach from frequent acknowledgment;\n The hired ox has not skill to complain;\n Three things produce dreadful evils,\n A woman\u2019s counsel, murder, and way-laying;\n Best is the dog upon a morning in spring;\n Alas! to him who murders his maid!\n\n Month of March--great is the forwardness of the birds,\n Severe is the cold wind upon the headlands;\n Serene weather will be longer than the crops;\n Longer continues anger than grief;\n Every one feels dread;\n Every bird wings to its mate.\n Every thing springs through the earth;\n But the dead, strong is his prison!\n\n Month of April--aerial is the horizon;\n Fatigued the oxen; bare the land;\n Common is the visitor without an invitation;\n Poor the deer; blithesome the hare;\n Everyone claims his labour;\n Happy his state who governs himself;\n Common is separation with virtuous children;\n Common, after presumption, is a long cessation.\n\n Month of May--wanton is the lascivious;\n Sheltering the ditch to everyone who loves it;\n Joyous the aged in his robes;\n Loquacious the cuckoo in the rural vales;\n Easy is society where there is affection;\n Covered with foliage are the woods, sportive the amorous,\n There comes as often to the market,\n The skin of the lamb as the skin of the sheep.\n\n Month of June--beautiful are the fields;\n Smooth the sea, pleasing the strand;\n Beautifully long the day, playful the ladies;\n Full the flocks, apt to be firm the bog;\n God loves all tranquillity;\n The devil loves all mischief;\n Every one covets honour;\n Every mighty one, feeble his end.\n\n Month of July--the hay is apt to smoke;\n Ardent the heat, dissolved the snow;\n The vagrant does not love a long confederacy;\n There is no success to the progeny of an unchaste person;\n Bare the farm-yard--partly empty the circular eminence;\n Clean the perfect person, disgraceful the boasting word;\n Justly spoke the foster-son of Mary,\n \u201cGod judges, though man may prate.\u201d\n\n Month of August--covered with foam is the beach;\n Blithesome the bee, full the hive;\n Better the work of the sickle than the bow;\n Fuller the stack than the theatre.\n He that will neither work nor pray,\n Is not worthy to have bread;\n Justly spoke Saint Breda,\n \u201cEvil will not be approached less than good.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: ANEURIN]\n\n Month of September--benign are the planets;\n Tending to please, the sea and the hamlet;\n Common is it for steeds and men to be fatigued;\n Common is it to possess all kinds of fruit:--\n A princely girl was born,\n To be our leader from painful slavery;--\n Justly spake Saint Berned,\n \u201cGod does not sleep when he gives deliverance.\u201d\n\n Month of October--penetrable is the shelter;\n Yellow the tops of the birch, solitary the summer dwelling;\n Full of fat the birds and the fish;\n Less and less the milk of the cow and the goat;\n Alas! to him who merits disgrace by sin!\n Death is better than frequent extravagance;\n Three things follow every crime,\n Fasting, prayer, and charity.\n\n Month of November--very fat are the swine;\n Let the shepherd go; let the minstrel come;\n Bloody the blade, full the barn;\n Pleased the sea, tasteless the caldron;\n Long the night, active the prisoner;\n Respected is every one who possesses property;\n For three things men are not often concerned,\n Sorrow, angry look, and an illiberal miser.\n\n Month of December--the shoe is covered with dirt:\n Heavy the land, flagging the sun;\n Bare are the trees, still is the muscle;\n Cheerful the cock, and determined the thief;\n Whilst the twelve months proceed so sprightly,\n Round the youthful mind, is the spoiler Satan;\n Justly spoke Yscolan,\n \u201cGod is better than an evil prophecy.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nThe Summer.\n\n\n Thou Summer! father of delight,\n With thy dense spray and thickets deep;\n Gemm\u2019d monarch, with thy rapt\u2019rous light.\n Rousing thy subject glens from sleep!\n Proud has thy march of triumph been,\n Thou prophet, prince of forest green!\n Artificer of wood and tree,\n Thou painter of unrivalled skill,\n Who ever scatters gems like thee,\n And gorgeous webs on park and hill?\n Till vale and hill with radiant dyes\n Become another Paradise!\n And thou hast sprinkled leaves and flow\u2019rs,\n And goodly chains of leafy bow\u2019rs;\n And bid thy youthful warblers sing\n On oak and knoll, the song of spring,\n And black-birds\u2019 note of ecstacy\n Burst loudly from the woodbine tree,\n Till all the world is thronged with gladness--\n Her multitudes have done with sadness!\n O Summer! do I ask in vain?\n Thus in thy glory wilt thou deign\n My messenger to be?\n Hence from the bowels of the land\n Of wild, wild Gwyneth to the strand\n Of fair Glamorgan--ocean\u2019s band--\n Sweet margin of the sea!\n To dear Glamorgan, when we part,\n Oh bear a thousand times my heart!\n My blessing give a thousand times,\n And crown with joy her glowing climes?\n Take on her lovely vales thy stand,\n And tread and trample round the land,\n The beauteous shore whose harvest lies\n All sheltered from inclement skies.\n Radiant with corn and vineyards sweet,\n The lakes of fish and mansions neat,\n With halls of stone where kindness dwells,\n And where each hospitable lord\n Heaps for the stranger guest his board!\n And where the generous wine cup swells;\n With trees that bear a luscious pear,\n So thickly clustering everywhere,\n That the fair country of my love\n Looks dense as one continuous grove!\n Her lofty woods with warblers teem,\n Her fields with flow\u2019rs that love the stream;\n Her valleys varied crops display,\n Eight kinds of corn, and three of hay;\n Bright parlour, with her trefoiled floor!\n Sweet garden, spread on ocean\u2019s shore!\n Glamorgan\u2019s bounteous knights award\n Bright mead and burnished gold to me:\n Glamorgan boasts of many a bard,\n Well skilled in harp and vocal glee:\n The districts round her border spread\n From her have drawn their daily bread--\n Her milk, her meat, her varied stores,\n Have been the life of distant shores!\n And court and hamlet food have found\n From the rich soil of Britain\u2019s southern bound.\n And wilt thou then obey my power,\n Thou Summer, in thy brightest hour?\n To her thy glorious hues unfold\n In one rich embassy of gold!\n Her morns with bliss and splendour light,\n And fondly kiss her mansions white;\n Fling wealth and verdure o\u2019er her bow\u2019rs!\n And for her gather all thy flow\u2019rs!\n Glance o\u2019er her castles, white with lime,\n With genial glimmerings sublime;\n Plant on the verdant coast thy feet,\n Her lofty hills, her woodlands greet.\n Oh! lavish blossoms with thy hand\n O\u2019er all the forests of the land;\n And let thy gifts like floods descending,\n O\u2019er every hill and glen be blending;\n Let orchard, garden, vine express\n Thy fulness and thy fruitfulness--\n O\u2019er all the land of beauty fling\n The costly traces of thy wing!\n And thus \u2019mid all thy radiant flowers,\n Thy thickening leaves and glossy bowers,\n The poet\u2019s task shall be to glean\n Roses and flowers that softly bloom\n (The jewel of the forest\u2019s gloom!),\n And trefoils wove in pavement green,\n With sad humility to grace\n His golden Ivor\u2019s resting-place.\n\n\n\n\nTo the Lark.\n\nT\u2019R Ehedydd.\n\n\n[Sidenote: DAVYDD AB GWILYM]\n\n Sentinel of the morning light!\n Reveller of the spring!\n How sweetly, nobly wild thy flight,\n Thy boundless journeying:\n Far from thy brethren of the woods, alone,\n A hermit chorister before God\u2019s throne!\n\n Oh! wilt thou climb yon heavens for me,\n Yon rampart\u2019s starry height,\n Thou interlude of melody\n \u2019Twixt darkness and the light,\n And seek with heav\u2019n\u2019s first dawn upon thy crest,\n My lady love, the moonbeam of the west?\n\n No woodland caroller art thou;\n Far from the archer\u2019s eye,\n Thy course is o\u2019er the mountain\u2019s brow,\n Thy music in the sky:\n Then fearless float thy path of cloud along,\n Thou earthly denizen of angel song.\n\n\n\n\nTo the Fox.\n\n\n The wretch my starry bird who slew,\n Beast of the flameless ember hue,\n Assassin, glutton of the night,\n Mixed of all creatures that defile,\n Land lobster, fugitive of light,\n Thou coward mountain crocodile;\n With downcast eye and ragged tail,\n That haunt\u2019st the hollow rocks,\n Thief, ever ready to assail\n The undefended flocks,\n Thy brass-hued breast and tattered locks\n Shall not protect thee from the hound,\n When with unbaffled eye he mocks\n Thy mazy fortress underground,\n Whilst o\u2019er my peacock\u2019s shattered plumes shall shine\n A pretty bower of faery eglantine.\n\n\n\n\nThe Song of the Thrush.\n\n\n[Sidenote: RYHS GOCH]\n\n I was on the margin of a plain,\n Under a wide spreading tree,\n Hearing the song\n Of the wild birds;\n Listening to the language\n Of the thrush cock,\n Who from the wood of the valley\n Composed a verse--\n From the wood of the steep,\n He sang exquisitely.\n Speckled was his breast\n Amongst the green leaves,\n As upon branches\n Of a thousand blossoms\n On the bank of a brook,\n All heard\n With the dawn the song,\n Like a silver bell;\n Performing a sacrifice,\n Until the hour of forenoon;\n Upon the green altar\n Ministering Bardism.\n From the branches of the hazel\n Of green broad leaves\n He sings an ode\n To God the Creator;\n With a carol of love\n From the green glade,\n To all in the hollow\n Of the glen, who love him;\n Balm of the heart\n To those who love.\n I had from his beak\n The voice of inspiration,\n A song of metres\n That gratified me;\n Glad was I made\n By his minstrelsy.\n Then respectfully\n Uttered I an address\n From the stream of the valley\n To the bird.\n I requested urgently\n His undertaking a message\n To the fair one\n Where dwells my affection.\n Gone is the bard of the leaves\n From the small twigs\n To the second Lunet,\n The sun of the maidens!\n To the streams of the plain\n St Mary prosper him,\n To bring to me,\n Under the green woods\n The hue of the snow of one night,\n Without delay.\n\n\n\n\nPART II\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nIRISH\n\n(Modern and Contemporary)\n\n\n\n\nSacrifice.\n\n\n[Sidenote: \u201cA. E.\u201d]\n\n Those delicate wanderers,\n The wind, the star, the cloud,\n Ever before mine eyes,\n As to an altar bowed,\n Light and dew-laden airs\n Offer in sacrifice.\n\n The offerings arise:\n Hazes of rainbow light,\n Pure crystal, blue, and gold,\n Through dreamland take their flight;\n And \u2019mid the sacrifice\n God moveth as of old.\n\n In miracles of fire\n He symbols forth His days,\n In gleams of crystal light\n Reveals what pure pathways\n Lead to the soul\u2019s desire,\n The silence of the height.\n\n\n\n\nThe Great Breath.\n\n\n Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,\n Withers once more the old blue flower of day:\n There where the ether like a diamond glows\n Its petals fade away.\n\n A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;\n Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;\n The great deep thrills, for through it everywhere\n The breath of Beauty blows.\n\n I saw how all the trembling ages past,\n Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,\n Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last\n And knows herself in death.\n\n\n\n\nMystery.\n\n\n[Sidenote: \u201cA. E\u201d]\n\n Why does this sudden passion smite me?\n I stretch my hands all blind to see:\n I need the lamp of the world to light me,\n Lead me and set me free.\n\n Something a moment seemed to stoop from\n The night with cool cool breath on my face:\n Or did the hair of the twilight droop from\n Its silent wandering ways?\n\n About me in the thick wood netted\n The wizard glow looks human-wise;\n And over the tree-tops barred and fretted\n Ponders with strange old eyes.\n\n The tremulous lips of air blow by me\n And hymn their time-old melody:\n Its secret strain comes nigh and nigh me:\n \u201cAh, brother, come with me;\n\n \u201cFor here the ancient mother lingers\n To dip her hands in the diamond dew,\n And lave thine ache with cloud-cool fingers\n Till sorrow die from you.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nBy the Margin of the Great Deep.\n\n\n When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,\n All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,\n With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;\n I am one with the twilight\u2019s dream.\n\n When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,\n Every heart of man is rapt within the mother\u2019s breast:\n Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,\n I am one with their hearts at rest.\n\n From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love\n Strayed away along the margin of the unknown tide,\n All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above\n Word or touch from the lips beside.\n\n Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw\n From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,\n Such primeval being as o\u2019erfills the heart with awe,\n Growing one with its silent stream.\n\n\n\n\nThe Breath of Light.\n\n\n[Sidenote: \u201cA. E.\u201d]\n\n From the cool and dark-lipped furrows breathes a dim delight\n Through the woodland\u2019s purple plumage to the diamond night.\n Aureoles of joy encircle every blade of grass\n Where the dew-fed creatures silent and enraptured pass:\n And the restless ploughman pauses, turns, and wondering\n Deep beneath his rustic habit finds himself a king;\n For a fiery moment looking with the eyes of God\n Over fields a slave at morning bowed him to the sod.\n Blind and dense with revelation every moment flies,\n And unto the Mighty Mother, gay, eternal, rise\n All the hopes we hold, the gladness, dreams of things to be.\n One of all thy generations, Mother, hails to thee!\n Hail! and hail! and hail for ever: though I turn again\n From thy joy unto the human vestiture of pain.\n I, thy child, who went forth radiant in the golden prime\n Find thee still the mother-hearted through my night in time;\n Find in thee the old enchantment, there behind the veil\n Where the Gods my brothers linger, Hail! for ever, Hail!\n\n\n\n\n\u00c6olian Harp.\n\n\n[Sidenote: WILLIAM ALLINGHAM]\n\n O pale green sea,\n With long pale purple clouds above--\n What lies in me like weight of love?\n What dies in me\n With utter grief, because there comes no sign\n Through the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line?\n\n O salted air,\n Blown round the rocky headlands chill--\n What calls me there from cove and hill?\n What calls me fair\n From Thee, the first-born of the youthful night?\n Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight?\n\n O yellow Star,\n Quivering upon the rippling tide--\n Sendest so far to one that sigh\u2019d?\n Bendest thou, Star,\n Above where shadows of the dead have rest\n And constant silence, with a message from the blest?\n\n\n\n\nThe Fairies.\n\n\n[Sidenote: WILLIAM ALLINGHAM]\n\n Up the airy mountain,\n Down the rushy glen,\n We daren\u2019t go a-hunting\n For fear of little men;\n Wee folk, good folk,\n Trooping all together;\n Green jacket, red cap,\n And white owl\u2019s feather!\n\n Down along the rocky shore\n Some make their home,\n They live on crispy pancakes\n Of yellow tide-foam;\n Some in the reeds\n Of the black mountain lake,\n With frogs for their watch-dogs,\n All night awake.\n\n High on the hill-top\n The old king sits;\n He is now so old and gray\n He\u2019s nigh lost his wits.\n With a bridge of white mist\n Columbkill he crosses,\n On his stately journeys\n From Slieveleague to Rosses;\n Or going up with music\n On cold starry nights,\n To sup with the Queen\n Of the gay Northern Lights.\n\n They stole little Bridget\n For seven years long;\n When she came down again\n Her friends were all gone.\n\n They took her lightly back,\n Between the night and morrow,\n They thought that she was fast asleep,\n But she was dead with sorrow.\n They have kept her ever since\n Deep within the lake,\n On a bed of flag-leaves,\n Watching till she wake.\n\n By the craggy hill-side,\n Through the mosses bare,\n They have planted thorn-trees\n For pleasure here and there.\n Is any man so daring\n As dig up them in spite,\n He shall find their sharpest thorns\n In his bed at night.\n\n Up the airy mountain,\n Down the rushy glen,\n We daren\u2019t go a-hunting\n For fear of little men;\n Wee folk, good folk,\n Trouping all together;\n Green jacket, red cap,\n And white owl\u2019s feather.\n\n\n\n\nTo the Lianhaun Shee.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THOMAS BOYD]\n\n Where is thy lovely perilous abode?\n In what strange phantom-land\n Glimmer the fairy turrets whereto rode\n The ill-starred poet band?\n\n Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home,\n The sweetest singer there,\n Stealing on wing\u00ebd steed across the foam\n Through the moonlit air?\n\n And by the gloomy peaks of Erigal,\n Haunted by storm and cloud,\n Wing past, and to thy lover there let fall\n His singing robe and shroud?\n\n Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneath\n The red stems of the pine,\n And sunbeams strike thro\u2019 shadow, dost thou breathe\n The word that makes him thine?\n\n Or, is thy palace entered thro\u2019 some cliff\n When radiant tides are full,\n And round thy lover\u2019s wandering starlit skiff\n Coil in luxurious lull?\n\n And would he, entering on the brimming flood,\n See caverns vast in height,\n And diamond columns, crowned with leaf and bud,\n Glow in long lanes of light.\n\n And there the pearl of that great glittering shell\n Trembling, behold thee lone,\n Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell,\n Now still upon thy throne?\n\n Thy beauty! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro\u2019\n Then melt as in a dream;\n The voice that sings the mysteries of the blue\n And all that Be and Seem!\n\n Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme\n That ancient Nature sings,\n That keeps the stars in cadence for all time,\n And echoes through all things!\n\n Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams,\n Thy light makes all lights dim;\n An aching solitude from henceforth seems\n The world of men to him.\n\n Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar,\n He follows with delight,\n Shutting behind him Life\u2019s last gloomy door,\n And fares into the Night.\n\n\n\n\nRemembrance.\n\n\n[Sidenote: EMILY BRONT\u00cb]\n\n Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee,\n Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!\n Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,\n Severed at last by Time\u2019s all-severing wave?\n\n Now, when alone, my thoughts no longer hover\n Over the mountains, on that northern shore,\n Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover\n Thy noble heart for ever, ever more.\n\n Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers,\n From these brown hills, have melted into Spring!\n Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers\n After such years of change and suffering!\n\n Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,\n While the world\u2019s tide is bearing me along;\n Other desires and other hopes beset me,\n Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.\n\n No later light has lighted up my heaven,\n No second morn has ever shone for me;\n All my life\u2019s bliss from thy dear life was given,\n All my life\u2019s bliss is in the grave with thee.\n\n But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,\n And even despair was powerless to destroy;\n Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,\n Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.\n\n Then did I check the tears of useless passion--\n Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;\n Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten\n Down to that tomb already more than mine.\n\n And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,\n Dare not indulge in memory\u2019s rapturous pain;\n Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,\n How could I seek the empty world again?\n\n\n\n\nThe Earth and Man.\n\n\n[Sidenote: STOPFORD A. BROOKE]\n\n A little sun, a little rain,\n A soft wind blowing from the west--\n And woods and fields are sweet again,\n And warmth within the mountain\u2019s breast.\n\n So simple is the earth we tread,\n So quick with love and life her frame,\n Ten thousand years have dawned and fled,\n And still her magic is the same.\n\n A little love, a little trust,\n A soft impulse, a sudden dream--\n And life as dry as desert dust\n Is fresher than a mountain stream.\n\n So simple is the heart of man\n So ready for new hope and joy;\n Ten thousand years since it began\n Have left it younger than a boy.\n\n\n\n\nSong.\n\n(From \u201cSix Days.\u201d)\n\n\n[Sidenote: STOPFORD A. BROOKE]\n\n Come, where on the moorland steep\n Silent sunlight dreams of sleep,\n And in this high morning air\n Love me, my companion fair!\n All the clouds that high in Heaven\n Rest and rove from morn to even,\n All the beauty that doth live\n By the winds--to thee I give.\n\n See below deep meadow lands,\n Misty moors and shining sands,\n And blue hills so far and dim\n They melt on the horizon\u2019s rim.\n O how fresh the air, and sweet,\n And with what a footfall fleet\n O\u2019er the grasses\u2019 ebb and flow\n The light winds to the eastward go.\n\n Noon is now with us. Farewell\n To this mountain citadel.\n Come, and with your footing fine\n Thread the scented paths of pine,\n Till we see the Druid carn\n Shadowed in the haunted tarn.\n There the water blue and deep\n Lies, like wearied thought, asleep.\n\n While we watch, the storm awakes;\n Flash on flash the ripple breaks,\n Purple, with a snow-white crest,\n On the meadow\u2019s golden breast.\n Roods of tinkling sedge are kissed\n By the waves of amethyst:\n Trouble knows the place, they say,\n But we laugh at that to-day.\n\n Onward to the glen below;\n Every nook and turn we know\n Where the passion-haunted stream\n Laughs and lingers in its dream,\n Making where its pebbles shine\n Naiad music, clear and fine,\n But not sweeter than the song\n Love sings as we rove along.\n\n At the last the grassy seat,\n Where of old we used to meet,\n Holds us in its close embrace.\n Hallowed ever be the place!\n Here we kissed our hearts away\n In a lovers\u2019 holiday!\n Shall I dream a greater bliss\n Than the memory of this?\n\n\n\n\nMaire, my Girl.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN K. CASEY]\n\n Over the dim blue hills\n Strays a wild river,\n Over the dim blue hills\n Rests my heart ever.\n Dearer and brighter than\n Jewels and pearl,\n Dwells she in beauty there,\n =Maire=, my girl.\n\n Down upon Claris heath\n Shines the soft berry,\n On the brown harvest tree\n Droops the red cherry.\n Sweeter thy honey lips,\n Softer the curl\n Straying adown thy cheeks,\n =Maire=, my girl.\n\n \u2019Twas on an April eve\n That I first met her;\n Many an eve shall pass\n Ere I forget her.\n Since, my young heart has been\n Wrapped in a whirl,\n Thinking and dreaming of\n =Maire=, my girl.\n\n She is too kind and fond\n Ever to grieve me,\n She has too pure a heart\n E\u2019er to deceive me.\n Were I Tryconnell\u2019s chief\n Or Desmond\u2019s earl,\n Life would be dark, wanting\n =Maire=, my girl!\n\n Over the dim blue hills\n Strays a wild river,\n Over the dim blue hills\n Rests my heart ever.\n Dearer and brighter than\n Jewels or pearl,\n Dwells she in beauty there,\n =Maire=, my girl.\n\n\n\n\nGracie Og Machree.[13]\n\n(Song of the \u201cWild Geese.\u201d)\n\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN K. CASEY]\n\n I placed the silver in her palm,\n By Inny\u2019s smiling tide,\n And vowed, ere summer time came on,\n To claim her as a bride.\n But when the summer time came on\n I dwelt beyond the sea;\n Yet still my heart is ever true\n To =Gracie Og Machree=.\n\n O bonnie are the woods of Targ,\n And green thy hills, Rathmore,\n And soft the sunlight ever falls\n On Darre\u2019s sloping shore;\n And there the eyes I love--in tears\n Shine ever mournfully,\n While I am far, and far away\n From =Gracie Og Machree=.\n\n When battle-steeds were neighing loud,\n With bright blades in the air,\n Next to my inmost heart I wore\n A bright tress of her hair.\n When stirrup-cups were lifted up\n To lips, with soldier glee,\n One toast I always fondly pledged,\n \u2019Twas =Gracie Og Machree=.\n\n\n\n\nDirge.\n\n(From \u201cThe Sea Bride.\u201d)\n\n\n[Sidenote: GEORGE DARLEY]\n\n Prayer unsaid, and mass unsung,\n Deadman\u2019s dirge must still be rung:\n Dingle-dong, the dead-bells sound!\n Mermen chant his dirge around!\n\n Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair,\n Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair:\n Dingle-dong, the dead-bells go!\n Mermen swing them to and fro!\n\n In the wormless sand shall he\n Feast for no foul glutton be:\n Dingle-dong, the dead-bells chime!\n Mermen keep the tone and time!\n\n We must with a tombstone brave\n Shut the shark out from his grave:\n Dingle-dong, the dead-bells toll!\n Mermen dirgers ring his knoll!\n\n Such a slab will we lay o\u2019er him\n All the dead shall rise before him!\n Dingle-dong, the dead-bells boom!\n Mermen lay him in his tomb!\n\n\n\n\nThe Little Black Rose.\n\n\n[Sidenote: AUBREY DE VERE]\n\n The Little Black Rose shall be red at last;\n What made it black but the March wind dry,\n And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?\n It shall redden the hills when June is nigh.\n\n The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;\n What drove her forth but the dragon-fly?\n In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,\n With her mild gold horn and slow, dark eye.\n\n The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!\n The pine long bleeding, it shall not die!\n This song is secret. Mine ear it passed\n In a wind o\u2019er the plains at Athenry.\n\n\n\n\nEpitaph.\n\n\n He roamed half round the world of woe,\n Where toil and labour never cease;\n Then dropped one little span below\n In search of peace.\n\n And now to him mild beams and showers,\n All that he needs to grace his tomb,\n From loneliest regions at all hours,\n Unsought for come.\n\n\n\n\nKilliney Far Away.\n\n\n[Sidenote: FRANCIS FAHY]\n\n To Killiney far away flies my fond heart night and day,\n To ramble light and happy through its fields and dells;\n For here life smiles in vain, and earth\u2019s a land of pain,\n While all that\u2019s bright in Erin in Killiney dwells.\n\n In Killiney in the West has a linnet sweet her nest,\n And her song makes all the wild birds in the green wood dumb;\n To the captive without cheer, it were freedom but to hear\n Such sorrow-soothing music from her fair throat come.\n\n In Killiney\u2019s bower blows a blushing, budding rose,\n With perfume of the rarest that the June day yields;\n And none who pass the way, but sighing wish that they\n Might cull that fragrant flower of the dewy fields.\n\n Through Killiney\u2019s meadows pass, on their way to early Mass,\n Like twin-stars \u2019mid the grass, two small feet bare;\n And angel-pure the heart, where the murmured Aves start\n On their wing\u00e8d way to Heaven from the chapel there.\n\n And the pride of Irish girls is the dear brown head of curls,\n The pearl white of pearls, =stoirin b\u00e0n mo chridhe=;\n As bright-browed as the dawn, and as meek-eyed as the fawn,\n And as graceful as the swan gliding on to sea.\n\n Not for jewels nor for gold, nor for hoarded wealth untold,\n Not for all that mortals hold most desired and dear,\n Would I my share forego in the loving heart aglow,\n That beats beneath the snow of her bosom fair.\n\n Soon Killiney will you weep--for I know not rest nor sleep,\n Till swiftly o\u2019er the deep I with white sails come,\n To win the linnet sweet, and the two white twinkling feet,\n And the heart with true love beating, to my far-off home.\n\n And O! farewell to care, when the rose of perfume rare,\n And the dear brown curling hair on my proud breast lie;\n Then Killiney far away, never more by night or day,\n To thy skies, or dark or grey, shall my fond heart fly.\n\n\n\n\nCean Dubh Deelish.[14]\n\n\n[Sidenote: SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON]\n\n Put your head, darling, darling, darling,\n Your darling black head my heart above;\n Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,\n Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?\n\n Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining,\n Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,\n For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;\n But I\u2019d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!\n\n Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,\n Your darling black head my heart above;\n Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,\n Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?\n\n\n\n\nMolly Asthore.\n\n\n O Mary dear! O Mary fair!\n O branch of generous stem!\n White blossom of the banks of Nair,\n Though lilies grow on them;\n You\u2019ve left me sick at heart for love,\n So faint I cannot see;\n The candle swims the board above,\n I\u2019m drunk for love of thee!\n O stately stem of maiden pride,\n My woe it is and pain\n That I thus severed from thy side\n The long night must remain.\n\n Through all the towns of Innisfail\n I\u2019ve wandered far and wide,\n But from Downpatrick to Kinsale,\n From Carlow to Kilbride,\n Many lords and dames of high degree\n Where\u2019er my feet have gone,\n My Mary, one to equal thee\n I never looked upon:\n I live in darkness and in doubt\n When\u2019er my love\u2019s away;\n But were the gracious sun put out,\n Her shadow would make day.\n\n \u2019Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss,\n As gentle as she\u2019s fair.\n Though lily-white her bosom is,\n And sunny bright her hair,\n And dewy azure her blue eye,\n And rosy red her cheek,\n Yet brighter she in modesty,\n Most beautifully meek:\n The world\u2019s wise men from north to south\n Can never cure my pain;\n But one kiss from her honey mouth\n Would make me well again.\n\n\n\n\nThe Fair Hills of Ireland.\n\n(From the Irish.)\n\n\n A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,\n =Uileacan dubh O!=\n Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;\n =Uileacan dubh O!=\n There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,\n And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;\n There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i\u2019 the yellow sand,\n On the fair hills of holy Ireland.\n\n Curled is he and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,\n =Uileacan dubh O!=\n Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;\n =Uileacan dubh O!=\n And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,\n Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,\n And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,\n For the fair hills of holy Ireland.\n\n Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;\n =Uileacan dubh O!=\n The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,\n =Uileacan dubh O!=\n The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,\n And the cuckoo\u2019s calling daily his note of music bland,\n And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i\u2019 the forest grand,\n On the fair hills of holy Ireland.\n\n\n\n\nHerring is King.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES]\n\n Let all the fish that swim the sea,\n Salmon and turbot, cod and ling,\n Bow down the head and bend the knee\n To herring, their king! to herring, their king!\n\n Sing, Hugamar f\u00e9in an sowra lin\u2019,\n \u2019Tis we have brought the summer in.[15]\n\n The sun sank down so round and red\n Upon the bay, upon the bay;\n The sails shook idly overhead,\n Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay;\n\n Sing, Hugamar, etc.\n\n Till Shawn the eagle dropped on deck,\n The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;\n \u2019Tis he has spied your silver track,\n Herring, our joy, herring, our joy;\n\n Sing, Hugamar, etc.\n\n It is in with the sails and away to shore,\n With the rise and swing, the rise and swing\n Of two stout lads at each smoking oar,\n After herring, our king! herring, our king.\n\n Sing, Hugamar, etc.\n\n The Manx and Cornish raised the shout,\n And joined the chase, and joined the chase;\n But their fleets they fouled as they went about,\n And we won the race, we won the race;\n\n Sing, Hugamar, etc.\n\n For we turned and faced you full to land,\n Down the g\u00f3leen[16] long, the g\u00f3leen long,\n And after you slipped from strand to strand\n Our nets so strong, our nets so strong;\n\n Sing, Hugamar, etc.\n\n Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives,\n \u201cCome welcome us home, welcome us home,\u201d\n Till they ran to meet us for their lives\n Into the foam, into the foam;\n\n Sing, Hugamar, etc.\n\n O kissing of hands and waving of caps\n From girl and boy, from girl and boy,\n While you leapt by scores in the lasses\u2019 laps,\n Herring our joy, herring our joy!\n\n Sing, Hugamar f\u00e9in an sowra lin\u2019,\n \u2019Tis we have brought the summer in!\n\n\n\n\nThe Rose of Kenmare.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES]\n\n I\u2019ve been soft in a small way\n On the girleens of Galway,\n And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare;\n But there\u2019s no use denyin\u2019,\n No girl I\u2019ve set eye on\n Could compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare.\n\n O, where\n Can her like be found?\n No where,\n The country round,\n Spins at her wheel\n Daughter as true,\n Sets in the reel,\n Wid a slide of the shoe\n a slinderer,\n tinderer,\n purtier,\n wittier colleen than you,\n Rose, aroo!\n\n Her hair mocks the sunshine,\n And the soft, silver moonshine\n Neck and arm of the colleen completely eclipse;\n Whilst the nose of the jewel\n Slants straight as Carran Tual\n From the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lip.\n\n O, where, etc.\n\n Did your eyes ever follow\n The wings of the swallow\n Here and there, light as air, o\u2019er the meadow field glance?\n For if not you\u2019ve no notion\n Of the exquisite motion\n Of her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance.\n\n O, where, etc.\n\n If y\u2019 inquire why the nightingale\n Still shuns th\u2019 invitin\u2019 gale\n That wafts every song-bird but her to the West,\n Faix she knows, I suppose,\n Ould Kenmare has a Rose\n That would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest\n\n O, where, etc.\n\n When her voice gives the warnin\u2019\n For the milkin\u2019 in the mornin\u2019\n Ev\u2019n the cow known for hornin\u2019, comes runnin\u2019 to her pail;\n The lambs play about her\n And the small bonneens[17] snout her\n Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail.\n\n O, where, etc.\n\n When at noon from our labour\n We draw neighbour wid neighbour\n From the heat of the sun to the shelter of the tree,\n Wid spuds[18] fresh from the bilin\u2019,\n And new milk, you come smilin\u2019,\n All the boys\u2019 hearts beguilin\u2019, alannah machree![19]\n\n O, where, etc.\n\n But there\u2019s one sweeter hour\n When the hot day is o\u2019er,\n And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above,\n And she\u2019s sittin\u2019 in the middle,\n When she\u2019s guessed Larry\u2019s riddle,\n Cries, \u201cNow for your fiddle, Shiel Dhuv, Shiel Dhuv.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES]\n\n O, where\n Can her like be found?\n No where\n The country round,\n Spins at her wheel\n Daughter as true,\n Sets in the reel,\n Wid a slide of the shoe\n a slinderer,\n tinderer,\n purtier,\n wittier colleen than you,\n Rose, aroo!\n\n\n\n\nThe Song of the Pratee.\n\n\n When after the Winter alarmin\u2019,\n The Spring steps in so charmin\u2019,\n So fresh and arch\n In the middle of March,\n Wid her hand St Patrick\u2019s arm on,\n Let us all, let us all be goin\u2019,\n Agra, to assist at your sowin\u2019,\n The girls to spread\n Your iligant bed,\n And the boys to set the hoe in.\n\n\nChorus--\n\n Then good speed to your seed! God\u2019s grace and increase.\n Never more in our need may you blacken wid the blight;\n But when summer is o\u2019er, in our gardens, asthore,\n May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.\n\n So rest and sleep, my jewel,\n Safe from the tempest cruel;\n Till violets spring\n And skylarks sing\n From Mourne to Carran Tual.\n Then wake and build your bower,\n Through April sun and shower,\n To bless the earth\n That gave you birth,\n Through many a sultry hour.\n\n\nChorus--\n\n Then good luck to your leaf. And ochone, ologone,\n Never more to our grief may it blacken wid the blight;\n But when summer is o\u2019er, in our gardens, asthore,\n May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.\n\n[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES]\n\n Thus smile with glad increasin\u2019,\n Till to St John we\u2019re raisin\u2019,\n Through Erin\u2019s isle\n The pleasant pile\n That sets the bonfire blazin\u2019.\n O \u2019tis then that the midsummer fairy,\n Abroad on his sly vagary,\n Wid purple and white,\n As he passes by night,\n Your emerald leaf shall vary.\n\n\nChorus--\n\n Then more power to your flower, and your merry green leaf!\n Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;\n But when summer is o\u2019er, in our gardens, asthore,\n May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.\n\n And once again Mavourneen,\n Some yellow autumn mornin\u2019,\n At red sunrise\n Both girls and boys\n To your garden ridge we\u2019re turnin\u2019,\n Then under your foliage fadin\u2019\n Each man of us sets his spade in,\n While the colleen bawn\n Her brown kishane[20]\n Full up wid your fruit is ladin\u2019.\n\n\nChorus--\n\n Then good luck to your leaf! more power to your flower!\n Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;\n But when summer is o\u2019er, in our gardens, asthore,\n May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.\n\n\n\n\nIrish Lullaby.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES]\n\n I\u2019d rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle\n of gold on a bough of the willow,\n To the =shoheen ho= of the wind of the west and the\n =lulla lo= of the soft sea billow.\n Sleep, baby dear,\n Sleep without fear,\n Mother is here beside your pillow.\n\n I\u2019d put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat\n on the beautiful river,\n Where a =shoheen= whisper the white cascades, and a\n =lulla lo= the green flags shiver.\n Sleep, baby dear,\n Sleep without fear,\n Mother is here with you for ever.\n\n =Lulla lo!= to the rise and fall of mother\u2019s bosom\n \u2019tis sleep has bound you,\n And O, my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest\n could love have found you?\n Sleep, baby dear,\n Sleep without fear,\n Mother\u2019s two arms are clasped around you.\n\n\n\n\nEileen Aroon.\n\n\n[Sidenote: GERALD GRIFFIN]\n\n When, like the early rose,\n Eileen Aroon!\n Beauty in childhood blows,\n Eileen Aroon!\n When, like a diadem,\n Buds blush around the stem,\n Which is the fairest gem?\n Eileen Aroon!\n\n Is it the laughing eye,\n Eileen Aroon!\n Is it the timid sigh,\n Eileen Aroon!\n Is it the tender tone,\n Soft as the stringed harp\u2019s moan?\n Oh! it is truth alone,\n Eileen Aroon!\n\n When, like the rising day,\n Eileen Aroon!\n Love sends his early ray,\n Eileen Aroon!\n What makes his dawning glow,\n Changeless through joy or woe?\n Only the constant know--\n Eileen Aroon!\n\n I know a valley fair,\n Eileen Aroon!\n I knew a cottage there,\n Eileen Aroon!\n Far in that valley\u2019s shade\n I knew a gentle maid,\n Flower of a hazel glade,\n Eileen Aroon!\n\n Who in the song so sweet?\n Eileen Aroon!\n Who in the dance so fleet?\n Eileen Aroon!\n Dear were her charms to me,\n Dearer her laughter free,\n Dearest her constancy,\n Eileen Aroon!\n\n Were she no longer true,\n Eileen Aroon!\n What should her lover do?\n Eileen Aroon!\n Fly with his broken chain\n Far o\u2019er the sounding main,\n Never to love again,\n Eileen Aroon!\n\n Youth must with time decay,\n Eileen Aroon!\n Beauty must fade away,\n Eileen Aroon!\n Castles are sacked in war,\n Chieftains are scattered far,\n Truth is a fix\u00e8d star,\n Eileen Aroon!\n\n\n\n\nThe Dark Man.\n\n\n[Sidenote: NORA HOPPER]\n\n Rose o\u2019 the world, she came to my bed\n And changed the dreams of my heart and head:\n For joy of mine she left grief of hers\n And garlanded me with the prickly furze.\n\n Rose o\u2019 the world, they go out and in,\n And watch me dream and my mother spin:\n And they pity the tears on my sleeping face\n While my soul\u2019s away in a fairy place.\n\n Rose o\u2019 the world, they have words galore,\n For wide\u2019s the swing of my mother\u2019s door:\n And soft they speak of my darkened brain,\n But what do they know of my heart\u2019s dear pain?\n\n Rose o\u2019 the world, the grief you give\n Is worth all days that a man may live:\n Is worth all prayers that the colleens say\n On the night that darkens the wedding-day.\n\n Rose o\u2019 the world, what man would wed\n When he might remember your face instead?\n Might go to his grave with the blessed pain\n Of hungering after your face again?\n\n Rose o\u2019 the world, they may talk their fill,\n But dreams are good, and my life stands still\n While the neighbours talk by their fires astir:\n But my fiddle knows: and _I_ talk to her.\n\n\n\n\nApril in Ireland.\n\n\n She hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge,\n And all her flowers are snowdrops grown on the winter\u2019s edge:\n The golden looms of Tir na n\u2019 Og wove all the winter through\n Her gown of mist and raindrops shot with a cloudy blue.\n\n Sunlight she holds in one hand, and rain she scatters after,\n And through the rainy twilight we hear her fitful laughter.\n She shakes down on her flowers the snows less white than they,\n Then quicken with her kisses the folded \u201cknots o\u2019 May.\u201d\n\n She seeks the summer-lover that never shall be hers,\n Fain for gold leaves of autumn she passes by the furze,\n Though buried gold it hideth: she scorns her sedgy crown,\n And pressing blindly sunwards she treads her snowdrops down.\n\n Her gifts are all a fardel of wayward smiles and tears,\n Yet hope she also holdeth, this daughter of the years--\n A hope that blossoms faintly set upon sorrow\u2019s edge:\n She hath a woven garland of all the sighing sedge.\n\n\n\n\nThe Wind Among the Reeds.\n\n\n[Sidenote: NORA HOPPER]\n\n Mavrone, Mavrone! the wind among the reeds.\n It calls and cries, and will not let me be;\n And all its cry is of forgotten deeds\n When men were loved of all the Daoine-Sidhe.\n\n O Shee that have forgotten how to love,\n And Shee that have forgotten how to hate,\n Asleep \u2019neath quicken boughs that no winds move,\n Come back to us ere yet it be too late.\n\n Pipe to us once again, lest we forget\n What piping means, till all the Silver Spears\n Be wild with gusty music, such as met\n Carolan once, amid the dusty years.\n\n Dance in your rings again: the yellow weeds\n You used to ride so far, mount as of old--\n Play hide-and-seek with wind among the reeds,\n And pay your scores again with fairy gold.\n\n\n\n\nMy Grief on the Sea.\n\n\n[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]\n\n My grief on the sea,\n How the waves of it roll!\n For they heave between me\n And the love of my soul!\n\n Abandoned, forsaken,\n To grief and to care,\n Will the sea ever waken\n Relief from despair?\n\n My grief, and my trouble!\n Would he and I wear,\n In the province of Leinster,\n Or County of Clare.\n\n Were I and my darling--\n O, heart-bitter wound!--\n On the board of the ship\n For America bound.\n\n On a green bed of rushes\n All last night I lay,\n And I flung it abroad\n With the heat of the day.\n\n And my love came behind me--\n He came from the South;\n His breast to my bosom\n His mouth to my mouth.\n\n\n\n\nThe Cooleen.\n\n\n[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]\n\n A honey mist on a day of frost, in a dark oak wood,\n And love for thee in my heart in me, thou bright, white, and good;\n Thy slender form, soft and warm, thy red lips apart,\n Thou hast found me, and hast bound me, and put grief in my heart.\n\n In fair-green and market, men mark thee, bright, young, and merry,\n Though thou hurt them like foes with the rose of thy blush of the berry:\n Her cheeks are a poppy, her eye it is Cupid\u2019s helper,\n But each foolish man dreams that its beams for himself are.\n\n Whoe\u2019er saw the Cooleen in a cool, dewy meadow\n On a morning in summer in sunshine and shadow;\n All the young men go wild for her, my childeen, my treasure,\n But now let them go mope, they\u2019ve no hope to possess her.\n\n Let us roam, O my darling, afar through the mountains,\n Drink milk of the goat, wine and bulcaun in fountains;\n With music and play every day from my lyre,\n And leave to come rest on my breast when you tire.\n\n\n\n\nThe Breedyeen.\n\n\n \u2019Tis the Breedyeen I love,\n All dear ones above,\n Like a star from the start\n Round my heart she did move.\n Her breast like a dove,\n Or the foam in the cove,\n With her gold locks apart,\n In my heart she put love.\n\n \u2019Tis not Venus, I say,\n Who grieved me this day,\n But the white one, the bright one,\n Who slighted my stay.\n For her I shall pray--\n I confess it--for aye,\n She\u2019s my sister, I missed her,\n When all men were gay.\n\n To the hills let us go,\n Where the raven and crow\n In dark dismal valleys\n Croak death-like and low;\n By this volume I swear,\n O bright Cool of fair hair,\n That though solitude shrieked\n I should seek for thee there.\n\n To the hills let us go,\n Where the raven and crow\n In the dark dismal valleys\n Wing silent and slow.\n There\u2019s no Joy in men\u2019s fate\n But Grief grins in the gate;\n There\u2019s no Fair without Foul,\n Without Crooked no Straight.\n\n[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]\n\n Her neck like the lime\n And her breath like the thyme,\n And her bosom untroubled\n By care or by time.\n Like a bird in the night,\n At a great blaze of light,\n Astounded and wounded\n I swoon at her sight.\n\n Since I gave thee my love,\n I gave thee my love,\n I gave thee my love,\n O thou berry so bright;\n The sun in her height\n Looked on with delight,\n And between thy two arms, may\n I die on the night.\n\n And I would that I were\n In the glens of the air,\n Or in dark dismal valleys\n Where the wildwood is bare,\n What a kiss from her there\n I should coax without care,\n From my star of the morning,\n My fairer than fair!\n\n Like a Ph\u0153nix of flame,\n Or like Helen of fame,\n Is the pearl of all pearls\n Of girls who came,\n And who kindled a flame,\n In my bosom. Thy name\n I shall rhyme thee in Irish\n And heighten thy fame.\n\n\n\n\nNelly of the Top-Knots.\n\n\n Dear God! were I fisher and\n Back in Bin\u00e9dar,\n And Nelly a fish who\n Would swim in the bay there,\n I would privately set there\n My net there to catch her,\n In Erin no maiden\n Is able to match her.\n\n And Nelly, dear God!\n Why! you should not thus flee me,\n I long to be near thee\n And hear thee and see thee,\n My hand on the Bible\n And I swearing and kneeling\n And giving thee part\n Of the heart you are stealing.\n\n I\u2019ve a fair yellow casket\n And it fastened with crystal,\n And the lock opens not\n To the shot of a pistol.\n To Jesus I pray\n And to Columbkill\u2019s Master,\n That Mary may guide thee\n Aside from disaster.\n\n We may be, O maiden\n Whom none may disparage,\n Some morning a-hearing\n The sweet mass of marriage,\n But if fate be against us,\n To rend us and push us,\n I shall mourn as the blackbird\n At eve in the bushes.\n\n[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]\n\n O God, were she with me\n Where the gull flits and tern,\n Or in Paris the smiling,\n Or an Isle in Loch Erne,\n I would coax her so well,\n I would tell her my story,\n And talk till I won her,\n My sunshine of glory.\n\n\n\n\nI shall not Die for Thee.\n\n\n[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]\n\n For thee I shall not die,\n Woman high of fame and name;\n Foolish men thou mayest slay\n I and they are not the same.\n\n Why should I expire\n For the fire of any eye,\n Slender waist or swan-like limb,\n Is\u2019t for them that I should die?\n\n The round breasts, the fresh skin,\n Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;\n Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,\n Please God, not I, for any such.\n\n The golden hair, the forehead thin,\n The chaste mien, the gracious ease,\n The rounded heel, the languid tone,\n Fools alone find death from these.\n\n Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,\n Thy thin palm like foam o\u2019 the sea;\n Thy white neck, thy blue eye,\n I shall not die for thee.\n\n Woman, graceful as the swan,\n A wise man did nurture me,\n Little palm, white neck, bright eye,\n I shall not die for ye.\n\n\n\n\nThe Red Wind.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LIONEL JOHNSON]\n\n Red Wind from out the East:\n Red Wind of blight and blood!\n Ah, when wilt thou have ceased\n Thy bitter, stormy flood?\n\n Red Wind from over sea,\n Scourging our holy land!\n What angel loosened thee\n Out of his iron hand?\n\n Red Wind! whose word of might\n Winged thee with wings of flame?\n O fire of mournful night!\n What is thy Master\u2019s name?\n\n Red Wind! who bade thee burn,\n Branding our hearts? Who bade\n Thee on and never turn\n Till waste our souls were laid?\n\n Red Wind! from out the West\n Pour Winds of Paradise:\n Winds of eternal rest,\n That weary souls entice.\n\n Wind of the East! Red Wind!\n Thou scorchest the soft breath\n Of Paradise the kind:\n Red Wind of burning death!\n\n O Red Wind! hear God\u2019s voice:\n Hear thou, and fall, and cease.\n Let Innisfail rejoice\n In her Hesperian peace.\n\n\n\n\nTo Morfydd.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LIONEL JOHNSON]\n\n A voice on the winds,\n A voice on the waters,\n Wanders and cries:\n _O what are the winds?\n And what are the waters?\n Mine are your eyes._\n\n Western the winds are,\n And western the waters,\n Where the light lies:\n _O what are the winds?\n And what are the waters?\n Mine are your eyes._\n\n Cold, cold grow the winds,\n And dark grow the waters,\n Where the sun dies:\n _O what are the winds?\n And what are the waters?\n Mine are your eyes._\n\n And down the night winds,\n And down the night waters\n The music flies:\n _O what are the winds?\n And what are the waters?\n Cold be the winds,\n And wild be the waters,\n So mine be your eyes._\n\n\n\n\nA Lament.\n\n\n[Sidenote: DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY]\n\n Youth\u2019s bright palace\n Is overthrown,\n With its diamond sceptre\n And golden throne;\n As a time-worn stone\n Its turrets are humbled,--\n All hath crumbled\n But grief alone!\n\n Whither, oh! whither\n Have fled away\n The dreams and hopes\n Of my early day?\n Ruined and grey\n Are the towers I builded;\n And the beams that gilded--\n Ah! where are they?\n\n Once this world\n Was fresh and bright,\n With its golden noon\n And its starry night;\n Glad and light,\n By mountain and river,\n Have I blessed the Giver\n With hushed delight.\n\n Youth\u2019s illusions,\n One by one,\n Have passed like clouds\n That the sun looked on.\n While morning shone,\n How purple their fringes!\n How ashy their tinges\n When that was gone!\n\n As fire-flies fade\n When the nights are damp--\n As meteors are quenched\n In a stagnant swamp--\n Thus Charlemagne\u2019s camp,\n Where the Paladins rally,\n And the Diamond Valley,\n And the Wonderful Lamp,\n\n And all the wonders\n Of Ganges and Nile,\n And Haroun\u2019s rambles,\n And Crusoe\u2019s isle,\n And Princes who smile\n On the Genii\u2019s daughters\n \u2019Neath the Orient waters\n Full many a mile,\n\n And all that the pen\n Of Fancy can write,\n Must vanish\n In manhood\u2019s misty light--\n Squire and Knight,\n And damosels\u2019 glances,\n Sunny romances\n So pure and bright!\n\n These have vanished,\n And what remains?\n Life\u2019s budding garlands\n Have turned to chains--\n Its beams and rains\n Feed but docks and thistles,\n And sorrow whistles\n O\u2019er desert plains!\n\n\n\n\nThe Fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n\n(After the Irish of DONOGH MAC CON-MARA.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN]\n\n Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth,\n And the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n And to all that yet survive of Eibhear\u2019s tribe on earth,\n On the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n In that land so delightful the wild thrush\u2019s lay--\n Seems to pour a lament forth for Eir\u00e9\u2019s delay--\n Alas! alas! why pine I a thousand miles away\n From the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n\n The soil is rich and soft--the air is mild and bland,\n Of the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land--\n O! the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove;\n Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above;\n O, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever love\n The fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n\n A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael,\n On the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n A tribe in Battle\u2019s hour unused to shrink or fail\n On the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured,\n To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword.\n Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler horde\n On the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n\n Broad and tall rise the =cruachs= in the golden morning\u2019s glow\n On the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n O\u2019er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow\n On the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n O, I long, I am pining, again to behold\n The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old;\n Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold\n Are the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n\n The dewdrops lie bright \u2019mid the grass and yellow corn\n On the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n And the sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn\n On the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below;\n The streamlets are hushed, till the evening breezes blow;\n While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow\n Near the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n\n A fruitful clime is Eir\u00e9\u2019s, through valley, meadow, plain,\n And the fair land of Eir\u00e9, O!\n The very \u201cBread of Life\u201d is in the yellow grain\n On the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields,\n Is the lowing of her kine and the calves in her fields,\n And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields\n Of the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eir\u00e9, O!\n\n\n\n\nDark Rosaleen.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN]\n\n O my dark Rosaleen,\n Do not sigh, do not weep!\n The priests are on the ocean green,\n They march along the Deep.\n There\u2019s wine ... from the royal Pope,\n Upon the ocean green;\n And Spanish ale shall give you hope,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n My own Rosaleen!\n Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,\n Shall give you health, and help, and hope,\n My dark Rosaleen.\n\n Over hills, and through dales,\n Have I roamed for your sake;\n All yesterday I sailed with sails\n On river and on lake.\n The Erne ... at its highest flood,\n I dashed across unseen,\n For there was lightning in my blood,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n My own Rosaleen!\n Oh! there was lightning in my blood,\n Red lightning lightened through my blood,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n\n All day long in unrest,\n To and fro do I move,\n The very soul within my breast\n Is wasted for you, love!\n The heart ... in my bosom faints\n To think of you my Queen,\n My life of life, my saint of saints,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n My own Rosaleen!\n To hear your sweet and sad complaints,\n My life, my love, my saint of saints,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n\n Woe and pain, pain and woe,\n Are my lot, night and noon,\n To see your bright face clouded so,\n Like to the mournful moon.\n But yet ... will I rear your throne\n Again in golden sheen;\n \u2019Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n My own Rosaleen!\n \u2019Tis you shall have the golden throne,\n \u2019Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n\n Over dews, over sands,\n Will I fly, for your weal:\n Your holy delicate white hands\n Shall girdle me with steel.\n At home ... in your emerald bowers,\n From morning\u2019s dawn till e\u2019en,\n You\u2019ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n My fond Rosaleen!\n You\u2019ll think of me through Daylight\u2019s hours,\n My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n\n I could scale the blue air,\n I could plough the high hills,\n Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer,\n To heal your many ills!\n And one ... beamy smile from you\n Would float the light between\n My toils and me, my own, my true,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n My fond Rosaleen!\n Would give me life and soul anew,\n A second life, a soul anew,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n\n O! the Erne shall run red\n With redundance of blood,\n The earth shall rock beneath our tread,\n And flames wrap hill and wood,\n And gun-peal, and slogan cry,\n Wake many a glen serene,\n Ere you shall fade, ere you can die,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n My own Rosaleen!\n The Judgment Hour must first be nigh\n Ere you can fade, ere you can die,\n My dark Rosaleen!\n\n\n\n\nThe One Mystery.\n\n\n \u2019Tis idle! we exhaust and squander\n The glittering mine of thought in vain\n All-baffled reason cannot wander,\n Beyond her chain.\n The flood of life runs dark--dark clouds\n Make lampless night around its shore:\n The dead, where are they? In their shrouds--\n Man knows no more.\n\n Evoke the ancient and the past,\n Will one illumining star arise?\n Or must the film, from first to last,\n O\u2019erspread thine eyes?\n When life, love, glory, beauty, wither,\n Will wisdom\u2019s page, or science chart,\n Map out for thee the region whither\n Their shades depart?\n\n Supposest thou the wondrous powers,\n To high imagination given,\n Pale types of what shall yet be ours,\n When earth is heaven?\n When this decaying shell is cold,\n Oh! sayest thou the soul shall climb\n What magic mount she trod of old,\n Ere childhood\u2019s time?\n\n And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled,\n Thrill once again to glory\u2019s name?\n And shall the conquering love that filled\n All earth with flame,\n Re-born, revived, renewed, immortal,\n Resume his reign in prouder might,\n A sun beyond the ebon portal,\n Of death and night?\n\n[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN]\n\n No more, no more--with aching brow,\n And restless heart, and burning brain,\n We ask the When, the Where, the How,\n And ask in vain.\n And all philosophy, all faith,\n All earthly--all celestial lore,\n Have but one voice, which only saith\n Endure--adore!\n\n\n\n\nThe Wild Geese.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ROSA MULHOLLAND]\n\n I had no sail to cross the sea,\n A brave white bird went forth from me,\n My heart was hid beneath his wing:\n O strong white bird, come back in spring!\n\n I watched the Wild Geese rise and cry\n Across the flaring western sky;\n Their winnowing pinions clove the light,\n Then vanished, and came down the night.\n\n I laid me low, my day was done,\n I longed not for the morrow\u2019s sun,\n But closely swathed in swoon of sleep,\n Forgot to hope, forgot to weep.\n\n The moon, through veils of gloomy red,\n A warm yet dusky radiance shed\n All down our valley\u2019s golden stream\n And flushed my slumber with a dream.\n\n Her mystic torch lit up my brain;\n My spirit rose and lived amain,\n And follow through the windy spray\n That bird upon its watery way.\n\n \u201cO wild white bird, O wail for me!\n My soul hath wings to fly with thee:\n On foam waves, lengthening out afar,\n We\u2019ll ride toward the western star.\n\n \u201cO\u2019er glimmering plains, through forest gloom,\n To track a wanderer\u2019s feet I come;\n \u2019Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake,\n I\u2019ll pass unfrighted for his sake.\n\n \u201cAlone, afar, his footsteps roam,\n The stars his roof, the tent his home.\n Saw\u2019st thou what way the Wild Geese flew\n To sunward through the thick night dew?\n\n[Sidenote: ROSA MULHOLLAND]\n\n \u201cCarry my soul where he abides,\n And pierce the mystery that hides\n His presence, and through time and space\n Look with mine eyes upon his face.\u201d\n\n \u201cBeside his prairie fire he rests,\n All feathered things are in their nests:\n \u2018What strange wild bird is this,\u2019 he saith,\n \u2018Still fragrant with the ocean\u2019s breath?\n\n \u201c\u2018Perch on my hand, thou briny thing,\n And let me stroke thy shy wet wing;\n What message in thy soft eye thrills?\n I see again my native hills\n\n \u201c\u2018And vale, the river\u2019s silver streak,\n The mist upon the blue, blue peak,\n The shadows grey, the golden sheaves,\n The mossy walls, the russet eaves.\n\n \u201c\u2018I greet the friends I\u2019ve loved and lost,\n Do all forget? No, tempest-tost,\n That braved for me the ocean\u2019s foam,\n Some heart remembers me at home.\n\n \u201c\u2018Ere spring\u2019s return I will be there,\n Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger!\n I wake and weep; the moon shines sweet,\n O dream too short! O bird too fleet!\u2019\u201d\n\n\n\n\nLament for a Little Child.\n\n\n[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]\n\n I am lying in the tomb, love,\n Lying in the tomb,\n Tho\u2019 I move within the gloom, love,\n Breathe within the gloom!\n Men deem life not fled, dear,\n Deem my life not fled,\n Tho\u2019 I with thee am dead, dear,\n I with thee am dead,\n O my little child!\n\n What is the grey world, darling,\n What is the grey world,\n Where the worm lies curled, darling,\n The death-worm lies curled?\n They tell me of the spring, dear!\n Do I want the spring?\n Will she waft upon her wing, dear,\n The joy-pulse of her wing,\n Thy songs, thy blossoming,\n O my little child!\n\n For the hallowing of thy smile, love,\n The rainbow of thy smile,\n Gleaming for a while, love,\n Gleaming to beguile,\n Re-plunged me in the cold, dear,\n Leaves me in the cold,\n And I feel so very old, dear,\n Very, very old!\n\n Would they put me out of pain, dear,\n Out of all my pain,\n Since I may not live again, dear,\n Never live again!\n\n I am lying in the grave, love,\n In thy little grave,\n Yet I hear the wind rave, love,\n And the wild wave!\n I would lie asleep, darling,\n With thee lie asleep,\n Unhearing the world weep, darling,\n Little children weep!\n O my little child!\n\n\n\n\nThe Swimmer.\n\n\n Yonder, lo! the tide is flowing;\n Clamber, while the breeze is blowing,\n Down to where a soft foam flusters\n Dulse and fairy feathery clusters!\n While it fills the shelly hollows,\n A swift sister-billow follows,\n Leaps in hurrying with the tide,\n Seems the lingering wave to chide;\n Both push on with eager life,\n And a gurgling show of strife.\n O the salt, refreshing air\n Shrilly blowing in the hair!\n A keen, healthful savour haunts\n Sea-shell, sea-flower, and sea-plants.\n Innocent billows on the strand\n Leave a crystal over sand,\n Whose thin ebbing soon is crossed\n By a crystal foam-enmossed,\n Variegating silver-grey\n Shell-empetalled sand in play:\n When from sand dries off the brine,\n Vanishes swift shadow fine;\n But a wet sand is a glass\n Where the plumy cloudlets pass,\n Floating islands of the blue,\n Tender, shining, fair, and true.\n\n Who would linger idle,\n Dallying would lie,\n When wind and wave, a bridal\n Celebrating, fly?\n Let him plunge among them,\n Who hath wooed enough,\n Flirted with them, sung them,\n In the salt sea-trough\n He may win them, onward\n On a buoyant crest,\n Far to seaward, sunward,\n Ocean-borne to rest!\n Wild wind will sing over him,\n And the free foam cover him,\n Swimming seaward, sunward,\n On a blithe sea-breast!\n On a blithe sea-bosom\n Swims another too,\n Swims a live sea-blossom,\n A grey-winged sea-mew!\n Grape-green all the waves are,\n By whose hurrying line\n Half of ships and caves are\n Buried under brine;\n Supple, shifting ranges\n Lucent at the crest,\n With pearly surface-changes\n Never laid to rest:\n Now a dipping gunwale\n Momently he sees,\n Now a fuming funnel,\n Or red flag in the breeze;\n Arms flung open wide,\n Lip the laughing sea;\n For playfellow, for bride,\n Claim her impetuously!\n Triumphantly exult with all the free,\n Buoyant, bounding splendour of the sea!\n And if while on the billow\n Wearily he lay,\n His awful wild playfellow\n Filled his mouth with spray,\n Reft him of his breath,\n To some far realms away\n He would float with Death;\n Wild wind would sing over him,\n And the free foam cover him,\n Waft him sleeping onward,\n Floating seaward, sunward,\n All alone with Death;\n In a realm of wondrous dreams,\n And shadow-haunted ocean gleams!\n\n\n\n\nThe Dance.\n\n\n[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]\n\n The dance! the dance!\n Maidens advance\n Your undulating charm!\n A line deploys\n Of gentle boys,\n Waving the light arm,\n Bronze, alive and warm;\n Reed flute and drum\n Sound as they come,\n Under your eyelight warm!\n\n Many a boy,\n A dancing joy,\n Many a mellow maid,\n With fireflies in the shade,\n Mingle and glide,\n Appear and hide,\n Here in a fairy glade:\n Ebb and flow\n To a music low,\n Viol, and flute and lyre,\n As melody mounts higher:\n With a merry will,\n They touch and thrill,\n Beautiful limbs of fire!\n\n Red berries, shells,\n Over bosom-dells,\n And girdles of light grass,\n May never hide\n The youthful pride\n Of beauty, ere it pass:\n Yet, ah! sweet boy and lass,\n Refrain, retire!\n Love is a fire!\n Night will pass!\n\n\n\n\nFrom \u201cThe Water-Nymph and the Boy.\u201d\n\n\n I flung me round him,\n I drew him under;\n I clung, I drowned him,\n My own white wonder....\n\n Father and mother,\n Weeping and wild,\n Came to the forest,\n Calling the child,\n Came from the palace,\n Down to the pool,\n Calling my darling,\n My beautiful!\n\n Under the water,\n Cold and so pale!\n Could it be love made\n Beauty to fail?\n\n Ah me! for mortals:\n In a few moons,\n If I had left him,\n After some Junes\n He would have faded,\n Faded away,\n He, the young monarch, whom\n All would obey,\n Fairer than day;\n Alien to springtime,\n Joyless and grey,\n He would have faded,\n Faded away,\n Moving a mockery,\n Scorned of the day!\n\n Now I have taken him\n All in his prime,\n Saved from slow poisoning\n Pitiless Time,\n Filled with his happiness,\n One with the prime,\n Saved from the cruel\n Dishonour of Time,\n Laid him, my beautiful,\n Laid him to rest,\n Loving, adorable,\n Softly to rest,\n Here in my crystalline,\n Here in my breast!\n\n\n\n\nA Casual Song.\n\n\n She sang of lovers met to play\n \u201cUnder the may bloom, under the may,\u201d\n But when I sought her face so fair,\n I found the set face of Despair.\n\n She sang of woodland leaves in spring,\n And joy of young love dallying;\n But her young eyes were all one moan,\n And Death weighed on her heart like stone.\n\n I could not ask, I know not now,\n The story of that mournful brow;\n It haunts me as it haunted then,\n A flash from fire of hell-bound men.\n\n\n\n\n\u201cThe Pity of it.\u201d\n\n\n[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]\n\n If our love may fail, Lily,\n If our love may fail,\n What will mere life avail, Lily,\n Mere life avail?\n\n Seed that promised blossom,\n Withered in the mould,\n Pale petals overblowing,\n Failing from the gold!\n\n When the fervent fingers\n Listlessly unclose,\n May the life that lingers\n Find repose, Lily,\n Find repose!\n\n Who may dream of all the music\n Only a lover hears,\n Hearkening to hearts triumphant\n Bearing down the years?\n Ah! may eternal anthems dwindle\n To a low sound of tears?\n\n Room in all the ages\n For our love to grow,\n Prayers of both demanded\n A little while ago:\n\n And now a few poor moments,\n Between life and death,\n May be proven all too ample\n For love\u2019s breath!\n\n Seed that promised blossom,\n Withered in the mould!\n Pale petals overblowing,\n Failing from the gold!\n\n I well believe the fault lay\n More with me than you,\n But I feel the shadow closing\n Cold about us two.\n\n An hour may yet be yielded us,\n Or a very little more--\n Then a few tears, and silence\n For evermore, Lily,\n For evermore!\n\n\n\n\nThe Old.\n\n\n[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]\n\n They are waiting on the shore\n For the bark to take them home;\n They will toil and grieve no more;\n The hour for release hath come.\n\n All their long life lies behind,\n Like a dimly blending dream;\n There is nothing left to bind\n To the realms that only seem.\n\n They are waiting for the boat,\n There is nothing left to do;\n What was near them grows remote,\n Happy silence falls like dew;\n Now the shadowy bark is come,\n And the weary may go home.\n\n By still water they would rest,\n In the shadow of the tree;\n After battle sleep is best,\n After noise tranquillity.\n\n\n\n\nMaura Du of Ballyshannon.\n\n[Sidenote: CHARLES P. O\u2019CONOR]\n\n\nI.\n\n =Maura du=[21] of Ballyshannon!\n =Maura du=, my flower of flowers!\n Can you hear me there out seaward,\n Calling back the bygone hours?\n =Maura du=, my own, my honey!\n With wild passion still aglow,\n I am singing you the old songs\n That I sung you long ago.\n And you mind, love, how it ran on--\n \u201cIn your eyes =asthore machree=![22]\n All my Heaven there I see,\n And that\u2019s true!\n =Maura du=!\n =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!\u201d\n\n\nII.\n\n =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!\n =Maura du=, my soul\u2019s one queen!\n Big with love my heart is flying,\n Where the grass is growing green.\n =Maura du=, my own, my honey!\n That I love you, well you know,\n And still sing for you the old song,\n That I sung you long ago.\n And you mind, love, how it ran on--\n \u201cIn your eyes =asthore machree=!\n All my Heaven there I see,\n And that\u2019s true!\n =Maura du=!\n =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!\u201d\n\n\n[Sidenote: CHARLES P. O\u2019CONOR]\n\nIII.\n\n =Maura du= of Ballyshannon,\n =Maura du=, the day is drear!\n Ah, the night is long and weary,\n Far away from you, my dear!\n =Maura du=, my own, my honey!\n Still let winds blow high or low,\n I must sing to you the old song,\n That I sung you long ago,\n And you mind, love, how it ran on--\n \u201cIn your eyes =asthore machree=!\n All my Heaven there I see,\n And that\u2019s true!\n =Maura du=!\n =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!\u201d\n\n\nIV.\n\n =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!\n =Maura du=, when winds blow south,\n I will with the birds fly homeward,\n There to kiss your Irish mouth.\n =Maura du=, my own, my honey!\n When time is no longer foe,\n By your side I\u2019ll sing the old song,\n That I sung you long ago,\n And you mind, love, how it ran on--\n \u201cIn your eyes =asthore machree=!\n All my Heaven there I see,\n And that\u2019s true!\n =Maura du=!\n =Maura du= of Ballyshannon!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nA Spinning Song.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN FRANCIS O\u2019DONNELL]\n\n My love to fight the Saxon goes,\n And bravely shines his sword of steel,\n A heron\u2019s feather decks his brows,\n And a spur on either heel;\n His steed is blacker than a sloe,\n And fleeter than the falling star;\n Amid the surging ranks he\u2019ll go\n And shout for joy of war.\n\n Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle,\n Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love\u2019s coat of steel.\n Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties\n To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.\n\n My love is pledged to Ireland\u2019s fight;\n My love would die for Ireland\u2019s weal,\n To win her back her ancient right,\n And make her foemen reel.\n Oh, close I\u2019ll clasp him to my breast\n When homeward from the war he comes;\n The fires shall light the mountain\u2019s crest,\n The valley peal with drums.\n\n Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle,\n Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love\u2019s coat of steel.\n Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties\n To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.\n\n\n\n\nA White Rose.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN BOYLE O\u2019REILLY]\n\n The red rose whispers of passion,\n And the white rose breathes of love;\n Oh, the red rose is a falcon,\n And the white rose is a dove.\n\n But I send you a cream-white rosebud\n With a flush on its petal tips;\n For the love that is purest and sweetest\n Has a kiss of desire on the lips.\n\n\n\n\nThe Fountain of Tears.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ARTHUR O\u2019SHAUGHNESSY]\n\n If you go over desert and mountain,\n Far into the country of Sorrow,\n To-day and to-night and to-morrow,\n And maybe for months and for years;\n You shall come with a heart that is bursting\n For trouble and toiling and thirsting,\n You shall certainly come to the fountain\n At length,--to the Fountain of Tears.\n\n Very peaceful the place is, and solely\n For piteous lamenting and sighing,\n And those who come living or dying\n Alike from their hopes and their fears;\n Full of Cyprus-like shadows the place is,\n And statues that cover their faces:\n But out of the gloom springs the holy\n And beautiful Fountain of Tears.\n\n And it flows and it flows with a motion,\n So gentle and lovely and listless,\n And murmurs a tune so resistless\n To him who hath suffered and hears--\n You shall surely--without a word spoken,\n Kneel down there and know your heart broken,\n And yield to the long-curb\u2019d emotion\n That day by the Fountain of Tears.\n\n For it grows and it grows, as though leaping\n Up higher the more one is thinking;\n And even its tunes go on sinking\n More poignantly into the ears:\n Yea, so bless\u00e8d and good seems that fountain,\n Reached after dry desert and mountain,\n You shall fall down at length in your weeping\n And bathe your sad face in the tears.\n\n[Sidenote: ARTHUR O\u2019SHAUGHNESSY]\n\n Then, alas! while you lie there a season,\n And sob between living and dying,\n And give up the land you were trying\n To find \u2019mid your hopes and your fears;\n --O the world shall come up and pass o\u2019er you,\n Strong men shall not stay to care for you,\n Nor wonder indeed for what reason\n Your way should seem harder than theirs.\n\n But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting\n Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses,\n Nor caring to raise your wet tresses\n And look how the cold world appears,--\n O perhaps the mere silences round you\n All things in that place grief hath found you,\n Yea, e\u2019en to the clouds o\u2019er you drifting\n May soothe you somewhat through your tears.\n\n You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes\n Your face, as though someone had kissed you;\n Or think at least some one who missed you\n Hath sent you a thought,--if that cheers;\n Or a bird\u2019s little song faint and broken,\n May pass for a tender word spoken:\n --Enough, while around you there rushes\n That life-drowning torrent of tears.\n\n And the tears shall flow faster and faster,\n Brim over, and baffle resistance,\n And roll down bleared roads to each distance\n Of past desolation and years;\n Till they cover the place of each sorrow,\n And leave you no Past and no Morrow:\n For what man is able to master\n And stem the great Fountain of Tears?\n\n But the floods of the tears meet and gather;\n The sound of them all grows like thunder:\n --O into what bosom, I wonder,\n Is poured the whole sorrow of years?\n For Eternity only seems keeping\n Account of the great human weeping:\n May God then, the Maker and Father--\n May he find a place for the tears!\n\n\n\n\nAfter Death.\n\n\n[Sidenote: FANNY PARNELL]\n\n Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine\n eyes behold thy glory?\n Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze\n break at last upon thy story?\n\n When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a sweet\n new sister hail thee,\n Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, that\n have known but to bewail thee?\n\n Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, when all men\n their tribute bring thee?\n Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor, when all\n poets\u2019 mouths shall sing thee?\n\n Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shouting of thy exiled\n sons returning!\n I should hear, tho\u2019 dead and mouldered, and the grave-damps\n should not chill my bosom\u2019s burning.\n\n Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them \u2019mid the\n shamrocks and the mosses,\n And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver as a\n captive dreamer tosses.\n\n I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, giant sinews\n I should borrow--\n Crying, \u201cO my brothers, I have also loved her in her loneliness\n and sorrow.\n\n \u201cLet me join with you the jubilant procession: let me chant\n with you her story;\n Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, now mine eyes\n have seen her glory!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nThe Dead at Clonmacnois.\n\n(From the Irish of Enoch o\u2019 Gillan.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: T. W. ROLLESTON]\n\n In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,\n Stands Saint Kieran\u2019s City fair;\n And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations\n Slumber there.\n\n There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest of the\n Clan of Conn,\n Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham\n And the sacred knot thereon.\n\n There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,\n There the sons of Cairbr\u00e8 sleep--\n Battle banners of the Gael, that in Kieran\u2019s plain of crosses\n Now their final posting keep.\n\n And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,\n And right many a lord of Breagh;\n Deep the sod above Clan Creid\u00e8 and Clan Conaill,\n Kind in hall and fierce in fray.\n\n Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter\n In the red earth lies at rest;\n Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,\n Many a swan-white breast.\n\n\n\n\nUnknown Ideal.\n\n\n[Sidenote: DORA SIGERSON]\n\n Whose is the voice that will not let me rest?\n I hear it speak.\n Where is the shore will gratify my quest,\n Show what I seek?\n Not yours, weak Muse, to mimic that far voice,\n With halting tongue;\n No peace, sweet land, to bid my heart rejoice\n Your groves among.\n\n Whose is the loveliness I know is by,\n Yet cannot place?\n Is it perfection of the sea or sky,\n Or human face?\n Not yours, my pencil, to delineate\n The splendid smile!\n Blind in the sun, we struggle on with Fate\n That glows the while.\n\n Whose are the feet that pass me, echoing\n On unknown ways?\n Whose are the lips that only part to sing\n Through all my days?\n Not yours, fond youth, to fill mine eager eyes\n That still adore\n Beauty that tarries not, nor satisfies\n For evermore.\n\n\n\n\nMo C\u00e1ilin Donn.\n\n\n[Sidenote: GEORGE SIGERSON]\n\n The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree,\n And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are carolling their glee;\n And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun,\n All to deck a path of glory for my own =C\u00e1ilin Donn=![23]\n\n O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!\n More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree,\n More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,\n Is the coming of my true love--my own =C\u00e1ilin Donn=!\n\n O Sycamore! O Sycamore! wave, wave your banners green--\n Let all your pennons flutter, O Beech! before my queen!\n Ye fleet and honied breezes, to kiss her hand ye run;\n But my heart has passed before ye to my own =C\u00e1ilin Donn=!\n\n O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!\n\n Ring out, ring out, O Linden! your merry leafy bells!\n Unveil your brilliant torches, O Chestnut! to the dells;\n Strew, strew the glade with splendour, for morn it cometh on!\n Oh, the morn of all delight to me--my own =C\u00e1ilin Donn=!\n\n O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!\n\n[Sidenote: GEORGE SIGERSON]\n\n She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day;\n There\u2019s a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away;\n O, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of Freedom\u2019s won,\n Is the joy around your footsteps, my own =C\u00e1ilin Donn=!\n\n O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!\n More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree,\n More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,\n Is your coming, O my true love--my own =C\u00e1ilin Donn=!\n\n\n\n\nAn Irish Love Song.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER]\n\n O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,\n Girl of my choice, Maureen!\n Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy sweet mouth denies,\n Maureen!\n\n Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,\n White rose of the West, Maureen;\n For it\u2019s pale you are, and the fear that\u2019s on you is over me too,\n Maureen!\n\n Sure it\u2019s our complaint that\u2019s on us, =asthore=, this day,\n Bride of my dreams, Maureen;\n The smart of the bee that stung us, his honey must cure, they say,\n Maureen!\n\n I\u2019ll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,\n =Mavourneen=, my own Maureen,\n When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arms\u2019 embrace,\n Maureen!\n\n O where was the King o\u2019 the World that day--only me,\n My one true love, Maureen,\n And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, =machree=,\n Maureen!\n\n\n\n\nThe Sunburst.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER]\n\n Through the midnight of despair, I heard one making moan\n For her dead, her victors fall\u2019n to gain all battles but her own;\n I heard the voice of Ireland, wailing for her dead\n With wailing unavailing, and sobbing as she said:\n \u201cIn vain in many a battle have my heroes fought and bled,\n Like water, in vain slaughter, my sons\u2019 best blood been shed,\n For my house is desolate, discrowned my head!\n\n \u201cIn vain my daughters bear their babes--babes with the mournful eyes\n Of children without father that hear strange lullabies,\n Rocked in their lonely cradles by mothers crooning low,\n And weeping o\u2019er their sleeping, sad songs of long ago;\n Whose eyes, as they remember, while the wailing night-winds blow,\n Their nation\u2019s desolation, in their singing overflow\n With the overflowing of an ancient woe!\u201d\n\n O Mother, mournful Mother, turn from wailing for thy dead,\n Grey Sibyl, still unvanquished, lift up thy dauntless head,\n O thou Swan among the nations, enchanted long, so long\n That the story of thy glory is a half-forgotten song,\n Lift thy voice and bless the living, thy sons who round thee throng!\n In the hour of their power they shall right thine ancient wrong;\n In thyself is thy salvation, let thy heart be strong!\n\n The Leaf of many Sorrows, wet with thy tears for dew,\n Emblem of thy long patience; that hearts, as brave and true\n As those united hearts of green, through infamy and scorn,\n Through the nation\u2019s tribulations, like Saints the cross, have worn,\n We\u2019ll blazon with the Sunburst, star of thy destined morn,\n Set in hope\u2019s hue, our ancient blue on royal banners borne;\n And green the Shamrock long shall shine, no more forlorn!\n\n\n\n\nSong.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER]\n\n Bring from the craggy haunts of birch and pine.\n Thou wild wind, bring\n Keen forest odours from that realm of thine,\n Upon thy wing!\n\n O wind, O mighty, melancholy wind,\n Blow through me, blow!\n Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind,\n From long ago.\n\n\n\n\nWinter Sunset.\n\n\n[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]\n\n Roses in the sky,\n Roses in the sea;\n Bowers of scarlet sky-roses;\n Take my heart and me.\n\n God was good to make,\n This December weather,\n All this sky a rose-garden,\n Rose and fire together.\n\n To the East are burning\n Roses in a garden,\n Roses in a rosy field,\n Hesper for their warden.\n\n Yonder to the West\n Roses all afire,\n Mirror now some rare splendid\n Rose of their desire.\n\n Pulsing deeper, deeper,\n Waves of fire throb on,\n Never were such red roses\n At sunset or dawn.\n\n Roses on the hills,\n Roses in the hollow,\n Roses on the wet hedges,\n In the shining fallow.\n\n West wind, blow and blow!\n That has blown ajar\n Gates of God\u2019s great rose-garden,\n Where His Angels are,\n\n Gathering up the rose-leaves\n For a shower of roses\n On the night the Lord Babe\n His sweet eye uncloses.\n\n[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]\n\n All the sky is scarlet\n Flaming on the azure.\n O, there\u2019s fire in Heaven!\n My heart aches with pleasure.\n\n Leagues of rose and scarlet,\n Roses red as blood:\n All the world\u2019s a rose-garden.\n God is good, is good.\n\n\n\n\nShamrock Song.\n\n\n O, the red rose may be fair,\n And the lily statelier;\n But my shamrock, one in three,\n Takes the very heart of me!\n\n Many a lover hath the rose\n When June\u2019s musk-wind breathes and blows:\n And in many a bower is heard\n Her sweet praise from bee and bird.\n\n Through the gold hours dreameth she,\n In her warm heart passionately,\n Her fair face hung languid-wise:\n O, her breath of honey and spice!\n\n Like a fair saint virginal\n Stands your lily, silver and tall;\n Over all the flowers that be\n Is my shamrock dear to me.\n\n Shines the lily like the sun,\n Crystal-pure, a cold, sweet nun;\n With her austere lip she sings\n To her heart of heavenly things.\n\n Gazeth through a night of June\n To her sister-saint, the moon;\n With the stars communeth long\n Of the angels and their song.\n\n But when summer died last year\n Rose and lily died with her;\n Shamrock stayeth every day,\n Be the winds or gold or grey.\n\n Irish hills, as grey as the dove,\n Know the little plant I love;\n Warm and fair it mantles them\n Stretching down from throat to hem.\n\n[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]\n\n And it laughs o\u2019er many a vale,\n Sheltered safe from storm and gale;\n Sky and sun and stars thereof\n Love the gentle plant I love.\n\n Soft it clothes the ruined floor\n Of many an abbey, grey and hoar,\n And the still home of the dead\n With its green is carpeted.\n\n Roses for an hour of love,\n With the joy and pain thereof:\n Stand my lilies white to see\n All for prayer and purity.\n\n These are white as the harvest moon,\n Roses flush like the heart of June;\n But my shamrock, brave and gay,\n Glads the tired eyes every day.\n\n O, the red rose shineth rare,\n And the lily saintly fair;\n But my shamrock, one in three,\n Takes the inmost heart of me!\n\n\n\n\nWild Geese.\n\n(A Lament for the Irish Jacobites.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]\n\n I have heard the curlew crying\n On a lonely moor and mere;\n And the sea-gull\u2019s shriek in the gloaming\n Is a lonely sound in the ear:\n And I\u2019ve heard the brown thrush mourning\n For her children stolen away;--\n But it\u2019s O for the homeless Wild Geese\n That sailed ere the dawn of day!\n\n For the curlew out on the moorland\n Hath five fine eggs in the nest;\n And the thrush will get her a new love\n And sing her song with the best.\n As the swallow flies to the Summer\n Will the gull return to the sea:\n But never the wings of the Wild Geese\n Will flash over seas to me.\n\n And \u2019tis ill to be roaming, roaming\n With homesick heart in the breast!\n And how long I\u2019ve looked for your coming,\n And my heart is the empty nest!\n O sore in the land of the stranger\n They\u2019ll pine for the land far away!\n But day of Aughrim, my sorrow,\n It was you was the bitter day!\n\n\n\n\nDreams.\n\n\n[Sidenote: CHARLES WEEKES]\n\n I troubled in my dream. I knew\n The silent gates and walls.\n Around me out of shadow grew\n The steady waterfalls.\n Afar the raven spot-like flew\n Where nothing wakes or calls.\n\n I fell on deeper trance. I was\n Where all the dead are hid.\n They dreamed. They did not sleep, because\n They saw with lifted lid.\n They worked with neither word nor pause:\n I knew not what they did.\n\n I stood there with the dead in hell\n Dreaming, and heard no moan.\n The light died, and the darkness fell\n About me like a stone.\n I woke upon the midnight bell\n In God\u2019s dream here alone.\n\n\n\n\nPoppies.\n\n\n[Sidenote: CHARLES WEEKES]\n\n The sudden night is here at once:\n The lost lamb cries and runs and stands,\n For all the poppy cups are hands\n To seize and take him when he runs.\n\n The dusky cups are blood colour;\n And like a cup of blood this one\n To drink, and be with Babylon,\n And love and kiss the lips of her.--\n\n =Thy sins as snow!=--just then it burned\n The dark--a flaming face and bust;\n And just beneath here in the dust\n The Scarlet Woman laughed and turned.\n\n\n\n\nThey went forth to the Battle, but they always fell.\n\n\n[Sidenote: W. B. YEATS]\n\n Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World,\n The tall thought-woven sails that flap unfurled\n Above the tide of hours, rise on the air,\n And God\u2019s bell buoyed to be the waters\u2019 care,\n And pressing on, or lingering slow with fear,\n The throngs with blown wet hair are gathering near\n \u201cTurn if ye may,\u201d I call out to each one,\n \u201cFrom the grey ships and battles never won.\n Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace,\n For him who hears Love sing and never cease\n Beside her clean swept hearth, her quiet shade;\n But gather all for whom no Love hath made\n A woven silence, or but came to cast\n A song into the air, and singing past\n To smile upon her stars; and gather you,\n Who have sought more than is in rain or dew,\n Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,\n Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,\n Or comes in laughter from the sea\u2019s sad lips,\n And wage God\u2019s battles in the long grey ships.\n The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,\n To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell,\n God\u2019s bell has claimed them by the little cry\n Of their sad hearts that may not live nor die.\u201d\n\n Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World,\n You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled\n Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring\n The bell that calls us on--the sweet far thing.\n Beauty grown sad with its eternity,\n Made you of us and of the dim grey sea.\n Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,\n For God has bid them share an equal fate;\n And when at last defeated in His wars,\n They have gone down under the same white stars,\n We shall no longer hear the little cry\n Of our sad hearts that may not live nor die.\n\n\n\n\nThe White Birds.\n\n\n[Sidenote: W. B. YEATS]\n\n I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea,\n We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can pass by and flee;\n And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the\n rim of the sky,\n Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that never may die.\n\n A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew dabbled, the lily and rose,\n Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,\n Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall\n of the dew:\n For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering\n foam--I and you.\n\n I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,\n Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more,\n Soon far from the rose and the lily, and the fret of the\n flames would we be,\n Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea.\n\n\n\n\nThe Lake of Innisfree.\n\n\n[Sidenote: W. B. YEATS]\n\n I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,\n And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;\n Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,\n And live alone in the bee-loud glade.\n\n And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,\n Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;\n There midnight\u2019s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,\n And evening full of the linnet\u2019s wings.\n\n I will arise and go now, for always night and day\n I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;\n While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements gray,\n I hear it in the deep heart\u2019s core.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nSCOTO-CELTIC\n\n(Middle Period)\n\n\n\n\nFrom the \u201cSean Dana.\u201d\n\nPrologue to Gaul.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC]\n\n How mournful is the silence of Night\n When she pours her dark clouds over the valleys!\n Sleep has overcome the youth of the chase:\n He slumbers on the heath, and his dog at his knee.\n The children of the mountain he pursues\n In his dream, while sleep forsakes him.\n\n Slumber, ye children of fatigue;\n Star after star is now ascending the height.\n Slumber! thou swift dog and nimble,--\n Ossian will arouse thee not from thy repose.\n Lonely I keep watch,--\n And dear to me is the gloom of night\n When I travel from glen to glen,\n With no hope to behold a morning or brightness.\n\n Spare thy light, O Sun!\n Waste not thy lamps so fast.\n Generous is thy soul, as the King of Morven\u2019s:\n But thy renown shall yet fade;--\n Spare thy lamps of a thousand flames\n In thy blue hall, when thou retirest\n Under thy dark-blue gates to sleep,\n Beneath the dark embraces of the storm.\n Spare them, ere thou art forsaken for ever,\n As I am, without one whom I may love!\n Spare them,--for there is not a hero now\n To behold the blue flame of the beautiful lamps!\n\n Ah, Cona of the precious lights,\n Thy lamps burn dimly now:\n Thou art like a blasted oak:\n Thy dwellings and thy people are gone\n East or west, on the face of thy mountain,\n There shall no more be found of them but the trace!\n In Selma, Tara, or Temora\n There is not a song, a shell, or a harp;\n They have all become green mounds;\n Their stones have fallen into their own meadows;\n The stranger from the deep or the desert\n Will never behold them rise above the clouds.\n\n And, O Selma! home of my delight,\n Is this heap my ruin,\n Where grows the thistle, the heather, and the wild grass?\n\n\n\n\nIn Hebrid Seas.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC]\n\n We turned her prow into the sea,\n Her stern into the shore,\n And first we raised the tall tough masts,\n And then the canvas hoar;\n\n Fast filled our towering cloud-like sails,\n For the wind came from the land,\n And such a wind as we might choose\n Were the winds at our command:\n\n A breeze that rushing down the hill\n Would strip the blooming heather,\n Or, rustling through the green-clad grove,\n Would whirl its leaves together.\n\n But when it seized the aged saugh,\n With the light locks of grey,\n It tore away its ancient root,\n And there the old trunk lay!\n\n It raised the thatch too from the roof,\n And scattered it along;\n Then tossed and whirled it through the air,\n Singing a pleasant song.\n\n It heaped the ruins on the land:\n Though sire and son stood by\n They could no help afford, but gaze\n With wan and troubled eye!\n\n A flap, a flash, the green roll dashed,\n And laughed against the red;\n Upon our boards, now here, now there,\n It knocked its foamy head.\n\n The dun bowed whelk in the abyss,\n As on the galley bore,\n Gave a tap upon her gunwale\n And a slap upon her floor.\n\n She could have split a slender straw--\n So clean and well she went--\n As still obedient to the helm\n Her stately course she bent.\n\n We watched the big beast eat the small--\n The small beast nimbly fly,\n And listened to the plunging eels--\n The sea-gull\u2019s clang on high.\n\n We had no other music\n To cheer us on our way:\n Till round those sheltering hills we passed\n And anchored in this bay.\n\n\n\n\nCumha Ghriogair Mhic Griogair.\n\n(The Lament of Gregor MacGregor.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC]\n\n Early on a Lammas morning,\n With my husband was I gay;\n But my heart got sorely wounded\n Ere the middle of the day.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri\n Though I cry, my child, with thee--\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,\n Now he hears not thee nor me!\n\n Malison on judge and kindred,\n They have wrought me mickle woe;\n With deceit they came about us,--\n Through deceit they laid him low.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n Had they met but twelve MacGregors,\n With my Gregor at their head;\n Now my child had not been orphaned,\n Nor these bitter tears been shed.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n On an oaken block they laid him,\n And they spilt his blood around;\n I\u2019d have drunk it in a goblet\n Largely, ere it reached the ground.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n Would my father then had sickened--\n Colin, with the plague been ill;\n Though Rory\u2019s daughter, in her anguish,\n Smote her palms, and cried her fill.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n I could Colin shut in prison,\n And black Duncan put in ward,--\n Every Campbell now in Bealach,\n Bind with handcuffs, close and hard.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n When I reached the plain of Bealach,\n I got there no rest, nor calm;\n But my hair I tore in pieces,--\n Wore the skin from off each palm!\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n Oh! could I fly up with the skylark--\n Had I Gregor\u2019s strength in hand;\n The highest stone that\u2019s in yon castle\n Should lie lowest on the land.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n Would I saw Finlarig blazing,\n And the smoke of Bealach smelled,\n So that fair, soft-handed Gregor\n In these arms once more I held.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n While the rest have all got lovers\n Now a lover have I none;\n My fair blossom, fresh and fragrant,\n Withers on the ground alone.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n While all other wives the night-time\n Pass in slumber\u2019s balmy bands,\n I upon my bedside weary,\n Never cease to wring my hands.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC]\n\n For, far better be with Gregor\n Where the heather\u2019s in its prime,\n Than with mean and Lowland barons\n In a house of stone and lime.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n Greatly better be with Gregor\n In a mantle rude and torn,\n Than with little Lowland barons\n Where fine silk and lace are worn.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n Though it rained and roared together,\n All throughout the stormy day,\n Gregor, in a crag, could find me\n A kind shelter where to stay.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.\n\n Bahu, bahu, little nursling--\n Oh! so tender now and weak;\n I fear the day will never brighten\n When revenge for him you\u2019ll seek.\n\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,\n Though I cry, my child, with thee--\n Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,\n Yet he hears not thee nor me!\n\n\n\n\nDrowned.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC]\n\n No wonder my heart it is sore,\n No wonder the tears that I weep;\n My true love I\u2019ll see him no more,\n He lies fathoms down in the deep.\n\n He lies fathoms down in the deep,\n Where the cold clammy seaweeds abound.\n How cruel thy wild waves to me,\n O sea that my true love hast drowned!\n\n O sea that my true love hast drowned,\n Thou hast reft me of joy evermore;\n Thy waves make me shudder with fear\n As I listen and hear their wild roar.\n\n My true love and I, hand in hand,\n Often wandered the uplands among,\n Where the wild flowers are freshest to see,\n And the wild birds are freest of song;\n\n But alas for the days that are gone,\n Alas for my sorrow and me!\n Alas that my true love is drowned\n Fathoms down in the depths of the sea!\n\n\n\n\nThe Manning of the Birlinn.\n\nThe Sailing.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ALEXANDER MACDONALD]\n\n The sun had opened golden yellow,\n From his case,\n Though still the sky wore dark and drumly\n A scarr\u2019d and frowning face:\n Then troubled, tawny, dense, dun-bellied,\n Scowling and sea-blue,\n Every dye that\u2019s in the tartan\n O\u2019er it grew.\n Far away to the wild westward\n Grim it lowered,\n Where rain-charged clouds on thick squalls wandering\n Loomed and towered.\n Up they raised the speckled sails through\n Cloud-like light,\n And stretched them on the mighty halyards,\n Tense and tight.\n High on the mast so tall and stately--\n Dark-red in hue--\n They set them firmly, set them surely,\n Set them true.\n Round the iron pegs the ropes ran,\n Each its right ring through;\n Thus having ranged the tackle rarely,\n Well and carefully,\n Every man sat waiting bravely,\n Where he ought to be.\n For now the airy windows opened,\n And from spots of bluish grey\n Let loose the keen and crabbed wild winds--\n A fierce band were they--\n \u2019Twas then his dark cloak the ocean\n Round him drew.\n Dusky, livid, ruffling, whirling,\n Round at first it flew,\n Till up he swell\u2019d to mountains, or to glens,\n Dishevelled, rough, sank down--\n While the kicking, tossing waters\n All in hills had grown.\n Its blue depth opened in huge maws,\n Wild and devouring,\n Down which, clasped in deadly struggles,\n Fierce strong waves were pouring.\n It took a man to look the storm-winds\n Right in the face--\n As they lit up the sparkling spray on every surge-hill,\n In their fiery race.\n The waves before us, shrilly yelling,\n Raised their high heads hoar,\n While those behind, with moaning trumpets,\n Gave a bellowing roar.\n When we rose up aloft, majestic,\n On the heaving swell,\n Need was to pull in our canvas\n Smart and well:\n When she sank down with one huge swallow\n In the hollow glen,\n Every sail she bore aloft\n Was given to her then.\n The drizzling surges high and roaring\n Rush\u2019d on us louting,\n Long ere they were near us come,\n We heard their shouting:--\n They roll\u2019d sweeping up the little waves\n Scourging them bare,\n Till all became one threatening swell,\n Our steersman\u2019s care.\n When down we fell from off the billows\u2019\n Towering shaggy edge,\n Our keel was well-nigh hurled against\n The shells and sedge;\n The whole sea was lashing, dashing,\n All through other:\n It kept the seals and mightiest monsters\n In a pother!\n The fury and the surging of the water,\n And our good ship\u2019s swift way\n Spatter\u2019d their white brains on each billow,\n Livid and grey.\n With piteous wailing and complaining\n All the storm-tossed horde,\n Shouted out \u201cWe\u2019re now your subjects;\n Drag us on board.\u201d\n And the small fish of the ocean\n Turn\u2019d over their white breast--\n Dead, innumerable, with the raging\n Of the furious sea\u2019s unrest.\n The stones and shells of the deep channel\n Were in motion;\n Swept from out their lowly bed\n By the tumult of the ocean;\n Till the sea, like a great mess of pottage,\n Troubled, muddy grew\n With the blood of many mangled creatures,\n Dirty red in hue--\n When the horn\u2019d and clawy wild beasts,\n Short-footed, splay,\n With great wailing gumless mouths\n Huge and wide open lay.\n But the whole deep was full of spectres,\n Loose and sprawling\n With the claws and with the tails of monsters,\n Pawing, squalling.\n It was frightful even to hear them\n Screech so loudly;\n The sound might move full fifty heroes\n Stepping proudly.\n Our whole crew grew dull of hearing\n In the tempest\u2019s scowl,\n So sharp the quavering cries of demons\n And the wild beasts\u2019 howl.\n With the oaken planks the weltering waves were wrestling\n In their noisy splashing;\n While the sharp beak of our swift ship\n On the sea-pigs came dashing.\n The wind kept still renewing all its wildness\n In the far West,\n Till with every kind of strain and trouble\n We were sore distress\u2019d.\n We were blinded with the water\n Showering o\u2019er us ever;\n And the awful night like thunder,\n And the lightning ceasing never.\n The bright fireballs in our tackling\n Flamed and smoked;\n With the smell of burning brimstone\n We were well-nigh choked.\n All the elements above, below,\n Against us wrought;\n Earth and wind and fire and water,\n With us fought.\n But when the evil one defied the sea\n To make us yield,\n At last, with one bright smile of pity,\n Peace with us she seal\u2019d:\n Yet not before our yards were injured,\n And our sails were rent,\n Our poops were strained, our oars were weaken\u2019d,\n All our masts were bent.\n Not a stay but we had started,\n Our tackling all was wet and splashy,\n Nails and couplings, twisted, broken.\n Feeshie, fashie,\n All the thwarts and all the gunwale\n Everywhere confess\u2019d,\n And all above and all below,\n How sore they had been press\u2019d.\n Not a bracket, not a rib,\n But the storm had loosed;\n Fore and aft from stem to stern,\n All had got confused.\n Not a tiller but was split,\n And the helm was wounded;\n Every board its own complaint\n Sadly sounded.\n Every trennel, every fastening\n Had been giving way;\n Not a board remain\u2019d as firm\n As at the break of day.\n Not a bolt in her but started,\n Not a rope the wind that bore,\n Not a part of the whole vessel\n But was weaker than before.\n The sea spoke to us its peace prattle\n At the cross of Islay\u2019s Kyle,\n And the rough wind, bitter boaster!\n Was restrained for one good while.\n The tempest rose from off us into places\n Lofty in the upper air,\n And after all its noisy barking\n Ruffled round us fair.\n Then we gave thanks to the High King,\n Who rein\u2019d the wind\u2019s rude breath,\n And saved our good Clan Ranald\n From a bad and brutal death.\n Then we furl\u2019d up the fine and speckled sails\n Of linen wide,\n And we took down the smooth red dainty masts,\n And laid them by the side--\n On our long and slender polish\u2019d oars\n Together leaning--\n They were all made of the fir cut by Mac Barais\n In Eilean Fionain--\n We went with our smooth, dashing rowing,\n And steady shock,\n Till we reach\u2019d the good port round the point\n Of Fergus\u2019 Rock.\n There casting anchor peacefully\n We calmly rode;\n We got meat and drink in plenty,\n And there we abode.\n\n\n\n\nThe Lament of the Deer.\n\n(Cumha nam Fiadh.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: ANGUS MACKENZIE]\n\n O for my strength! once more to see the hills!\n The wilds of Strath-Farar of stags,\n The blue streams, and winding vales,\n Where the flowering tree sends forth its sweet perfume.\n\n My thoughts are sad and dark!--\n I lament the forest where I loved to roam,\n The secret corries, the haunt of hinds,\n Where often I watched them on the hill!\n\n Corrie-Garave! O that I was within thy bosom\n Scuir-na-L\u00e0paich of steeps, with thy shelter,\n Where feed the herds which never seek for stalls,\n But whose skin gleams red in the sunshine of the hills.\n\n Great was my love in youth, and strong my desire,\n Towards the bounding herds;\n But now, broken, and weak, and hopeless,\n Their remembrance wounds my heart.\n\n To linger in the laich[24] I mourn,\n My thoughts are ever in the hills;\n For there my childhood and my youth was nursed--\n The moss and the craig in the morning breeze was my delight.\n\n Then was I happy in my life,\n When the voices of the hill sung sweetly;\n More sweet to me, than any string,\n It soothed my sorrow or rejoiced my heart.\n\n My thoughts wandered to no other land\n Beyond the hill of the forest, the shealings of the deer,\n Where the nimble herds ascended the hill,--\n As I lay in my plaid on the dewy bed.\n\n The sheltering hollows, where I crept towards the hart,\n On the pastures of the glen, or in the forest wilds--\n And if once more I may see them as of old,\n How will my heart bound to watch again the pass!\n\n Great was my joy to ascend the hills\n In the cause of the noble chief,\n Mac Shim\u00e9 of the piercing eye--never to fail at need,\n With all his brave Frasers, gathered beneath his banner.\n\n When they told of his approach, with all his ready arms,\n My heart bounded for the chase--\n On the rugged steep, on the broken hill,\n By hollow, and ridge, many were the red stags which he laid low.\n\n He is the pride of hunters; my trust was in his gun,\n When the sound of its shot rung in my ear,\n The grey ball launched in flashing fire,\n And the dun stag fell in the rushing speed of his course.\n\n When evening came down on the hill,\n The time for return to the star of the glen,\n The kindly lodge where the noble gathered,\n The sons of the tartan and the plaid,\n\n With joy and triumph they returned\n To the dwelling of plenty and repose;\n The bright blazing hearth--the circling wine--\n The welcome of the noble chief!\n\n\n\n\nBen Dorain.\n\n\n[Sidenote: DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE]\n\n The honour o\u2019er each hill\n Hath Ben Dorain;\n Scene, to me, the sweetest still\n That day dawns upon:\n Its long moor\u2019s level way,\n And its nooks whence wild deer stray,\n To the lustre on the brae\n Oft I\u2019ve lauded them.\n\n Dear to me its dusky boughs,\n In the wood where green grass grows,\n And the stately herd repose,\n Or there wander slow;\n But the troops with bellies white,\n When the chase comes into sight,\n Then I love to watch their flight,\n Going nosily.\n\n The stag is airy, brisk, and light,\n And no pomp has he;\n Though his garb\u2019s the fashion quite,\n Never haughty he:\n Yet a mantle\u2019s round him spread,\n Not soon threadbare, then shed,\n And its hue as wax is red--\n Fairly clothing him.\n\n The delight I felt to rise\n At the morning\u2019s call!\n And to see the troops I prize\n The hills thronging all:\n Ten score with stately tread,\n And with light uplifted head,\n Quite unpampered there that fed,\n Fond and fawning all.\n\n Lightsomely there came\n From each clean and shapely frame,\n Through their murmuring lips, a tame\n Chant, with drawling fall.\n In the pool one rolled a low--\n With the hind one played the beau,\n As she trotted to and fro,\n Looking saucily.\n\n I would rather have the deer\n Gasping moaningly,\n Than all Erin\u2019s songs to hear\n Sung melodiously;\n For above the finest bass\n Hath the stag\u2019s sweet voice a grace,\n As he bellows on the face\n Of Ben Dorain.\n\n Loud and long he gives a roar\n From his very inmost core,\n Which is heard behind, before,\n Far and fallingly;\n But the hind of softer notes,\n With her calf that near her trots,\n Match each other\u2019s tuneful throats,\n Crying longingly.\n\n Her eye\u2019s soft and tender ray\n With no flaw in it,\n O\u2019er whose lid the brow is gray,\n Guides her wandering feet:\n Very well she walks, and bold,\n Lively o\u2019er the russet wold,\n Tripping from her desert hold\n Most undauntingly.\n\n Faultless is her pace,\n And her leap is full of grace--\n Ha! the last when in the race\n Never saw I her:\n\n When she takes yon startled stride,\n Nor once turns her head aside,\n Aught to match her hasty pride\n Is not known to me.\n\n But now she\u2019s on the heath,\n As she ought to be,\n Where the tender grass she seeth,\n Growing dawtily;\n The dry bent, the moor grass bare,\n With the sappy herbs are there,\n That make fat, and full, and fair,\n Her plump quarters all.\n\n And those little wells are nigh,\n Where the water-cresses lie,\n Above wine she likes to try\n Their waves\u2019 solacing;\n Of the rye-grass, twisted rows,\n On the rude hill side it grows,\n Than of rarest festal shows,\n Is she fonder far.\n\n The choice increase of the earth\n Forms her joyous treat;\n The primrose, St John\u2019s wort,\n Tops of gowans sweet,\n The new buds of the groves,\n The soft heath o\u2019er which she roves,\n Are the tit-bits that she loves,\n With good cause too.\n\n For speckled, spotted, rare,\n Tall, and fine, and fair,\n From such food before her there\n She grows sonsily;\n And it is still the surest mean\n To cure the weak ones and the lean,\n Who for any time have been\n Wasted, wan, and low.\n\n Soon it would clothe their back\n With the garb which most they lack--\n That rich fat, which they can pack\n Most commodiously.\n\n She\u2019s a flighty young hind\n When leaves ward her,\n Nearer her haunts where they bind\n The brae border:\n Lightsome and urbane\n Is her gay heart, free of stain,\n Tho\u2019 rash head and somewhat vain--\n Somewhat thoughtless.\n\n Yet her form, so full of grace,\n She keeps hiding in a place,\n Where the green glen shows no trace\n Of a falling off;\n But she\u2019s so healthy, and so clean--\n So chaste where\u2019er she\u2019s seen--\n Should you kiss her lips, I ween\n \u2019Twould not cause you shame.\n\n Greatly prized is she, I know,\n By the stag with crested brow,\n Whose thundering hoofs around him throw\n Such a saucy sound;\n When with him she meets the view\n Red and yellow in her hue,\n And of virtues not a few\n That belong to her,\n Then too is she free of fear,\n And in speed without a peer,\n And the primest ear to hear\n In all Europe\u2019s hers.\n\n Oh! how sweetly they embrace,\n Young and fawning,\n When they gather to their place\n In the gloaming;\n\n There, till silent night is by,\n Never terror comes them nigh,\n While beneath the bush they lie--\n Their known haunt of old.\n\n Let the wild herd seek their bed,\n Let them slumber, free of dread,\n Where yon mighty moor is spread,\n Broad and brawly;\n Where, with joy, I\u2019ve often spied\n The sun colour their red hide,\n As they wandered in their pride\n O\u2019er Ben Dorain.\n\n\n\n\nThe Hill-Water.\n\n\n From the rim it trickles down\n Of the mountain\u2019s granite crown\n Clear and cool;\n Keen and eager though it go\n Through your veins with lively flow,\n Yet it knoweth not to reign\n In the chambers of the brain\n With misrule;\n\n Where dark water-cresses grow\n You will trace its quiet flow,\n With mossy border yellow,\n So mild, and soft, and mellow,\n In its pouring.\n With no shiny dregs to trouble\n The brightness of its bubble\n As it threads its silver way\n From the granite shoulders grey\n Of Ben Dorain.\n\n Then down the sloping side\n It will slip with glassy slide\n Gently welling,\n Till it gather strength to leap,\n With a light and foamy sweep,\n To the corrie broad and deep\n Proudly swelling;\n\n Then bends amid the boulders,\n \u2019Neath the shadow of the shoulders\n Of the Ben,\n Through a country rough and shaggy,\n So jaggy and so knaggy,\n Full of hummocks and of hunches,\n Full of stumps and tufts and bunches,\n Full of bushes and of rushes,\n In the glen,\n\n Through rich green solitudes,\n And wildly hanging woods\n With blossom and with bell,\n In rich redundant swell,\n And the pride\n Of the mountain daisy there,\n And the forest everywhere,\n With the dress and with the air\n Of a bride.\n\n\n\n\nSong for Macleod of Macleod.\n\n\n[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]\n\n Alone on the hill-top,\n Sadly and silently,\n Downward on Islay\n And over the sea--\n I look and I wonder\n How time hath deceived me:\n A stranger in Muile[25]\n Who ne\u2019er thought to be.\n\n Ne\u2019er thought it, my island!\n Where rests the deep dark shade\n Thy grand mossy mountains\n For ages have made--\n God bless thee, and prosper!\n Thy chief of the sharp blade,\n All over these islands,\n His fame never fade!\n\n Never fade it, Sir Norman!\n For well \u2019tis the right\n Of thy name to win credit\n In council or fight;\n By wisdom, by shrewdness,\n By spirit, by might,\n By manliness, courage,\n By daring, by sleight.\n\n In council or fight, thy kindred\n Know these should be thine--\n Branch of Lochlin\u2019s wide-ruling\n And king-bearing line!\n And in Erin they know it--\n Far over the brine:\n No Earl would in Albin\n Thy friendship decline.\n\n[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]\n\n Yes! the nobles of Erin\n Thy titles well know,\n To the honour and friendship\n Of high and of low.\n Born the deed-marks to follow,\n Thy father did show,--\n That friend of the noble--\n That manliest foe.\n\n That friend of the noble--\n From him art thou heir\n To virtues which Albin\n Was proud to declare:\n Crown\u2019d the best of her chieftains\n Long, long may\u2019st thou wear\n The blossoms paternal\n His broad branches bare!\n\n O banner\u2019d Clan Ruari!\n Whose loss is my woe,\n Of this chief who survives\n May I ne\u2019er hear he\u2019s low;\n But, darling of mortals!\n From him though I go,\n Long the shapeliest, comeliest\n Form may he show!\n\n The shapeliest, comeliest,\n Faultless in bearing--\n Cheerful, cordial, and kind,\n The red and white wearing,\n Well looks the blue-eyed chief;\n Blue, bright, and daring,\n His eye o\u2019er his red cheek shines,\n Blue, bright, calmly daring.\n\n His red cheek shines,\n Like hip on the brier-tree,\n \u2019Neath the choicest of curly hair\n Waving and free.\n A warm hearth, a drinking cup,\n Meet shall he see,\n And a choice of good armour\n Whoe\u2019er visits thee.\n\n Drinking-horns, trenchers bright,\n And arms old and new;\n Long, narrow-bladed swords,\n Cold, clear, and blue--\n These are seen in thy mansion,\n With rifles and carbines, too;\n And hempen-strung long-bows,\n Of hard, healthy yew.\n\n Long-bows and cross-bows,\n With strings that well wear;\n Arrows, with polish\u2019d heads,\n In quivers full and fair,\n From the eagle\u2019s wing feather\u2019d,\n With silk fine and rare;\n And guns dear to purchase--\n Long slender--are there.\n\n My heart\u2019s with thee, hero!\n May Mary\u2019s son keep\n My stripling who loves\n The lone forest to sweep;\n Rejoicing to feel there\n The solitude deep\n Of the long moor and valley,\n And rough mountain steep.\n\n The mountain steep searching\n And rough rocky chains;\n The old dogs he caresses,\n The young dogs he restrains:\n Then, soon from my chieftain\u2019s spear\n The life-blood rains\n Of the red-hided deer or doe\n And the green heather stains.\n\n[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]\n\n Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe;\n Then stand on the heather,\n Thy gentle companions,\n Well arm\u2019d altogether,\n Well taught on the hunter\u2019s craft,\n Well skill\u2019d in the weather;\n They know the rough sea as well\n As the green heather!\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nMODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC\n\n\n\n\nMonaltri.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ANON.]\n\n There\u2019s a sound on the hill,\n Not of joy but of ailing;\n Dark-hair\u2019d women mourn--\n Beat their hands, with loud wailing.\n\n They cry out, Ochon!\n For the young Monaltri,\n Who went to the hill;\n But home came not he.\n\n Without snood, without plaid\n Katrina\u2019s gone roaming.\n O Katrina, my dear!\n Homeward be coming.\n\n Och! hear, on the castle\n Yon pretty bird singing,\n \u201cSnoodless and plaidless,\n Her hands she is ringing.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nAn Coineachan--A Highland Lullaby.\n\n\n H\u00f3-bhan, h\u00f3-bhan, Goiridh \u00f2g O,\n Goiridh \u00f2g O, Goiridh \u00f2g O;\n H\u00f3-bhan, h\u00f3-bhan, Goiridh \u00f2g O,\n I\u2019ve lost my darling baby O!\n\n I left my darling lying here,\n A-lying here, a-lying here;\n I left my darling lying here,\n To go and gather blaeberries.\n\n I\u2019ve found the wee brown otter\u2019s track,\n The otter\u2019s track, the otter\u2019s track;\n I\u2019ve found the wee brown otter\u2019s track,\n But ne\u2019er a trace of baby O!\n\n I found the track of the swan on the lake,\n The swan on the lake, the swan on the lake;\n I found the track of the swan on the lake,\n But not the track of baby O!\n\n I found the track of the yellow fawn,\n The yellow fawn, the yellow fawn;\n I found the track of the yellow fawn,\n But could not trace my baby O!\n\n I\u2019ve found the trail of the mountain mist,\n The mountain mist, the mountain mist;\n I\u2019ve found the trail of the mountain mist,\n But ne\u2019er a trace of baby O!\n\n\n\n\nA Boat Song.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ANON.]\n\n Ho, my bonnie boatie,\n Thou bonnie boatie mine!\n So trim and tight a boatie\n Was never launched on brine.\n Ho, my bonnie boatie,\n My praise is justly thine\n Above all bonnie boaties\n Were builded on Loch Fyne!\n _H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta laghach,\n \u2019S tu mo bh\u00e0ta grinn;\n H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta laghach,\n \u2019S tu mo bh\u00e0ta grinn.\n H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta laghach,\n \u2019S tu mo bh\u00e0ta grinn:\n Mo bh\u00e0ta boidheach laghach,\n Thogadh taobh Loch Fin._\n\n To build thee up so firmly,\n I knew the stuff was good;\n Thy keel of stoutest elm-tree,\n Well fixed in oaken wood;\n Thy timbers ripely seasoned\n Of cleanest Norway pine\n Well cased in ruddy copper,\n To plough the deep were thine!\n _H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta, etc._\n\n How lovely was my boatie\n At rest upon the shore,\n Before my bonnie boatie\n Had known wild ocean\u2019s roar.\n Thy deck so smooth and stainless,\n With such fine bend thy rim,\n Thy seams that know no gaping,\n Thy masts so tall and trim.\n _H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta, etc._\n\n And bonnie was my boatie\n Afloat upon the bay,\n When smooth as mirror round her\n The heaving ocean lay;\n While round the cradled boatie\n Light troops of plumy things\n To praise the bonnie boatie\n Made music with their wings.\n _H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta, etc._\n\n How eager was my boatie\n To plough the swelling seas,\n When o\u2019er the curling waters\n Full sharply blew the breeze!\n O, \u2019twas she that stood to windward,\n The first among her peers,\n When shrill the blasty music\n Came piping round her ears!\n _H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta, etc._\n\n And where the sea came surging\n In mountains from the west,\n And reared the racing billow\n Its high and hissing crest;\n She turned her head so deftly,\n With skill so firmly shown,\n The billows they went their way\n The boatie went her own.\n _H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta, etc._\n\n And when the sudden squall came\n Black swooping from the Ben,\n And white the foam was spinning\n Around thy topmast then,\n O never knew my boatie\n A thought of ugly dread,\n But dashed right through the billow,\n With the spray-shower round her head!\n _H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta, etc._\n\n[Sidenote: ANON.]\n\n Yet wert thou never headstrong\n To stand with forward will,\n When yielding was thy wisdom\n And caution was my skill.\n How neatly and how nimbly\n Thou turned thee to the wind,\n With thy leeside in the water\n And a swirling trail behind!\n _H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta, etc._\n\n What though a lonely dwelling\n On barren shore I own,\n My kingdom is the blue wave,\n My boatie is my throne!\n I\u2019ll never want a dainty dish\n To breakfast or to dine,\n While men may man my boatie\n And fish swim in Loch Fyne!\n _H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta laghach,\n \u2019S tu mo bh\u00e0ta grinn.\n H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta laghach,\n \u2019S tu mo bh\u00e0ta grinn.\n H\u00f2 mo bh\u00e0ta laghach,\n \u2019S tu mo bh\u00e0ta grinn:\n Mo bh\u00e0ta boidheach laghach,\n Thogadh taobh Loch Fin._\n\n\n\n\nThe Old Soldier of the Gareloch Head.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN STUART BLACKIE]\n\n I\u2019ve wander\u2019d east and west,\n And a soldier I hae been;\n The scars upon my breast\n Tell the wars that I have seen.\n But now I\u2019m old and worn,\n And my locks are thinly spread,\n And I\u2019m come to die in peace,\n By the Gareloch Head.\n\n When I was young and strong,\n Oft a wandering I would go,\n By the rough shores of Loch Long,\n Up to lone Glencroe.\n But now I\u2019m fain to rest,\n And my resting-place I\u2019ve made,\n On the green and gentle bosom\n Of the Gareloch Head.\n\n \u2019Twas here my Jeanie grew,\n Like a lamb amid the flocks,\n With her eyes of bonnie blue,\n And her gowden locks.\n And here we often met,\n When with lightsome foot we sped,\n O\u2019er the green and grassy knolls\n At the Gareloch Head.\n\n \u2019Twas here she pined and died--\n O! the salt tear in my e\u2019e\n Forbids my heart to hide\n What Jeanie was to me!\n \u2019Twas here my Jeanie died,\n And they scoop\u2019d her lowly bed,\n \u2019Neath the green and grassy turf\n At the Gareloch Head.\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN STUART BLACKIE]\n\n Like a leaf in leafy June,\n From the leafy forest torn,\n She fell, and I\u2019ll fall soon\n Like a sheaf of yellow corn.\n For I\u2019m sere and weary now,\n And I soon shall make my bed\n With my Jeanie \u2019neath the turf\n At the Gareloch Head.\n\n\n\n\nFlower of the World.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]\n\n Wherever men sinned and wept,\n I wandered in my quest;\n At last in a Garden of God\n I saw the Flower of the World.\n\n This Flower had human eyes,\n Its breath was the breath of the mouth;\n Sunlight and starlight came,\n And the Flower drank bliss from both.\n\n Whatever was base and unclean,\n Whatever was sad and strange,\n Was piled around its roots;\n It drew its strength from the same.\n\n Whatever was formless and base\n Pass\u2019d into fineness and form;\n Whatever was lifeless and mean\n Grew into beautiful bloom.\n\n Then I thought \u201cO Flower of the World,\n Miraculous Blossom of things,\n Light as a faint wreath of snow\n Thou tremblest to fall in the wind:\n\n \u201cO beautiful Flower of the World,\n Fall not nor wither away;\n He is coming--He cannot be far--\n The Lord of the Flow\u2019rs and the Stars.\u201d\n\n And I cried, \u201cO Spirit divine!\n That walkest the Garden unseen,\n Come hither, and bless, ere it dies,\n The beautiful Flower of the World.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nThe Strange Country.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]\n\n I have come from a mystical Land of Light\n To a Strange Country;\n The Land I have left is forgotten quite\n In the Land I see.\n\n The round Earth rolls beneath my feet,\n And the still Stars glow,\n The murmuring Waters rise and retreat,\n The Winds come and go.\n\n Sure as a heart-beat all things seem\n In this Strange Country;\n So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream,\n All things flow free.\n\n \u2019Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain,\n In the Field and the Flood,\n In the beating Heart, in the burning Brain,\n In the Flesh and the Blood.\n\n Deep as Death is the daily strife\n Of this Strange Country:\n All things thrill up till they blossom in Life,\n And flutter and flee.\n\n Nothing is stranger than the rest,\n From the pole to the pole,\n The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest,\n The Flesh and the Soul.\n\n Look in mine eyes, O Man I meet\n In this Strange Country!\n Lie in my arms, O Maiden sweet,\n With thy mouth kiss me!\n\n Go by, O King, with thy crown\u00e8d brow\n And thy sceptred hand--\n Thou art a straggler too, I vow,\n From the same strange Land.\n\n O wondrous Faces that upstart\n In this Strange Country!\n O Souls, O Shades, that become a part\n Of my Soul and me!\n\n What are ye working so fast and fleet,\n O Humankind?\n \u201cWe are building Cities for those whose feet\n Are coming behind;\n\n \u201cOur stay is short, we must fly again\n From this Strange Country;\n But others are growing, women and men,\n Eternally!\u201d\n\n Child, what art thou? and what am _I_?\n But a breaking wave!\n Rising and rolling on, we hie\n To the shore of the grave.\n\n I have come from a mystical Land of Light\n To this Strange Country;\n This dawn I came, I shall go to-night,\n Ay me! ay me!\n\n I hold my hand to my head and stand\n \u2019Neath the air\u2019s blue arc,\n I try to remember the mystical Land,\n But all is dark.\n\n And all around me swim Shapes like mine\n In this Strange Country;--\n They break in the glamour of gleams divine,\n And they moan \u201cAy me!\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]\n\n Like waves in the cold Moon\u2019s silvern breath\n They gather and roll,\n Each crest of white is a birth or a death,\n Each sound is a Soul.\n\n Oh, whose is the Eye that gleams so bright\n O\u2019er this Strange Country?\n It draws us along with a chain of light,\n As the Moon the Sea!\n\n\n\n\nThe Dream of the World without Death.\n\n\n Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping,\n Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,\n Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:\n\n Crying aloud, \u201cThe Master on His throne\n Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder,\n And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.\n\n And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth,\n Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him,\n Saying, \u2019Thy wanderings on earth are ended.\u2019\u201d\n\n And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle\n Even at the silver gates of heaven,\n Drowsily looking in on quiet waters,\n And puts his silence among men no longer.\n\n * * * * *\n\n The world was very quiet. Men in traffic\n Cast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamen\n Shivered to walk upon the decks alone;\n\n And women barred their doors with bars of iron,\n In the silence of the night; and at the sunrise\n Trembled behind the husbandmen afield.\n\n I could not see a kirkyard near or far;\n I thirsted for a green grave, and my vision\n Was weary for the white gleam of a tombstone.\n\n But hearkening dumbly, ever and anon\n I heard a cry out of a human dwelling,\n And felt the cold wind of a lost one\u2019s going.\n\n One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell,\n And faded in a darkness; and that other\n Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish.\n\n[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]\n\n One struck his aged mother on the mouth,\n And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearthstone.\n One melted from her bairn, and on the ground\n\n With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling.\n And many made a weeping among mountains,\n And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken.\n\n I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth,\n Whose side rolled up from winter into summer,\n Crying, \u201cI am grievous for my children.\u201d\n\n I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean,\n Crying, \u201cBurial in the breast of me were better,--\n Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.\u201d\n\n I heard a voice from out the hollow ether,\n Saying, \u201cThe thing ye cursed hath been abolished--\n Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!\u201d\n\n And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter,\n And men and women feared the air behind them;\n And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain\n I came upon a woman thin with sorrow,\n Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull:\n\n Saying, \u201cO Angel of the Lord, come hither,\n And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,\n That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.\n\n \u201cI curse thee that I cannot look upon him!\n I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!\n Yet know that he has vanished upon God!\n\n \u201cI laid my little girl upon a wood-bier,\n And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me;\n And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.\n\n \u201cI put my silver mother in the darkness,\n And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses,\n And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.\n\n \u201cAnd green, green were their quiet sleeping places,\n So green that it was pleasant to remember\n That I and my tall man would sleep beside them.\n\n \u201cThe closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful,\n For comfort comes upon us when we close them,\n And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;\n\n \u201cAnd we can sit above them where they slumber,\n And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,\n And know indeed that we are very near them.\n\n \u201cBut to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful,\n And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,\n And bitter grow the silence and the distance.\n\n \u201cThere is no space for grieving or for weeping;\n No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,\n And nothing but a horror and a blankness!\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hut\n Raking the white spent embers with her fingers,\n And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes.\n\n Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes;\n Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrow\n Sobbed in the throat of her like gurgling water.\n\n And, all around, the voiceless hills were hoary,\n But red light scorched their edges; and above her\n There was a soundless trouble of the vapours.\n\n[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]\n\n \u201cWhither, and O whither,\u201d said the woman,\n \u201cO Spirit of the Lord, hast Thou conveyed them,\n My little ones, my little son and daughter?\n\n \u201cFor, lo! we wandered forth at early morning,\n And winds were blowing round us, and their mouths\n Blew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their eyes\n\n \u201cLooked violets at the violets, and their hair\n Made sunshine in the sunshine, and their passing\n Left a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them;\n\n \u201cAnd suddenly my little son looked upward,\n And his eyes were dried like dew-drops; and his going\n Was like a blow of fire upon my face.\n\n \u201cAnd my little son was gone. My little daughter\n Looked round me for him, clinging to my vesture;\n But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it\n\n \u201cBy the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost one\n Lingers nowhere on the earth, on hill or valley,\n Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree-roots.\n\n \u201cAnd my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef,\n And I sank among my hair, and all my palm\n Was moist and warm where the little hand had filled it.\n\n \u201cThen I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither--\n Though I knew that he was stricken from me wholly\n By the token that the Spirit gives the stricken.\n\n \u201cI sought him in the sunlight and the starlight,\n I sought him in great forests, and in waters\n Where I saw mine own pale image looking at me.\n\n \u201cAnd I forgot my little bright-haired daughter,\n Though her voice was like a wild-bird\u2019s far behind me,\n Till the voice ceased, and the universe was silent.\n\n \u201cAnd stilly, in the starlight, came I backward\n To the forest where I missed him; and no voices\n Brake the stillness as I stooped down in the starlight,\n\n \u201cAnd saw two little shoes filled up with dew,\n And no mark of little footsteps any farther,\n And knew my little daughter had gone also.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke,\n The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep,\n And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied.\n\n And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sun-gate,\n The swan upon the waters, and the farm-fowl,\n And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied.\n\n And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the roadside,\n The slimy, speckled snake among the grass,\n The lizard on the ruin: and men envied.\n\n The dog in lonely places cried not over\n The body of his master; but it missed him,\n And whined into the air, and died, and rotted.\n\n The traveller\u2019s horse lay swollen in the pathway,\n And the blue fly fed upon it; but no traveller\n Was there; nay, not his footprint on the ground.\n\n The cat mewed in the midnight, and the blind\n Gave a rustle, and the lamp burned blue and faint,\n And the father\u2019s bed was empty in the morning.\n\n The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle,\n Rocking it, while she slumbered, with her foot,\n And wakened,--and the cradle there was empty.\n\n I saw a two-years\u2019 child, and he was playing;\n And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway,\n And laughed, and ran to show it to his mother,\n\n[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]\n\n The mother moaned, and clutched him, and was bitter,\n And flung the dead white bird across the threshold;\n And another white bird flitted round and round it,\n\n And uttered a sharp cry, and twittered and twittered,\n And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy,\n Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow.\n\n * * * * *\n\n So far, so far to seek for were the limits\n Of affliction; and men\u2019s terror grew a homeless\n Terror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness.\n\n There was no little token of distraction,\n There was no visible presence of bereavement,\n Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on.\n\n There was no comfort in the slow farewell,\n Nor gentle shutting of belov\u00e8d eyes,\n Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features.\n\n There were no kisses on familiar faces,\n No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last pondering\n Over the still wax cheeks and folded fingers.\n\n There was no putting tokens under pillows,\n There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading,\n Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.\n\n There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinking\n How near the well-beloved ones are lying.\n There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on,\n\n Till grief should grow a summer meditation,\n The shadow of the passing of an angel,\n And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel.\n\n Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.\n\n * * * * *\n\n * * * * *\n\n _But I woke_,\n And, lo! the burthen was uplifted,\n And I prayed within the chamber where she slumbered,\n And my tears flowed fast and free, but were not bitter.\n\n I eased my heart three days by watching near her,\n And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers,\n And could bear at last to put her in the darkness.\n\n And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly,\n And the priests were in their vestments, and the earth\n Dripped awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it.\n\n And I cried, \u201cO unseen Sender of Corruption,\n I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy,\n Which softeneth the mystery and the parting.\n\n \u201cI bless Thee for the change and for the comfort,\n The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers,--\n For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corruption.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nThe Fa\u00ebry Foster-Mother.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]\n\n Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!\n I had not been a wedded wife a twelvemonth and a day,\n I had not nurs\u2019d my little one a month upon my knee,\n When down among the blue-bell banks rose elfins three times three,\n They gripp\u2019d me by the raven hair, I could not cry for fear,\n They put a hempen rope around my waist and dragg\u2019d me here,\n They made me sit and give thee suck as mortal mothers can,\n Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! strange and weak and wan!\n\n Dim Face, Grim Face! lie ye there so still?\n Thy red, red lips are at my breast, and thou may\u2019st suck thy fill;\n But know ye, tho\u2019 I hold thee firm, and rock thee to and fro,\n \u2019Tis not to soothe thee into sleep, but just to still my woe?\n And know ye, when I lean so calm against the wall of stone,\n \u2019Tis when I shut my eyes and try to think thou art mine own?\n And know ye, tho\u2019 my milk be here, my heart is far away,\n Dim Face, Grim Face! Daughter of a Fay!\n\n Gold Hair, Cold Hair! Daughter to a King!\n Wrapp\u2019d in bands of snow-white silk with jewels glittering,\n Tiny slippers of the gold upon thy feet so thin,\n Silver cradle velvet-lin\u2019d for thee to slumber in,\n Pygmy pages, crimson-hair\u2019d, to serve thee on their knees,\n To fan thy face with ferns and bring thee honey bags of bees,--\n I was but a peasant lass, my babe had but the milk,\n Gold Hair, Cold Hair! raimented in silk!\n\n Pale Thing, Frail Thing! dumb and weak and thin,\n Altho\u2019 thou ne\u2019er dost utter sigh thou\u2019rt shadow\u2019d with a sin;\n Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy minnie is an elf,\n Upon a bed of rose\u2019s-leaves she lies and fans herself;\n And though my heart is aching so for one afar from me,\n I often look into thy face and drop a tear for thee,\n And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cottar\u2019s wife,\n Pale Thing, Frail Thing! sucking at my life!\n\n Weak Thing, Meek Thing! take no blame from me,\n Altho\u2019 my babe may moan for lack of what I give to thee;\n For though thou art a fa\u00ebry child, and though thou art my woe,\n To feel thee sucking at my breast is all the bliss I know;\n It soothes me, though afar away I hear my daughter call,\n My heart were broken if I felt no little lips at all!\n If I had none to tend at all, to be its nurse and slave,\n Weak Thing, Meek Thing! I should shriek and rave!\n\n Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! lying on my knee!\n If soon I be not taken back unto mine own countree,\n To feel my own babe\u2019s little lips, as I am feeling thine,\n To smooth the golden threads of hair, to see the blue eyes shine,--\n I\u2019ll lean my head against the wall and close my weary eyes,\n And think my own babe draws the milk with balmy pants and sighs,\n And smile and bless my little one and sweetly pass away,\n Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!\n\n\n\n\nWhen we Two parted.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LORD BYRON]\n\n When we two parted\n In silence and tears,\n Half-broken-hearted\n To sever for years,\n Pale grew thy cheek and cold,\n Colder thy kiss;\n Truly that hour foretold\n Sorrow to this.\n\n The dew of the morning\n Sank chill on my brow--\n It felt like the warning\n Of what I feel now.\n Thy vows are all broken,\n And light is thy fame;\n I hear thy name spoken,\n And share in its shame.\n\n They name thee before me,\n A knell to mine ear;\n A shudder comes o\u2019er me--\n Why wert thou so dear?\n They know not I knew thee,\n Who knew thee too well:--\n Long, long shall I rue thee,\n Too deeply to tell.\n\n In secret we met--\n In silence I grieve,\n That thy heart could forget,\n Thy spirit deceive.\n If I should meet thee\n After long years,\n How shall I greet thee?--\n With silence and tears.\n\n\n\n\nStanzas for Music.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LORD BYRON]\n\n There be none of Beauty\u2019s daughters\n With a magic like thee;\n And like music on the waters\n Is thy sweet voice to me:\n When, as if its sound were causing\n The charmed ocean\u2019s pausing,\n The waves lie still and gleaming,\n And the lull\u2019d winds seem dreaming.\n\n And the midnight moon is weaving\n Her bright chain o\u2019er the deep;\n Whose breast is gently heaving,\n As an infant\u2019s asleep:\n So the spirit bows before thee,\n To listen and adore thee;\n With a full but soft emotion,\n Like the swell of Summer\u2019s ocean.\n\n\n\n\nColin\u2019s Cattle.\n\n(Crodh Chaillean.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: CRO\u2019 CHAILLEAN]\n\n A maiden sang sweetly\n As a bird on a tree,\n Cro\u2019 Chaillean, Cro\u2019 Chaillean,\n Cro\u2019 Chaillean for me!\n\n My own Colin\u2019s cattle,\n Dappled, dun, brown, and grey,\n They return to the milking\n At the close of the day.\n\n In the morning they wander\n To their pastures afar,\n Where the grass grows the greenest\n By corrie and scaur.\n\n They wander the uplands\n Where the soft breezes blow,\n And they drink from the fountain\n Where the sweet cresses grow.\n\n But so far as they wander,\n Dappled, dun, brown, and grey,\n They return to the milking\n At the close of the day.\n\n My bed\u2019s in the Shian\n On the canach\u2019s soft down,\n But I\u2019d sleep best with Colin\n In our shieling alone.\n\n Thus a maiden sang sweetly\n As a bird on a tree,\n Cro\u2019 Chaillean, Cro\u2019 Chaillean,\n Cro\u2019 Chaillean for me.\n\n\n\n\nMacCrimmon\u2019s Lament.\n\n\n[Sidenote: CUMHA MHIC CRUIMEIN]\n\n Round Coolin\u2019s peak the mist is sailing,\n The banshee croons her note of wailing,\n Mild blue eyne with sorrow are streaming\n For him that shall never return, MacCrimmon!\n\n The breeze on the brae is mournfully blowing!\n The brook in the hollow is plaintively flowing,\n The warblers, the soul of the groves, are moaning,\n For MacCrimmon that\u2019s gone, with no hope of returning!\n\n The tearful clouds the stars are veiling,\n The sails are spread, but the boat is not sailing,\n The waves of the sea are moaning and mourning\n For MacCrimmon that\u2019s gone to find no returning!\n\n No more on the hill at the festal meeting\n The pipe shall sound with echo repeating,\n And lads and lasses change mirth to mourning\n For him that is gone to know no returning!\n\n No more, no more, no more for ever,\n In war or peace, shall return MacCrimmon;\n No more, no more, no more for ever\n Shall love or gold bring back MacCrimmon!\n\n\n\n\nSong.\n\n\n[Sidenote: IAN CAMERON\n\n(\u201cIan M\u00f2r\u201d)]\n\n Thy dark eyes to mine, Aithne,\n Lamps of desire!\n O how my soul leaps\n Leaps to their fire!\n\n Sure, now, if I in heaven\n Dreaming in bliss,\n Heard but the whisper,\n But the lost echo even\n Of one such kiss--\n\n All of the Soul of me\n Would leap afar--\n If that called me to thee,\n Aye, I would leap afar\n A falling star!\n\n\n\n\nA Loafer.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN DAVIDSON]\n\n I hang about the streets all day,\n At night I hang about;\n I sleep a little when I may,\n But rise betimes the morning\u2019s scout;\n For through the year I always hear\n Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout.\n\n My clothes are worn to threads and loops;\n My skin shows here and there;\n About my face like seaweed droops\n My tangled beard, my tangled hair;\n From cavernous and shaggy brows\n My stony eyes untroubled stare.\n\n I move from eastern wretchedness\n Through Fleet Street and the Strand;\n And as the pleasant people press\n I touch them softly with my hand,\n Perhaps I know that still I go\n Alive about a living land.\n\n For, far in front the clouds are riven;\n I hear the ghostly cry,\n As if a still voice fell from heaven\n To where sea-whelmed the drowned folk lie\n In sepulchres no tempest stirs\n And only eyeless things pass by.\n\n In Piccadilly spirits pass:\n Oh, eyes and cheeks that glow!\n Oh, strength and comeliness! Alas,\n The lustrous health is earth I know\n From shrinking eyes that recognise\n No brother in my rags and woe.\n\n I know no handicraft, no art,\n But I have conquered fate;\n For I have chosen the better part,\n And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate.\n With placid breath on pain and death,\n My certain alms, alone I wait.\n\n And daily, nightly comes the call,\n The pale unechoing note,\n The faint \u201cAha!\u201d sent from the wall\n Of heaven, but from no ruddy throat\n Of human breed or seraph\u2019s seed,\n A phantom voice that cries by rote.\n\n\n\n\nIn Romney Marsh.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN DAVIDSON]\n\n As I went down to Dymchurch Wall,\n I heard the South sing o\u2019er the land;\n I saw the yellow sunlight fall\n On knolls where Norman churches stand.\n\n And ringing shrilly, taut and lithe,\n Within the wind a core of sound,\n The wire from Romney town to Hythe\n Along its airy journey wound.\n\n A veil of purple vapour flowed\n And trailed its fringe along the Straits;\n The upper air like sapphire glowed:\n And roses filled Heaven\u2019s central gates.\n\n Masts in the offing wagged their tops;\n The swinging waves pealed on the shore;\n The saffron beach, all diamond drops\n And beads of surge, prolonged the roar.\n\n As I came up from Dymchurch Wall,\n I saw above the Downs\u2019 low crest\n The crimson brands of sunset fall,\n Flicker and fade from out the West.\n\n Night sank: like flakes of silver fire\n The stars in one great shower came down;\n Shrill blew the wind; and shrill the wire\n Rang out from Hythe to Romney town.\n\n The darkly shining salt sea drops\n Streamed as the waves clashed on the shore;\n The beach, with all its organ stops\n Pealing again, prolonged the roar.\n\n\n\n\nO\u2019er the Muir amang the Heather.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JEAN GLOVER]\n\n Comin\u2019 through the craigs o\u2019 Kyle,\n Amang the bonnie bloomin\u2019 heather,\n There I met a bonnie lassie,\n Keepin\u2019 a\u2019 her ewes thegither.\n\n O\u2019er the muir amang the heather,\n O\u2019er the muir amang the heather,\n There I met a bonnie lassie\n Keepin\u2019 a\u2019 her ewes thegither.\n\n Says I, My dear, where is thy hame?\n In muir or dale, pray tell me whether?\n Says she, I tent the fleecy flocks\n That feed amang the bloomin\u2019 heather.\n O\u2019er the muir, etc.\n\n We laid us down upon a bank,\n Sae warm and sunnie was the weather;\n She left her flocks at large to rove\n Amang the bonnie bloomin\u2019 heather.\n O\u2019er the muir, etc.\n\n While thus we lay, she sang a sang,\n Till echo rang a mile and further;\n And aye the burden of the sang\n Was, O\u2019er the muir amang the heather.\n O\u2019er the muir, etc.\n\n She charmed my heart, and aye sin syne\n I couldna\u2019 think on ony ither;\n By sea and sky! she shall be mine,\n The bonnie lass amang the heather.\n\n O\u2019er the muir amang the heather,\n O\u2019er the muir amang the heather,\n There I met a bonnie lassie\n Keepin\u2019 a\u2019 her flocks thegither.\n\n\n\n\nSong.\n\n\n[Sidenote: GEORGE MACDONALD]\n\n Once I was a child,\n Oim\u00e8!\n Full of frolic wild;\n Oim\u00e8!\n All the stars for glancing,\n All the earth for dancing;\n Oim\u00e8! Oim\u00e8!\n\n When I ran about,\n Oim\u00e8!\n All the flowers came out,\n Oim\u00e8!\n Here and there like stray things,\n Just to be my playthings.\n Oim\u00e8! Oim\u00e8!\n\n Mother\u2019s eyes were deep,\n Oim\u00e8!\n Never needing sleep.\n Oim\u00e8!\n Morning--they\u2019re above me!\n Eventide--they love me!\n Oim\u00e8! Oim\u00e8!\n\n Father was so tall!\n Oim\u00e8!\n Stronger he than all!\n Oim\u00e8!\n On his arm he bore me,\n Queen of all before me.\n Oim\u00e8! Oim\u00e8!\n\n Mother is asleep!\n Oim\u00e8!\n For her eyes so deep,\n Oim\u00e8!\n Grew so tired and aching,\n They could not keep waking,\n Oim\u00e8! Oim\u00e8!\n\n Father though so strong\n Oim\u00e8!\n Laid him down along--\n Oim\u00e8!\n By my mother sleeping;\n And they left me weeping,\n Oim\u00e8! Oim\u00e8!\n\n Now nor bird, nor bee,\n Oim\u00e8!\n Ever sings to me\n Oim\u00e8!\n Since they left me crying,\n All things have been dying.\n Oim\u00e8! Oim\u00e8!\n\n\n\n\nSong.\n\n\n[Sidenote: RONALD CAMPBELL MACFIE]\n\n Alas, alas, eheu!\n That the sky is only blue,\n To gather from the grass\n The rain and dew!\n\n Alas! that eyes are fair:\n That tears may gather there\n Mist and the breath of sighs\n From the marsh of care!\n\n Alas, alas, eheu!\n That we meet but to bid adieu:\n That the sands in Time\u2019s ancient glass\n Are so swift and few!\n\n Alas, alas, eheu!\n That the heart is only true\n To gather, where false feet pass,\n The thorn and rue!\n\n\n\n\nA Spring Trouble.\n\n\n[Sidenote: WILLIAM MACDONALD]\n\n All the meadowlands were gay\n Once upon a morn of May;\n All the tree of life was dight\n With the blossoms of delight.\n\n And my whole heart was a-tune\n With the songs of long ere noon--\n Dew-bedecked and fresh and free,\n As the unsunned meadows be.\n\n \u201cLo!\u201d I said unto my spirit,\n \u201cEarth and sky thou dost inherit.\u201d\n Forth I wandered, void of care,\n In the largesse of the air.\n\n By there came a damosel,\n At a look I loved her well:\n But she passed and would not stay--\n And all the rest has gone away.\n\n And now no fields are fair to see,\n Nor any bud on any tree;\n Nor have I share in earth or sky--\n All for a maiden\u2019s passing by!\n\n\n\n\nCulloden Moor.\n\n(Seen in Autumn Rain.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: AMICE MACDONELL]\n\n Full of grief, the low winds sweep\n O\u2019er the sorrow-haunted ground;\n Dark the woods where night rains weep,\n Dark the hills that watch around.\n\n Tell me, can the joy of spring\n Ever make this sadness flee,\n Make the woods with music ring,\n And the streamlet laugh for glee?\n\n When the summer moor is lit\n With the pale fire of the broom,\n And through green the shadows flit,\n Still shall mirth give place to gloom?\n\n Sad shall it be, though sun be shed\n Golden bright on field and flood;\n E\u2019en the heather\u2019s crimson red\n Holds the memory of blood.\n\n Here that broken, weary band\n Met the ruthless foe\u2019s array,\n Where those moss-grown boulders stand,\n On that dark and fatal day.\n\n Like a phantom hope had fled,\n Love to death was all in vain,\n Vain, though heroes\u2019 blood was shed,\n And though hearts were broke in twain.\n\n Many a voice has cursed the name\n Time has into darkness thrust,\n Cruelty his only fame\n In forgetfulness and dust,\n\n Noble dead that sleep below,\n We your valour ne\u2019er forget;\n Soft the heroes\u2019 rest who know\n Hearts like theirs are beating yet.\n\n\n\n\nThe Weaving of the Tartan.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ALICE C. MACDONELL]\n\n I saw an old Dame weaving,\n Weaving, weaving,\n I saw an old Dame weaving,\n A web of tartan fine.\n \u201cSing high,\u201d she said, \u201csing low,\u201d she said,\n \u201cWild torrent to the sea,\n That saw my exiled bairnies torn,\n In sorrow far frae me.\n And warp well the long threads,\n The bright threads, the strong threads;\n Woof well the cross threads,\n To make the colours shine.\u201d\n\n She wove in red for every deed,\n Of valour done for Scotia\u2019s need:\n She wove in green, the laurel\u2019s sheen,\n In memory of her glorious dead.\n She spake of Alma\u2019s steep incline,\n The desert march, the \u201cthin red line,\u201d\n Of how it fired the blood and stirred the heart,\n Where\u2019er a bairn of hers took part.\n \u201c\u2018Tis for the gallant lads,\u201d she said,\n \u201cWho wear the kilt and tartan plaid:\n \u2019Tis for the winsome lasses too,\n Just like my dainty bells of blue.\n So weave well the bright threads,\n The red threads, the green threads;\n Woof well the strong threads\n That bind their hearts to mine.\u201d\n\n I saw an old Dame sighing,\n Sighing, sighing;\n I saw an old Dame sighing,\n Beside a lonely glen.\n \u201cSing high,\u201d she said, \u201csing low,\u201d she said,\n \u201cWild tempests to the sea,\n The wailing of the pibroch\u2019s note,\n That bade farewell to me.\n And wae fa\u2019 the red deer,\n The swift deer, the strong deer,\n Wae fa\u2019 the cursed deer,\n That take the place o\u2019 men.\u201d\n\n Where\u2019er a noble deed is wrought,\n Where\u2019er the brightest realms of thought,\n The artists\u2019 skill, the martial thrill,\n Be sure to Scotia\u2019s land is wed.\n She casts the glamour of her name,\n O\u2019er Britain\u2019s throne and statesman\u2019s fame;\n From distant lands \u2019neath foreign names,\n Some brilliant son his birthright claims.\n For ah!--she has reared them amid tempests,\n And cradled them in snow,\n To give the Scottish arms their strength,\n Their hearts a kindly glow.\n So weave well the bright threads,\n The red threads, the green threads,\n Woof well the strong threads\n That bind their hearts to thine.\n\n\n\n\nThe Thrush\u2019s Song.\n\n(From the Gaelic.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: W. MACGILLIVRAY]\n\n Dear, dear, dear,\n In the rocky glen,\n Far away, far away, far away\n The haunts of men;\n There shall we dwell in love\n With the lark and the dove,\n Cuckoo and corn-rail,\n Feast on the bearded snail,\n Worm and gilded fly,\n Drink of the crystal rill\n Winding adown the hill\n Never to dry.\n With glee, with glee, with glee\n Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up here;\n Nothing to harm us, then sing merrily,\n Sing to the loved one whose nest is near.\n\n _Qui, qui, queen, quip;\n Tiurru, tiurru, chip\u00efwi,\n Too-tee, too-tee, chin-choo,\n Chirri, chirri, chooee\n Quin, qui, qui!_\n\n\n\n\nThe Prayer of Women.\n\n\n[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]\n\n O Spirit, that broods upon the hills\n And moves upon the face of the deep,\n And is heard in the wind,\n Save us from the desire of men\u2019s eyes,\n And the cruel lust of them,\n And the springing of the cruel seed\n In that narrow house which is as the grave\n For darkness and loneliness ...\n That women carry with them with shame, and weariness,\n and long pain,\n Only for the laughter of man\u2019s heart,\n And the joy that triumphs therein,\n And the sport that is in his heart,\n Wherewith he mocketh us,\n Wherewith he playeth with us,\n Wherewith he trampleth upon us ...\n Us, who conceive and bear him;\n Us, who bring him forth;\n Who feed him in the womb, and at the breast, and at the knee:\n Whom he calleth mother and wife,\n And mother again of his children and his children\u2019s children.\n Ah, hour of the hours,\n When he looks at our hair and sees it is grey;\n And at our eyes and sees they are dim;\n And at our lips straightened out with long pain;\n And at our breasts, fallen and seared as a barren hill;\n And at our hands, worn with toil!\n Ah, hour of the hours,\n When, seeing, he seeth all the bitter ruin and wreck of us--\n All save the violated womb that curses him--\n All save the heart that forbeareth ... for pity--\n All save the living brain that condemneth him--\n All save the spirit that shall not mate with him\n All save the soul he shall never see\n Till he be one with it, and equal;\n He who hath the bridle, but guideth not;\n He who hath the whip, yet is driven;\n He who as a shepherd calleth upon us,\n But is himself a lost sheep, crying among the hills!\n O Spirit, and the Nine Angels who watch us,\n And Thy Son, and Mary Virgin,\n Heal us of the wrong of man:\n We, whose breasts are weary with milk,\n Cry, cry to Thee, O Compassionate!\n\n\n\n\nThe Rune of Age.\n\n\n[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]\n\n O Thou that on the hills and wastes of Night art Shepherd,\n Whose folds are flameless moons and icy planets,\n Whose darkling way is gloomed with ancient sorrows:\n Whose breath lies white as snow upon the olden,\n Whose sigh it is that furrows breasts grown milkless,\n Whose weariness is in the loins of man\n And is the barren stillness of the woman:\n O thou whom all would \u2019scape, and all must meet,\n Thou that the Shadow art of Youth Eternal,\n The gloom that is the hush\u2019d air of the Grave,\n The sigh that is between last parted love,\n The light for aye withdrawing from weary eyes,\n The tide from stricken hearts forever ebbing!\n\n O thou the Elder Brother whom none loveth,\n Whom all men hail with reverence or mocking,\n Who broodest on the brows of frozen summits\n Yet dreamest in the eyes of babes and children:\n Thou, Shadow of the Heart, the Brain, the Life,\n Who art that dusk =What-is= that is already =Has-Been=,\n To thee this rune of the fathers-to-the-sons\n And of the sons to the sons, and mothers to new mothers--\n To thee who art =Aois=,\n To thee who art Age!\n\n Breathe thy frosty breath upon my hair, for I am weary!\n Lay thy frozen hand upon my bones that they support not,\n Put thy chill upon the blood that it sustain not;\n Place the crown of thy fulfilling on my forehead;\n Throw the silence of thy spirit on my spirit,\n Lay the balm and benediction of thy mercy\n On the brain-throb and the heart-pulse and the lifespring--\n For thy child that bows his head is weary,\n For thy child that bows his head is weary.\n I the shadow am that seeks the Darkness.\n Age, that hath the face of Night unstarr\u2019d and moonless,\n Age, that doth extinguish star and planet,\n Moon and sun and all the fiery worlds,\n Give me now thy darkness and thy silence!\n\n\n\n\nA Milking Song.\n\n\n[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]\n\n O sweet St Bride of the\n Yellow, yellow hair:\n Paul said, and Peter said,\n And all the saints alive or dead\n Vowed she had the sweetest head,\n Bonnie, sweet St Bride of the\n Yellow, yellow hair.\n\n White may my milking be,\n White as thee:\n Thy face is white, thy neck is white,\n Thy hands are white, thy feet are white,\n For thy sweet soul is shining bright--\n O dear to me,\n O dear to see\n St Bridget white!\n\n Yellow may my butter be,\n Soft, and round:\n Thy breasts are sweet,\n Soft, round and sweet,\n So may my butter be:\n So may my butter be O\n Bridget sweet!\n\n Safe thy way is, safe, O\n Safe, St Bride:\n May my kye come home at even,\n None be fallin\u2019 none be leavin\u2019,\n Dusky even, breath-sweet even,\n Here, as there, where O\n St Bride thou\n Keepest tryst with God in heav\u2019n,\n Seest the angels bow\n And souls be shriven--\n Here, as there, \u2019tis breath-sweet even\n Far and wide--\n Singeth thy little maid\n Safe in thy shade\n Bridget, Bride!\n\n\n\n\nLullaby.\n\n\n[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]\n\n Lennavan-mo,\n Lennavan-mo,\n Who is it swinging you to and fro,\n With a long low swing and a sweet low croon,\n And the loving words of the mother\u2019s rune?\n\n Lennavan-mo,\n Lennavan-mo,\n Who is it swinging you to and fro?\n I\u2019m thinking it is an angel fair,\n The Angel that looks on the gulf from the lowest stair\n And swings the green world upward by its leagues of sunshine hair.\n\n Lennavan-mo,\n Lennavan-mo,\n Who is it swings you and the Angel to and fro?\n It is He whose faintest thought is a world afar,\n It is He whose wish is a leaping seven-moon\u2019d star,\n It is He, Lennavan-mo,\n To whom you and I and all things flow.\n\n Lennavan-mo,\n Lennavan-mo,\n It is only a little wee lass you are, Eilidh-mo-chree,\n But as this wee blossom has roots in the depths of the sky,\n So you are at one with the Lord of Eternity--\n Bonnie wee lass that you are,\n My morning-star,\n Eilidh-mo-chree, Lennavan-mo,\n Lennavan-mo.\n\n\n\n\nThe Songs of Ethlenn Stuart\n\n\nI.\n\n His face was glad as dawn to me,\n His breath was sweet as dusk to me,\n His eyes were burning flames to me,\n _Shule, Shule, Shule, agr\u00e0h_!\n\n The broad noon-day was night to me,\n The full-moon night was dark to me,\n The stars whirled and the poles span\n The hour God took him far from me.\n\n Perhaps he dreams in heaven now,\n Perhaps he doth in worship bow,\n A white flame round his foam-white brow,\n _Shule, Shule, Shule, agr\u00e0h_!\n\n I laugh to think of him like this,\n Who once found all his joy and bliss\n Against my heart, against my kiss,\n _Shule, Shule, Shule, agr\u00e0h_!\n\n Star of my joy, art still the same\n Now thou hast gotten a new name,\n Pulse of my heart, my Blood, my Flame,\n _Shule, Shule, Shule, agr\u00e0h_!\n\n[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]\n\n\nII.\n\n He laid his dear face next to mine,\n His eyes aflame burned close to mine,\n His heart to mine, his lips to mine,\n O he was mine, all mine, all mine.\n\n Drunk with old wine of love I was,\n Drunk as the wild-bee in the grass\n Singing his honey-mad sweet bass,\n Drunk, drunk with wine of love I was!\n\n His lips of life to me were fief,\n Before him I was but a leaf\n Blown by the wind, a shaken leaf,\n Yea, as the sickle reaps the sheaf,\n My Grief!\n He reaped me as a gathered sheaf!\n\n His to be gathered, his the bliss,\n But not a greater bliss than this!\n All of the empty world to miss\n For wild redemption of his kiss!\n My Grief!\n\n For hell was lost, though heaven was brief\n Sphered in the universe of thy kiss--\n So cries to thee thy fallen leaf,\n Thy gathered sheaf,\n Lord of my life, my Pride, my Chief,\n My Grief!\n\n\n\n\nThe Closing Doors.\n\n\n Eilidh,[26] Eilidh, Eilidh, heart of me, dear and sweet!\n In dreams I am hearing the whisper, the sound of your coming feet:\n The sound of your coming feet that like the sea-hoofs beat\n A music by day and night, Eilidh, on the sands of my heart, my sweet!\n\n O sands of my heart what wind moans low along thy shadowy shore?\n Is that the deep sea-heart I hear with the dying sob at its core?\n Each dim lost wave that lapses is like a closing door:\n \u2019Tis closing doors they hear at last who soon shall hear no more,\n Who soon shall hear no more.\n\n Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh, come home, come home to the heart o\u2019 me:\n It is pain I am having ever, Eilidh, a pain that will not be:\n Come home, come home, for closing doors are as the waves o\u2019 the sea,\n Once closed they are closed for ever, Eilidh, lost, lost, for thee and me,\n Lost, lost, for thee and me.\n\n\n\n\nThe Sorrow of Delight.\n\n\n[Sidenote: FIONA MACLEOD]\n\n Till death be filled with darkness\n And life be filled with light,\n The sorrow of ancient sorrows\n Shall be the Sorrow of Night:\n But then the sorrow of sorrows\n Shall be the Sorrow of Delight.\n\n Heart\u2019s-joy must fade with sorrow,\n For both are sprung from clay:\n But the Joy that is one with Sorrow,\n Treads an immortal way:\n Each hath in fee To-morrow,\n And their soul is Yesterday.\n\n Joy that is clothed with shadow\n Is the Joy that is not dead:\n For the joy that is clothed with the rainbow\n Shall with the bow be sped:\n Where the Sun spends his fires is she,\n And where the Stars are led.\n\n\n\n\nFarewell to Fiunary.\n\n\n[Sidenote: NORMAN MACLEOD]\n\n The wind is fair, the day is fine,\n And swiftly, swiftly runs the time,\n The boat is floating on the tide\n That wafts me off from Fiunary.\n\n Eirigh agus tingainn O!\n Eirigh agus tingainn O!\n Erigh agus tingainn O!\n Farewell, farewell to Fiunary!\n\n A thousand, thousand tender ties\n Awake this day my plaintive sighs,\n My heart within me almost dies\n To think of leaving Fiunary.\n\n Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc.\n\n With pensive steps I often strolled\n Where Fingal\u2019s castle stood of old,\n And listened while the shepherd told\n The legend tales of Fiunary.\n\n Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc.\n\n I\u2019ll often pause at close of day\n Where Ossian sang his martial lay,\n And viewed the sun\u2019s departing ray\n Wandering o\u2019er Dun Fiunary.\n\n Eirigh agus tingainn O! etc.\n\n\n\n\nA Kiss of the King\u2019s Hand.\n\n\n[Sidenote: SARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON]\n\n It wasna from a golden throne,\n Or a bower with milk-white roses blown,\n But mid the kelp on northern sand\n That I got a kiss of the king\u2019s hand.\n\n I durstna raise my een tae see\n If he even cared to glance at me;\n His princely brow with care was crossed\n For his true men slain and kingdom lost.\n\n Think not his hand was soft and white,\n Or his fingers a\u2019 with jewels dight,\n Or round his wrists were jewels grand\n When I got a kiss of the king\u2019s hand.\n\n But dearer far tae my twa een\n Was the ragged sleeve of red and green\n O\u2019er that young weary hand that fain,\n With the guid broadsword, had found its ain.\n\n Farewell for ever, the distance gray\n And the lapping ocean seemed to say--\n For him a home in a foreign land,\n And for me one kiss of the king\u2019s hand.\n\n\n\n\nThe First Ship.\n\n\n[Sidenote: DUGALD MOORE]\n\n The sky in beauty arch\u2019d\n The wide and weltering flood,\n While the winds in triumph march\u2019d\n Through their pathless solitude--\n Rousing up the plume on ocean\u2019s hoary crest,\n That like space in darkness slept,\n When his watch old Silence kept,\n Ere the earliest planet leapt\n From its breast.\n\n A speck is on the deeps,\n Like a spirit in her flight;\n How beautiful she keeps\n Her stately path in light!\n She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee--\n The sun has on her smiled,\n And the waves, no longer wild,\n Sing in glory round that child\n Of the sea.\n\n \u2019Twas at the set of sun\n That she tilted o\u2019er the flood,\n Moving like God alone\n O\u2019er the glorious solitude--\n The billows crouch around her as her slaves\n How exulting are her crew!--\n Each sight to them is new,\n As they sweep along the blue\n Of the waves.\n\n Fair herald of the fleets\n That yet shall cross the waves,\n Till the earth with ocean meets\n One universal grave,\n What armaments shall follow thee in joy!\n Linking each distant land\n With trade\u2019s harmonious band,\n Or bearing havoc\u2019s brand\n To destroy!\n\n\n\n\nThe Land o\u2019 the Leal.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LADY CAROLINE NAIRNE]\n\n I\u2019m wearin\u2019 awa, John,\n Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,\n I\u2019m wearin\u2019 awa\n To the land o\u2019 the leal.\n\n There\u2019s nae sorrow there, John,\n There\u2019s neither cauld nor care, John,\n The day is aye fair\n In the land o\u2019 the leal.\n\n Our bonnie bairn\u2019s there, John,\n She was baith gude and fair, John,\n And, oh, we grudged her sair\n To the land o\u2019 the leal.\n\n But sorrow\u2019s sel\u2019 wears past, John,\n And joy\u2019s a-comin\u2019 fast, John,\n The joy that\u2019s aye to last,\n In the land o\u2019 the leal.\n\n Oh, dry your glist\u2019ning ee, John,\n My saul langs to be free, John,\n And Angels beckon me\n To the land o\u2019 the leal.\n\n O haud ye leal and true, John,\n Your day it\u2019s wearin\u2019 through, John,\n And I\u2019ll welcome you\n To the land o\u2019 the leal.\n\n Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,\n The warld\u2019s cares are vain, John,\n We\u2019ll meet and we\u2019ll be fain\n In the land o\u2019 the leal.\n\n\n\n\nSkye.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ALEXANDER NICOLSON]\n\n My heart is yearning to thee, O Skye!\n Dearest of Islands!\n There first the sunshine gladdened my eye,\n On the sea sparkling;\n There doth the dust of my dear ones lie,\n In the old graveyard.\n\n Bright are the golden green fields to me,\n Here in the Lowlands;\n Sweet sings the mavis in the thorn-tree,\n Snowy with fragrance:\n But oh for a breath of the great North Sea,\n Girdling the mountains!\n\n Good is the smell of the brine that laves\n Black rock and skerry,\n Where the great palm-leaved tangle waves\n Down in the green depths,\n And round the craggy bluff pierced with caves\n Sea-gulls are screaming.\n\n Where the sun sinks beyond Humish Head,\n Crowning in glory,\n As he goes down to his ocean bed\n Studded with islands,\n Flushing the Coolin with royal red,\n Would I were sailing!\n\n Many a hearth round that friendly shore\n Giveth warm welcome;\n Charms still are there, as in days of yore,\n More than of mountains;\n But hearths and faces are seen no more,\n Once of the brightest.\n\n Many a poor black cottage is there,\n Grimy with peat smoke,\n Sending up in the soft evening air\n Purest blue incense,\n While the low music of psalm and prayer\n Rises to Heaven.\n\n Kind were the voices I used to hear\n Round such a fireside,\n Speaking the mother tongue old and dear,\n Making the heart beat\n With sudden tales of wonder and fear,\n Or plaintive singing.\n\n Great were the marvellous stories told\n Of Ossian\u2019s heroes,\n Giants, and witches, and young men bold,\n Seeking adventures,\n Winning kings\u2019 daughters and guarded gold,\n Only with valour.\n\n Reared in those dwellings have brave ones been;\n Brave ones are still there;\n Forth from their darkness on Sunday I\u2019ve seen\n Coming pure linen,\n And like the linen the souls were clean\n Of them that wore it.\n\n See that thou kindly use them, O man!\n To whom God giveth\n Stewardship over them, in thy short span\n Not for thy pleasure;\n Woe be to them who choose for a clan\n Four-footed people!\n\n Blessings be with ye, both now and aye\n Dear human creatures!\n Yours is the love that no gold can buy!\n Nor time can wither,\n Peace be to thee and thy children, O Skye!\n Dearest of islands.\n\n\n\n\nMidnight by the Sea.\n\n(Autumn.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: SIR NO\u00cbL PATON]\n\n Waves of the wild North Sea,\n Breaking--breaking--breaking!\n From the dumb agony\n Of dreams awaking,\n How sweet within the loosened arms of sleep\n To lie in silence deep,\n Lone listening to your many-throated roar\n Along the caverned shore,\n In midnight darkness breaking--breaking--breaking!\n\n Wind of the wild North Sea,\n Calling--calling--calling!\n What may your message be,\n Rising and falling?\n From out the infinite ye make reply:\n \u201cWhither? and whence? and why?\u201d\n And my soul echoes the despairing moan--\n Which none can answer--none!--\n From out its depths abysmal calling--calling--calling.\n\n\n\n\nIn Shadowland.\n\n\n[Sidenote: SIR NOEL PATON]\n\n Between the moaning of the mountain stream\n And the hoarse thunder of the Atlantic deep,\n An outcast from the peaceful realms of sleep\n I lie, and hear as in a fever-dream\n The homeless night-wind in the darkness scream\n And wail around the inaccessible steep\n Down whose gaunt sides the spectral torrents leap\n From crag to crag,--till almost I could deem\n The plaided ghosts of buried centuries\n Were mustering in the glen with bow and spear\n And shadowy hounds to hunt the shadowy deer,\n Mix in phantasmal sword-play, or, with eyes\n Of wrath and pain immortal, wander o\u2019er\n Loved scenes where human footstep comes no more.\n\n\n\n\nMountain Twilight.\n\n\n[Sidenote: WILLIAM RENTON]\n\n The hills slipped over each on each\n Till all their changing shadows died.\n Now in the open skyward reach\n The lights grow solemn side by side.\n While of these hills the westermost\n Rears high his majesty of coast\n In shifting waste of dim-blue brine\n And fading olive hyaline;\n Till all the distance overflows,\n The green in watchet and the blue\n In purple. Now they fuse and close--\n A darkling violet, fringed anew\n With light that on the mountain soars,\n A dusky flame on tranquil shores;\n Kindling the summits as they grow\n In audience to the skies that call,\n Ineffable in rest and all\n The pathos of the afterglow.\n\n\n\n\nDurisdeer.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LADY JOHN SCOTT]\n\n We\u2019ll meet nae mair at sunset when the weary day is dune,\n Nor wander hame thegither by the lee licht o\u2019 the mune.\n I\u2019ll hear your steps nae langer amang the dewy corn,\n For we\u2019ll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either at e\u2019en or morn.\n\n The yellow broom is waving abune the sunny brae,\n And the rowan berries dancing where the sparkling waters play;\n Tho\u2019 a\u2019 is bright and bonnie it\u2019s an eerie place to me,\n For we\u2019ll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree.\n\n Far up into the wild hills there\u2019s a kirkyard lone and still,\n Where the frosts lie ilka morning and the mists hang low and chill.\n And there ye sleep in silence while I wander here my lane\n Till we meet ance mair in Heaven never to part again!\n\n\n\n\nNovember\u2019s Cadence.\n\n\n[Sidenote: EARL OF SOUTHESK]\n\n The bees about the Linden-tree,\n When blithely summer blooms were springing,\n Would hum a heartsome melody,\n The simple baby-soul of singing;\n And thus my spirit sang to me\n When youth its wanton way was winging:\n \u201cBe glad, be sad--thou hast the choice--\n But mingle music with thy voice.\u201d\n\n The linnets on the Linden-tree,\n Among the leaves in autumn dying,\n Are making gentle melody,\n A mild, mysterious, mournful sighing;\n And thus my spirit sings to me\n While years are flying, flying, flying:\n \u201cBe sad, be sad, thou hast no choice,\n But mourn with music in thy voice.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCailleach Bein-y-Vreich.\n\n\n[Sidenote: JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP]\n\n Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich! horo! horo!\n Aloft in the mist she dwells;\n Vreich horo! Vreich horo! Vreich horo!\n All alone by the lofty wells.\n\n Weird, weird wife! with the long gray locks,\n She follows her fleet-foot stags,\n Noisily moving through splinter\u2019d rocks,\n And crashing the grisly crags.\n\n Tall wife, with the long gray hose! in haste\n The rough stony beach she walks;\n But dulse or seaweed she will not taste,\n Nor yet the green kail stalks.\n\n * * * * *\n\n O I will not let my herd of deer,\n My bonny red deer go down;\n I will not let them go down to the shore,\n To feed on the sea-shells brown.\n\n Oh, better they love in the corrie\u2019s recess,\n Or on mountain top to dwell,\n And feed by my side on the green, green cress,\n That grows by the lofty well.\n\n Broad Bein-y-Vreich is grisly and drear,\n But wherever my feet have been\n The well-springs start for my darling deer,\n And the grass grows tender and green.\n\n And there high up on the calm nights clear,\n Beside the lofty spring,\n They come to my call, and I milk them there,\n And a weird wild song I sing.\n\n But when hunter men round my dun deer prowl,\n I will not let them nigh;\n Through the rended cloud I cast one scowl,\n They faint on the heath and die.\n\n And when the north wind o\u2019er the desert bare\n Drives loud, to the corries below\n I drive my herds down, and bield them there\n From the drifts of the blinding snow.\n\n Then I mount the blast, and we ride full fast,\n And laugh as we stride the storm,\n I, and the witch of the Cruachan Ben,\n And the scowling-eyed Seul-Gorm.\n\n\n\n\nAn Old Tale of Three.\n\n\n[Sidenote: UNA URQUHART]\n\n Ah bonnie darling, lift your dark eyes dreaming!\n See, the firelight fills the gloaming, though deep\n darkness grows without--\n\n _Hush, dear, hush, I hear the sea-birds screaming,\n And down beyond the haven the tide comes with a shout!_\n\n Ah, birdeen, sweetheart, sure he is not coming,\n He who has your hand in fee, while I have all your heart--\n\n _Hush, dear, hush, I hear the wild bees humming\n Far away in the underworld where true love shall not part!_\n\n Darling, darling, darling, all the world is singing,\n Singing, singing, singing a song of joy for me!\n\n _Hush, dear, hush, what wild sea-wind is bringing\n Gloom o\u2019 the sea about thy brow, athwart the eyes of thee?_\n\n Ah, heart o\u2019 me, darling, darling, all my heart\u2019s aflame!\n Sure, at the last we are all in all, all in all we two!\n\n _At the Door,\n A VOICE._\n\n This is the way I take my own, this is the boon I claim!\n\n (_Later, in the dark, the living brooding beside the dead_:--)\n\n Sure, at the last, ye are all in all, all in all, ye two--\n Ah, hell of my heart! Ye are dust to me--and dust with dust may woo!\n\n\n\n\nLost Love.\n\n\n[Sidenote: UNKNOWN\n\n(From the Gaelic, Western Isles.)]\n\n My heart! my pulse! my flame!\n O the gloom, O the pain!\n He has no wish to save me\n Who will not come again.\n\n Love! Love! Love!\n The fair cheek, the dark hair,\n The promise forgotten;\n \u2019Twill go with me there.\n\n False! false! false!\n O, youth is false for ever:\n He loves far more than living me--\n The lifeless heather.\n\n The hunting field,\n The greenwood tree,\n The trout, the running deer, he loves,\n Far more than me.\n\n He loves--loves--loves\n To stalk the frightened doe;\n He never heeds the pain he gives,\n His skill to show.\n\n O, the dark blue eye--\n A flower wet with dew;\n O, the fair false face--\n Too sweet to view!\n\n Love! Love! Love!\n The fair cheek, the dark hair!\n For him I\u2019d scale the walls of hell\n Gin he were there!\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nCONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS\n\n(Wales)\n\n\n\n\nDirge in Woods.\n\n\n[Sidenote: GEORGE MEREDITH]\n\n A wind sways the pines,\n And below\n Not a breath of wild air;\n Still as the mosses that glow\n On the flooring and over the lines\n Of the roots here and there.\n The pine-tree drops its dead;\n They are quiet, as under the sea.\n Overhead, overhead\n Rushes life in a race,\n As the clouds the clouds chase;\n And we go,\n And we drop like the fruits of the tree,\n Even we,\n Even so.\n\n\n\n\nOuter and Inner.\n\n\nI.\n\n From twig to twig the spider weaves\n At noon his webbing fine.\n So near to mute the zephyr\u2019s flute\n That only leaflets dance.\n The sun draws out of hazel leaves\n A smell of woodland wine.\n I wake a swarm to sudden storm\n At any step\u2019s advance.\n\n\nII.\n\n Along my path is bugloss blue,\n The star with fruit in moss;\n The foxgloves drop from throat to top\n A daily lesser bell.\n The blackest shadow, nurse of dew,\n Has orange skeins across;\n And keenly red is one thin thread\n That flashing seems to swell.\n\n\nIII.\n\n My world I note ere fancy comes,\n Minutest hushed observe:\n What busy bits of motioned wits\n Through antlered mosswork strive;\n But now so low the stillness hums,\n My springs of seeing swerve,\n For half a wink to thrill and think\n The woods with nymphs alive.\n\n\nIV.\n\n I neighbour the invisible\n So close that my consent\n Is only asked for spirits masked\n To leap from trees and flowers.\n And this because with them I dwell\n In thought, while calmly bent\n To read the lines dear Earth designs\n Shall speak her life on ours.\n\n\nV.\n\n Accept, she says; it is not hard\n In woods; but she in towns\n Repeats, accept; and have we wept,\n And have we quailed with fears,\n Or shrunk with horrors, sure reward\n We have whom knowledge crowns;\n Who see in mould the rose unfold,\n The soul through blood and tears.\n\n\n\n\nNight of Frost in May.\n\n\n With splendour of a silver day,\n A frosted night had opened May:\n And on that plumed and armoured night,\n As one close temple hove our wood,\n Its border leafage virgin white.\n Remote down air an owl halloed.\n The black twig dropped without a twirl;\n The bud in jewelled grasp was nipped;\n The brown leaf cracked with a scorching curl;\n A crystal off the green leaf slipped.\n Across the tracks of rimy tan,\n Some busy thread at whiles would shoot;\n A limping minnow-rillet ran,\n To hang upon an icy foot.\n\n In this shrill hush of quietude,\n The ear conceived a severing cry.\n Almost it let the sound elude,\n When chuckles three, a warble shy,\n From hazels of the garden came,\n Near by the crimson-windowed farm.\n They laid the trance on breath and frame,\n A prelude of the passion-charm.\n\n Then soon was heard, not sooner heard\n Than answered, doubled, trebled, more,\n Voice of an Eden in the bird\n Renewing with his pipe of four\n The sob: a troubled Eden, rich\n In throb of heart: unnumbered throats\n Flung upward at a fountain\u2019s pitch,\n The fervour of the four long notes,\n That on the fountain\u2019s pool subside;\n Exult and ruffle and upspring:\n Endless the crossing multiplied\n Of silver and of golden string.\n There chimed a bubbled underbrew\n With witch-wild spray of vocal dew.\n\n It seemed a single harper swept\n Our wild wood\u2019s inner chords and waked\n A spirit that for yearning ached\n Ere men desired and joyed or wept.\n Or now a legion ravishing\n Musician rivals did unite\n In love of sweetness high to sing\n The subtle song that rivals light;\n From breast of earth to breast of sky:\n And they were secret, they were nigh:\n A hand the magic might disperse;\n The magic swung my universe.\n\n Yet sharpened breath forbade to dream,\n Where all was visionary gleam;\n Where Seasons, as with cymbals, clashed;\n And feelings, passing joy and woe,\n Churned, gurgled, spouted, interflashed,\n Nor either was the one we know:\n Nor pregnant of the heart contained\n In us were they, that griefless plained,\n That plaining soared; and through the heart\n Struck to one note the wide apart:--\n A passion surgent from despair;\n A paining bliss in fervid cold;\n Off the last vital edge of air,\n Leaping heavenward of the lofty-souled,\n For rapture of a wine of tears;\n As had a star among the spheres\n Caught up our earth to some mid-height\n Of double life to ear and sight,\n She giving voice to thought that shines\n Keen-brilliant of her deepest mines;\n While steely drips the rillet clinked,\n And hoar with crust the cowslips swelled.\n\n Then was the lyre of Earth beheld,\n Then heard by me: it holds me linked;\n Across the years to dead-ebb shores\n I stand on, my blood-thrill restores.\n But would I conjure into me\n Those issue notes, I must review\n What serious breath the woodland drew;\n The low throb of expectancy;\n How the white mother-muteness pressed\n On leaf and meadow-herb; how shook,\n Nigh speech of mouth, the sparkle-crest\n Seen spinning on the bracken crook.\n\n\n\n\nHymn to Colour.\n\n\n[Sidenote: GEORGE MEREDITH]\n\nI.\n\n With Life and Death I walked when Love appeared,\n And made them on each side a shadow seem.\n Through wooded vales the land of dawn we neared,\n Where down smooth rapids whirls the helmless dream\n To fall on daylight; and night puts away\n Her darker veil for grey.\n\n\nII.\n\n In that grey veil green grassblades brushed we by;\n We came where woods breathed sharp, and overhead\n Rocks raised clear horns on a transforming sky:\n Around, save for those shapes, with him who led\n And linked them, desert varied by no sign\n Of other life than mine.\n\n\nIII.\n\n By this the dark-winged planet, raying wide,\n From the mild pearl-glow to the rose upborne,\n Drew in his fires, less faint than far descried,\n Pure-fronted on a stronger wave of morn:\n And those two shapes the splendour interweaved,\n Hung web-like, sank and heaved.\n\n\nIV.\n\n Love took my hand when hidden stood the sun\n To fling his robe on shoulder-heights of snow.\n Then said: There lie they, Life and Death in one.\n Whichever is, the other is: but know,\n It is thy craving self that thou dost see,\n Not in them seeing me.\n\n\nV.\n\n Shall man into the mystery of breath,\n From his quick breathing pulse a pathway spy?\n Or learn the secret of the shrouded death,\n By lifting up the lid of a white eye?\n Cleave thou thy way with fathering desire\n Of fire to reach to fire.\n\n\nVI.\n\n Look now where Colour, the soul\u2019s bridegroom, makes\n The house of heaven splendid for the bride.\n To him as leaps a fountain she awakes,\n In knotting arms, yet boundless: him beside,\n She holds the flower to heaven, and by his power\n Brings heaven to the flower.\n\n\nVII.\n\n He gives her homeliness in desert air,\n And sovereignty in spaciousness; he leads\n Through widening chambers of surprise to where\n Throbs rapture near an end that aye recedes,\n Because his touch is infinite and lends\n A yonder to all ends.\n\n\nVIII.\n\n Death begs of Life his blush; Life Death persuades\n To keep long day with his caresses graced.\n He is the heart of light, the wing of shades,\n The crown of beauty; never soul embraced\n Of him can harbour unfaith; soul of him\n Possessed walks never dim.\n\n\nIX.\n\n Love eyed his rosy memories: he sang:\n O bloom of dawn, breathed up from the gold sheaf\n Held springing beneath Orient! that dost hang\n The space of dewdrops running over leaf;\n Thy fleetingness is bigger in the ghost\n Than Time with all his host!\n\n\nX.\n\n Of thee to say behold, has said adieu:\n But love remembers how the sky was green,\n And how the grasses glimmered lightest blue;\n How saint-like grey took fervour: how the screen\n Of cloud grew violet; how thy moment came\n Between a blush and flame.\n\n\n[Sidenote: GEORGE MEREDITH]\n\nXI.\n\n Love saw the emissary eglantine\n Break wave round thy white feet above the gloom;\n Lay finger on thy star; thy raiment line\n With cherub wing and limb; wed thy soft bloom,\n Gold-quivering like sunrays in thistle-down,\n Earth under rolling brown.\n\n\nXII.\n\n They do not look through love to look on thee,\n Grave heavenliness! nor know they joy of sight,\n Who deem the wave of rapt desire must be\n Its wrecking and last issue of delight.\n Dead seasons quicken in one petal-spot\n Of colour unforgot.\n\n\nXIII.\n\n This way have men come out of brutishness\n To spell the letters of the sky and read\n A reflex upon earth else meaningless.\n With thee, O fount of the Untimed! to lead;\n Drink they of thee, thee eyeing, they unaged\n Shall on through brave wars waged.\n\n\nXIV.\n\n More gardens will they win than any lost;\n The vile plucked out of them, the unlovely slain.\n Not forfeiting the beast with which they are crossed,\n To stature of the Gods will they attain.\n They shall uplift their Earth to meet her Lord,\n Themselves the attuning chord!\n\n\nXV.\n\n The song had ceased; my vision with the song.\n Then of those Shadows, which one made descent\n Beside me I knew not: but Life ere long\n Came on me in the public ways and bent\n Eyes deeper than of old: Death met I too,\n And saw the dawn glow through\n\n\n\n\nShadows.\n\n\n[Sidenote: SEBASTIAN EVANS]\n\n Lonely o\u2019er the dying ember\n I the past recall,\n And remember in December\n April buds and August skies,\n As the shadows fall and rise,\n As the shadows rise and fall.\n\n Quicker now they lift and flicker\n On the dreary wall;\n Aye, and quicker still and thicker\n Throng the fitful fantasies,\n As the shadows fall and rise,\n As the shadows rise and fall.\n\n Dimmer now they shoot and shimmer\n On the dreary wall,\n Dimmer, dimmer, still they glimmer\n Till the light in darkness dies,\n And the other shadows rise,\n And the other shadows fall.\n\n\n\n\nWhen the World is Burning.\n\n\n[Sidenote: EBENEZER JONES]\n\n When the world is burning,\n Fired within, yet turning\n Round with face unscathed;\n Ere fierce flames, uprushing,\n O\u2019er all lands leap, crushing,\n Till earth fall, fire-swathed;\n Up against the meadows,\n Gently through the shadows,\n Gentle flames will glide,\n Small, and blue, and golden.\n Though by bard beholden,\n When in calm dreams folden,--\n Calm his dreams will bide.\n\n Where the dance is sweeping,\n Through the greensward peeping,\n Shall the soft lights start;\n Laughing maids, unstaying,\n Deeming it trick-playing,\n High their robes upswaying,\n O\u2019er the lights shall dart;\n And the woodland haunter\n Shall not cease to saunter\n When, far down some glade,\n Of the great world\u2019s burning,\n One soft flame upturning\n Seems, to his discerning,\n Crocus in the shade.\n\n\n\n\nThe Hand.\n\n\n Lone o\u2019er the moors I stray\u2019d;\n With basely timid mind,\n Because by some betray\u2019d\n Denouncing human-kind;\n I heard the lonely wind,\n And wickedly did mourn\n I could not share its loneliness,\n And all things human scorn.\n\n And bitter were the tears,\n I cursed as they fell;\n And bitterer the sneers\n I strove not to repel:\n With blindly mutter\u2019d yell,\n I cried unto mine heart,--\n \u201cThou shalt beat the world in falsehood\n And stab it ere we part.\u201d\n\n My hand I backward drave\n As one who seeks a knife;\n When startlingly did crave\n To quell that hand\u2019s wild strife\n Some other hand; all rife\n With kindness, clasp\u2019d it hard\n On mine, quick frequent claspings\n That would not be debarr\u2019d.\n\n I dared not turn my gaze\n To the creature of the hand;\n And no sound did it raise,\n Its nature to disband\n Of mystery; vast, and grand,\n The moors around me spread,\n And I thought, some angel message\n Perchance their God may have sped.\n\n[Sidenote: EBENEZER JONES]\n\n But it press\u2019d another press,\n So full of earnest prayer,\n While o\u2019er it fell a tress\n Of cool soft human hair,\n I fear\u2019d not;--I did dare\n Turn round, \u2019twas Hannah there!\n Oh! to no one out of heaven\n Could I what pass\u2019d declare.\n\n We wander\u2019d o\u2019er the moor\n Through all that blessed day;\n And we drank its waters pure,\n And felt the world away;\n In many a dell we lay,\n And we twined flower-crowns bright;\n And I fed her with moor-berries\n And bless\u2019d her glad eye-light.\n\n And still that earnest prayer\n That saved me many stings,\n Was oft a silent sayer\n Of countless loving things;--\n I\u2019ll ring it all with rings,\n Each ring a jewell\u2019d band;\n For heaven shouldn\u2019t purchase\n That little sister hand.\n\n\n\n\nA Song of Winter.\n\n\n[Sidenote: EMILY DAVIS\n\n(Mrs Pfeiffer)]\n\n Barb\u2019d blossom of the guarded gorse,\n I love thee where I see thee shine:\n Thou sweetener of our common-ways,\n And brightener of our wintry days.\n\n Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,\n Thou art undying, O be mine!\n Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest\n Close on a heart that asks not rest.\n\n I pluck thee and thy stigma set\n Upon my breast, and on my brow;\n Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreath\n That none may know the wounds beneath.\n\n O crown of thorn that seem\u2019st of gold,\n No festal coronal art thou;\n Thy honey\u2019d blossoms are but hives\n That guard the growth of winged lives.\n\n I saw thee in the time of flowers\n As sunshine spill\u2019d upon the land,\n Or burning bushes all ablaze\n With sacred fire; but went my ways;\n\n I went my ways, and as I went\n Pluck\u2019d kindlier blooms on either hand;\n Now of those blooms so passing sweet\n None lives to stay my passing feet.\n\n And still thy lamp upon the hill\n Feeds on the autumn\u2019s dying sigh,\n And from thy midst comes murmuring\n A music sweeter than in spring.\n\n Barb\u2019d blossoms of the guarded gorse,\n Be mine to wear until I die,\n And mine the wounds of love which still\n Bear witness to his human will.\n\n\n\n\nThe Night Ride.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ERNEST RHYS]\n\n To-night we rode beneath a moon\n That made the moorland pale;\n And our horses\u2019 feet kept well the tune\n And our pulses did not fail.\n\n The moon shone clear; the hoar-frost fell,\n The world slept, as it seemed;\n Sleep held the night, but we rode well,\n And as we rode we dreamed.\n\n We dreamed of ghostly horse and hound,\n And flight at dead of night;--\n The more the fearful thoughts we found,\n The more was our delight.\n\n And when we saw the white-owl fly,\n With hoot, how woebegone!\n We thought to see dead men go by,\n And pressed our horses on.\n\n The merrier then was Sylvia\u2019s song\n Upon the homeward road,--\n Oh, whether the way be short or long\n Is all in the rider\u2019s mood!\n\n And still our pulses kept the tale,\n Our gallop kept the tune,\n As round and over hill and vale\n We rode beneath the moon.\n\n\n\n\nThe House of Hendra.\n\n _\u2018S\u2019ai Plas Hendre_\n _Yn Nghaer Fyrddin:_\n _Canu Brechfa,_\n _Tithau Lywelyn\u2019._\n\n\nI.\n\n[Sidenote:\n\n The House of Hendra stood in Merlin\u2019s Town, and was sung by Brechva\n on his Harp of gold at the October Feasting of Ivor.\n]\n\n In the town where wondrous Merlin\n Lived, and still\n In deep sleep, they say, lies dreaming\n Near it, under Merlin\u2019s Hill,\n\n In that town of pastoral Towy,\n Once of old\n Stood the ancient House of Hendra,\n Sung on Brechva\u2019s harp of gold.\n\n With his harp to Ivor\u2019s feasting\n Brechva came,\n There he sang and made this ballad,\n While the last torch spent its flame.\n\n Long they told,--the men of Ivor,\n Of the strain\n At the heart of Brechva\u2019s harping\n Heard that night, and not again.\n\n[Sidenote: ERNEST RHYS]\n\n\nII.\n\n[Sidenote:\n\n _Incipit_ Brechva\u2019s Ballad of the House of Hendra, and of his deep\n sleep there on Hallowmas Night, and of his strange awaking.\n]\n\n In yon town, he sang,--there Hendra\n Waits my feet,\n In renown\u00e8d Merlin\u2019s town where\n Clare\u2019s white castle keeps the street.\n\n There, within that house of heroes,\n I drew breath;\n And \u2019tis there my feet must bear me,\n For the darker grace of death.\n\n There that last year\u2019s night I journeyed,--\n Hallowmas!\n When the dead of Earth, unburied,\n In the darkness rise and pass.\n\n Then in Hendra (all his harp cried\n At the stroke),\n Twelve moons gone, there came upon me\n Sleep like death. At length I woke:\n\n I awoke to utter darkness,\n Still and deep,\n With the walls around me fallen\n Of the sombre halls of sleep:\n\n With my hall of dreams downfallen,\n Dark I lay,\n Like one houseless, though about me\n Hendra stood, more fast than they:\n\n But what broke my sleep asunder,--\n Light or sound?\n There was shown no sound, where only\n Night, and shadow\u2019s heart, were found.\n\n\nIII.\n\n[Sidenote:\n\n Anon he hears a voice in the night, and rising from sleep, looks\n out upon the sleeping town.\n]\n\n So it passed, till with a troubled\n Lonely noise,\n Like a cry of men benighted,\n Midnight made itself a voice.\n\n Then I rose, and from the stairloop,\n Looking down,\n Nothing saw, where far before me\n Lay, one darkness, all the town.\n\n In that grave day seemed for ever\n To lie dead,\n Nevermore at wake of morning\n To lift up its pleasant head:\n\n All its friendly foolish clamour,\n Its delight,\n Fast asleep, or dead, beneath me,\n In that black descent of night:\n\n But anon, like fitful harping,\n Hark, a noise!\n As in dream, suppose your dreamer\u2019s\n Men of shadow found a voice.\n\n[Sidenote: ERNEST RHYS]\n\n\nIV.\n\n[Sidenote:\n\n Hearing his name called, Brechva descends to the postern, and sees\n thence a circle of Shadows, in a solemn dance of Death.\n]\n\n Night-wind never sang more strangely\n Song more strange;\n All confused, yet with a music\n In confusion\u2019s interchange.\n\n Now it cried, like harried night-birds,\n Flying near,\n Now, more nigh, with multiplying\n Voice on voice, \u201cO Brechva, hear!\u201d\n\n I was filled with fearful pleasure\n At the call,\n And I turned, and by the stairway\n Gained the postern in the wall:\n\n Deep as Annwn lay the darkness\n At my feet;--\n Like a yawning grave before me,\n When I opened, lay the street.\n\n Dark as death, and deep as Annwn,--\n But these eyes\n Yet more deeply, strangely, seeing,\n From that grave saw life arise.\n\n And therewith a mist of shadows\n In a ring,\n Like the sea-mist on the sea-wind,\n Waxing, waning, vanishing.\n\n Circling as the wheel of spirits\n Whirled and spun,\n Spun and whirled, to forewarn Merlin\n In the woods of Caledon.\n\n\nV.\n\n[Sidenote:\n\n The spirits are no dream-folk; but ancient inmates of the House of\n Hendra.\n]\n\n Shades of men, ay, bards and warriors!--\n Wrought of air,\n You may deem, but \u2019twas no dream-folk,\n Born of night, that crossed me there.\n\n And my heart cried out,--\u201cO Vorwyn!\n They are those\n Who of old-time lived to know here\n Life\u2019s great sweetness in this house.\u201d\n\n I had bid them kinsman\u2019s welcome,\n In a word,\n For the ancient sake of Hendra,\n Which they served with harp and sword.\n\n But as still I watched them, wondering,\n Curiously,\n Knowing all they should forewarn me,--\n Of my death and destiny!\n\n Ere I marked all in the silence,\n Ere I knew,\n Swift as they had come, as strangely\n Now their shadowy life withdrew.\n\n[Sidenote: ERNEST RHYS]\n\n\nVI.\n\n[Sidenote:\n\n The Spirits being gone, Brechva hears a\u00ebrial music, and sees in\n vision all the Bards in the seventh Heaven.\n]\n\n They were gone; but what sweet wonder\n Filled the air!--\n With a thousand harping noises,--\n Harping, chiming, crying there.\n\n At that harping and that chiming,\n Straightway strong\n Grew my heart, and in the darkness\n Found great solace at that song.\n\n Through the gate of night, its vision,\n Three times fine,\n Saw the seventh heaven of heroes,\n \u2019Mid a thousand torches\u2019 shine:\n\n All the bards and all the heroes\n Of old time\n There with Arthur and with Merlin\n Weave again the bardic rhyme.\n\n There a seat is set and ready,\n And the name\n There inscribed, and set on high there,--\n Brechva of the Bards of Fame.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nCONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS\n\n(Manx)\n\n\n\n\nThe Childhood of Kitty of the Sherragh Vane.\n\n\n[Sidenote: T. E. BROWN]\n\n Nice lookin\u2019, eh?\n Aye, that\u2019s your way--\n Well, I tell ye, the first time ever I seen her,\n She wasn\u2019 much more till[27] a baby--\n Six years, may be,\n Would have been her\n Age; at the little clogs at her,[28]\n Clitter-clatter,\n And her little hand\n In mine, to show me the way, you\u2019ll understand,\n Down yandher brew,\n And me a stranger too,\n That was lost on the mountain;\n And the little sowl in the house all alone,\n And for her to be goin\u2019\n The best part of a mile--\n Bless the chile!\n Till she got me right--\n Not a bit shy, not her!\n Nor freckened,[29] but talkin\u2019 as purty\n As a woman of thirty--\n And--\u201cThat\u2019s the way down to the School,\u201d says she\n \u201cAnd Saul and me\n Is goin\u2019 there every day;\n You\u2019ll aisy find the way\u201d--\n And turns, and off like a bird on the wing,\n Aw, a bright little thing!\n\n Isn\u2019 it that way with these people of the mountain?\n No accountin\u2019\n But seemin very fearless though--\n Very--not for fightin\u2019, no!\n Nor tearin\u2019, but just the used they are\n Of fogs and bogs, and all the war\n Of winds and clouds, and ghos\u2019es creepin\u2019\n Unknownst upon them, and fairies cheepin\u2019\n Like birds, you\u2019d think, and big bugganes[30]\n In holes in rocks; lek makin\u2019 frens\n With the like, that\u2019ll work like niggers, they will,\n If you\u2019ll only let them; and paisible\n Uncommon they are; and little scraps,\n That\u2019s hardly off their mammies\u2019 laps\n \u2019ll walk about there in the night\n The same as the day, and all right--\n Bless ye! ghos\u2019es! ar\u2019n\u2019 they half\n Ghos\u2019es themselves? Just hear them laugh,\n Or hear them cry,\n It\u2019s like up in the sky--\n Aw, differin\u2019\n Total--aye; for the air is thin\n And fine up there, and they suck it in\n Very strong,\n Very long,\n And mixes it in the mould\n Of all their body and all their sowl--\n So they\u2019re often seemin\u2019\n Like people dreamin\u2019,\n With their eyes open like a surt of a trance.\n\n\n\n\nGraih my Chree.\n\n(Love of my Heart.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: HALL CAINE]\n\nI.\n\n She was Joney, the rich man\u2019s only child,\n He was Juan, a son of the sea.\n \u201cThy father hath cast me forth of his door,\n But, poor as I am, to his teeth I swore\n I should wed thee, O graih my chree.\u201d\n\n He broke a ring and gave her the half,\n And she buried it close at her heart.\n \u201cI must leave thee, love of my soul,\u201d he said,\n \u201cBut I vow by our troth that living or dead,\n I will come back rich to thine arms and thy bed,\n And fetch thee as sure as we part.\u201d\n\n He sailed to the north, he sailed to the south,\n He sailed to the foreign strand,\n But whether he touched on the icy cone\n Or the coral reef of the Indian zone,\n It turned to a golden land.\n\n And he cried to his crew, \u201cHoist sail and about,\n For no more do I need to roam;\n I have silks and satins and lace and gold,\n I have treasure as deep as my ship will hold\n To win me a wife at home.\u201d\n\n They had not sailed but half of their course\n To the haven where they would be,\n When the devil beguiled their barque on a rock,\n And down it sank with a woeful shock\n On the banks of Italy.\n\n Then over the roar of the clamorous waves\n The skipper his voice was heard,\n \u201cI vowed by our troth that dead or alive\n I should come back yet to wed and to wive,\n And by t\u2019 Lady I keep my word.\n\n \u201cI will come to thee still, O love of my heart,\n From the arms of the envious sea;\n Though the tempest should swallow my choking breath,\n In the spite of hell and the devil and death\n I will come to thee, graih my chree.\u201d\n\n\nII.\n\n \u201cHe will come no more to thine arms, my child,\n He is false or lost and dead,\n Now wherefore make ye these five years\u2019 moan,\n And wherefore sit by the sea alone?\u201d\n \u201cHe will keep his vow,\u201d she said.\n\n She climbed the brows of the cliffs at home,\n She gazed on the false, false sea.\n \u201cIt comes and it goes for ever,\u201d she cried,\n \u201cAnd tidings it brings to the wife and the bride,\n But never a word to me.\u201d\n\n Then, of lovers, another came wooing the maid,\n But she answered him nay and nay,\n The manfullest man and her servant true,\n \u201cGive me thy hand and thou shalt not rue,\u201d\n She murmured, \u201cAlack, the day.\u201d\n\n Her father arose in his pride and his wrath,\n He was last of his race and name,\n \u201cBecause that a daughter will peak and will pine\n Must I never have child of my child to my line,\n But die in my childless shame?\u201d\n\n They bore her a bride to the kirkyard gate,\n It was a pitiful sight to see,\n Her body they decked in their jewels and gold,\n But the heart in her bosom sate silent and cold,\n And she murmured \u201cAh, woe is me.\u201d\n\n[Sidenote: HALL CAINE]\n\n\nIII.\n\n They had not been wedded a year, a year,\n A year but barely two,\n When the good wife close to the hearth-stone crept\n And rocked her babe while the good man slept\n And the wind in the chimney blew.\n\n Loud was the sea and fierce was the night,\n Gloomy and wild and dour;\n From a flying cloud came a lightning flash,\n A pane of the window fell in with a crash,\n And something rang on the floor.\n\n O, was it a stone from the waste sea-beach?\n O, was it an earthly thing?\n She stirred the peat and stooped to the ground,\n And there in the red, red light she found\n The half of a broken ring.\n\n She rose upright in a terror of fright\n As one that hath sinned a sin,\n And out of the dark and the wind and rain,\n Through the jagged gap of the broken pane,\n A man\u2019s white face looked in.\n\n \u201cOh, why didst thou stay so long, Juan?\n Five years I waited for thee.\u201d\n \u201cI vowed by our troth, that living or dead\n I should come back yet to thine arms and thy bed,\n And my vow I have kept, my chree.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut I have been false to my troth, Juan;\n Falsely I swore me away.\u201d\n \u201cI have silks and satins and lace and gold,\n I have treasure as deep as my ship will hold;\n And my barque lies out in the bay.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut I have a husband that loves me dear;\n I promised him never to part.\u201d\n \u201cThrough the salt sea\u2019s foam and the earth\u2019s hot breath,\n Through the grapplings of hell and the gates of death\n I have come for thee, Joney, my heart.\u201d\n\n \u201cBut I have a child of my body so sweet--\n Little Jannie that sleeps in the cot.\u201d\n \u201cBy the glimpse of the moon, at the top of the tide,\n Ere the crow of the cock our vessel must ride,\n Or what will befall us, God wot.\u201d\n\n \u201cNow, ever alack, thou must kiss and go back;\n My love, I am never for thee.\u201d\n \u201cAs sure as yon ship to the billows that roll,\n By the plight of our troth, both body and soul\n You belong to me, graih my chree.\u201d\n\n She followed him forth like to one in a sleep;\n It was a woeful and wonderous sight.\n The moon on his face from a rift in a cloud\n Showed it white and wan as a face in a shroud,\n And his ship on the sea gleamed white.\n\n\nIV.\n\n \u201cNow weigh and away, my merry men all.\u201d\n The crew laughed loud in their glee.\n \u201cWith the rich man\u2019s pride and his sweet daughter,\n In the spite of wind and the wild water--\n To the banks of Italy!\u201d\n\n The anchor was weighed, the canvas was spread,\n All in the storm and the dark,\n With never a reef in a stitch of sail,\n But standing about to burst the gale\n Merrily sped the barque.\n\n[Sidenote: HALL CAINE]\n\n The first night out there was fear on the ship,\n For the lady lay in a swoon;\n The second night out she woke from her trance,\n And the skipper did laugh and his men would dance,\n But she made a piteous moan.\n\n \u201cO, where is my home and my sweet baby--\n My Jannie I nursed on my knee?\n He will wake in his cot by the cold hearth-stone\n And cry for his mother who left him alone;\n My Jannie, I\u2019m wae for thee.\u201d\n\n The skipper he shouted for music and song,\n And his crew they answered his call.\n He clothed her in silk and satin and lace,\n But still through the rout and riot her face\n Showed fit for a funeral.\n\n And ever at night they sailed by the moon,\n Through the wild white foam so fleet,\n And ever again at the coming of day,\n When the sun rose out of the sea they lay\n In a mist like a winding sheet.\n\n And still the skipper he kissed her and cried,\n \u201cBe merry and let-a-be.\u201d\n And still to soothe her he sat through the nights\n With his hand in her hand, till they opened the lights\n By the banks of Italy.\n\n Then his face shone green as with ghostly sheen,\n And the moon began to dip.\n \u201cO, think not you, I am the lover ye knew;\n I am a ghostly man with a ghostly crew,\n And this is a ghostly ship.\u201d\n\n Then he rose upright to a fearsome height,\n And stamped his foot on the deck;\n He smote the mast at the topsail yards,\n And the rigging fell like a house of cards,\n And the hulk was a splitting wreck.\n\n O, then as she sank in the water\u2019s womb,\n In the churn of the choking sea,\n She knew that his arms were about her breast,\n As close as his arms might be.\n And he cried o\u2019er the tramp of the champing tide\n On the banks of Italy,\n \u201cBy the plight of our troth, by the power of our bond,\n If not in this world in the world beyond,\n Thou art mine, O graih my chree.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nCONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS\n\n(Cornish)\n\n\n\n\nThe Splendid Spur.\n\n\n[Sidenote: A. T. QUILLER COUCH]\n\n Not on the neck of prince or hound,\n Nor on a woman\u2019s finger twin\u2019d,\n May gold from the deriding ground\n Keep sacred that we sacred bind:\n Only the heel\n Of splendid steel\n Shall stand secure on sliding fate,\n When golden navies weep their freight.\n\n The scarlet hat, the laurell\u2019d stave\n Are measures, not the springs of worth;\n In a wife\u2019s lap, as in a grave,\n Man\u2019s airy notions mix with earth.\n Seek other spur\n Bravely to stir\n The dust in this loud world, and tread\n Alp-high among the whisp\u2019ring dead.\n\n =Trust in thyself=,--then spur amain:\n So shall Charybdis wear a grace,\n Grim \u00c6tna laugh, the Libyan plain\n Take roses to her shrivell\u2019d face.\n This orb--this round\n Of sight and sound--\n Count it the lists that God hath built\n For haughty hearts to ride a-tilt.\n\n\n\n\nThe White Moth.\n\n\n[Sidenote: A. T. QUILLER COUCH]\n\n _If a leaf rustled, she would start:\n And yet she died, a year ago.\n How had so frail a thing the heart\n To journey where she trembled so?\n And do they turn and turn in fright,\n Those little feet, in so much night?_\n\n The light above the poet\u2019s head\n Streamed on the page and on the cloth,\n And twice and thrice there buffeted\n On the black pane a white-wing\u2019d moth:\n \u2019Twas Annie\u2019s soul that beat outside,\n And \u201cOpen, open, open!\u201d cried:\n\n \u201cI could not find the way to God;\n There were too many flaming suns\n For signposts, and the fearful road\n Led over wastes where millions\n Of tangled comets hissed and burned--\n I was bewilder\u2019d and I turned.\n\n \u201cO, it was easy then! I knew\n Your window and no star beside.\n Look up and take me back to you!\u201d\n He rose and thrust the window wide.\n \u2019Twas but because his brain was hot\n With rhyming; for he heard her not.\n\n But poets polishing a phrase\n Show anger over trivial things:\n And as she blundered in the blaze\n Towards him, on ecstatic wings,\n He raised a hand and smote her dead;\n Then wrote, \u201c=That I had died instead=.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nFeatherstone\u2019s Doom.[31]\n\n\n[Sidenote: STEPHEN HAWKER]\n\nI.\n\n Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom\n A spell is on thine hand;\n The wind shall be thy changeful loom,\n Thy web, the shifting sand.\n\n\nII.\n\n Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil,\n On Blackrock\u2019s sullen shore;\n Till cordage of the hand shall coil\n Where crested surges roar.\n\n\nIII.\n\n \u2019Tis for that hour, when, from the wave,\n Near voices wildly cried;\n When thy stern hand no succour gave,\n The cable at thy side.\n\n\nIV.\n\n Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom\n The spell is on thine hand;\n The wind shall be thy changeful loom,\n Thy web, the shifting sand.\n\n\n\n\nTrebarrow.\n\n\n[Sidenote: STEPHEN HAWKER]\n\nI.\n\n Did the wild blast of battle sound,\n Of old, from yonder lonely mound?\n Race of Pendragon! did ye pour,\n On this dear earth, your votive gore?\n\n\nII.\n\n Did stern swords cleave along this plain\n The loose rank of the roving Dane?\n Or Norman chargers\u2019 sounding tread\n Smite the meek daisy\u2019s Saxon head?\n\n\nIII.\n\n The wayward winds no answer breathe,\n No legend cometh from beneath,\n Of chief, with good sword at his side,\n Or Druid in his tomb of pride.\n\n\nIV.\n\n One quiet bird that comes to make\n Her lone nest in the scanty brake;\n A nameless flower, a silent fern--\n Lo! the dim stranger\u2019s storied urn.\n\n\nV.\n\n Hark! on the cold wings of the blast\n The future answereth to the past;\n The bird, the flower, may gather still,\n Thy voice shall cease upon the hill!\n\n\n\n\nWitch Margaret.\n\n\n[Sidenote: RICCARDO STEPHENS]\n\n Who hath not met Witch Margaret?\n Red gold her rippling hair,\n Eyes like sweet summer seas are set\n Beneath her brow so fair;\n And cream and damask rose have met\n Her lips and cheek to share.\n\n Come up! and you shall see her yet,\n Before she groweth still;\n Before her cloak of flame and smoke\n The winter air shall fill;\n For they must burn Witch Margaret\n Upon the Castle Hill.\n\n * * * * *\n\n They found on her the devil\u2019s mark,\n Wherein naught maketh pain,--\n \u201cBind her and dip her! stiff and stark\n She floateth aye again;\n Her body changeth after dark,\n When powers of darkness reign.\u201d\n\n They drave the boot on Margaret\n And crushed her dainty feet;\n The hissing searing-irons set\n To kiss her lips so sweet:\n She hath not asked for mercy yet,\n Nor mercy shall she meet.\n\n The silent sky was cold and grey,\n The earth was cold and white,\n They brought her out that Christmas Day\n To burn her in our sight;\n The snow that fell and fell alway\n Would cover her ere night.\n\n All feebly as a child would go\n Her bleeding feet dragged by,\n Blood-red upon the white, white snow\n I saw her footprints lie;\n And some one shrieked to see her so--\n God knows if it was I!\n\n Upon her body, all in black,\n Fell down her red-gold hair;\n All bruised and bleeding from the rack\n Her writhen arms hung bare;\n Red blood dripped all along her track,\n Red blood seemed in the air.\n\n The while they told her deeds of shame,\n She, resting in the snow,\n Stretched out weak hands toward the flame,\n Watched the sparks upward go,\n Till on the pale pinched face there came\n Some of the red fire\u2019s glow.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Oh, is it blood that blinds mine eyes,\n Or is it driving snow?\n And are these but the wild wind\u2019s cries\n That drive me to and fro,\n That beat about mine ears and rise\n Wherever I may go?\n\n It\u2019s red and black on Castle Hill!\n The people go to pray,\n A little wind sighs on, until\n The ashes float away;\n And then God\u2019s earth is very still,\n For this is Christmas Day.\n\n\n\n\nA Ballad.\n\n\n[Sidenote: RICCARDO STEPHENS]\n\n The Autumn leaves went whispering by,\n Like ghosts that never slept.\n Up through the dusk a curlew\u2019s cry\n From glen to hill-top crept.\n The Dead Man heard the burn moan by\n And thought for him it wept.\n\n Lapped in his grave, a night and day,\n The Dead Man marked the sound:\n He knew the moon rose far away,\n Grey shadows gathered round,\n Then down the glen, he heard the bay\n Raised by his great grey hound.\n\n A stag crashed out, and thundered back\n --She never turned aside.\n The swollen stream ran cold and black,\n --She leapt the waters wide,\n Nor paused, nor left the shadowy track\n Till at the dark grave side.\n\n \u201cWhat brings you here, my great grey hound,\n What brings you here, alone?\n True I am dead, but is there found\n Beneath my board no bone?\n No rushy bed for your grey head\n Now I am dead and gone?\u201d\n\n \u201cYour brother reads your title-deeds,\n Your wife counts out red gold,\n And laughs in rich black widow\u2019s-weeds,\n Red-lipped and smooth and bold.\n I want no bone, to gnaw alone,\n Now that your hand is cold.\u201d\n\n The Dead Man laughed in scornful hate,\n While the great hound growled low,\n \u201cLast night I rose to Heaven\u2019s gate,\u201d\n He said, \u201cfor I would know\n The best or worst dealt out by Fate,\n And whither I must go.\u201d\n\n He paused--\u201cMy grave is damp and cold;\n I feel the slow worms glide\n Smoothly and softly through the mould,\n And nestle by my side.\n What lives and moves, in wood and wold,\n Where love and laughter bide?\u201d\n\n \u201cThe wild fowl fly across, and call\n In from the grey salt sea;\n I scent the red stag by the Fall,\n He fears no more from me.\n The moon comes up, and over all\n She glimmers eerily.\u201d\n\n The corpse replied, \u201cAt Heaven\u2019s gates\n They stand to let me through,\n And there, years hence, a welcome waits\n False Wife and Brother too.\n Do what you will, my hound, and still\n Heaven holds no place for you.\n\n \u201cWith tooth and claw tear down to me,\n And Death shall be no tether.\n The swift red deer once more shall flee,\n Panting through burn and heather:\n And you and I once more shall be\n Hunting my hills together!\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n That night the deer across the wold\n From dark to dawning fled;\n The lady dreamt that, shroud-enrolled,\n A corpse had shared her bed;\n But by the grave wind-swept and cold,\n The great grey hound lay dead!\n\n\n\n\nHell\u2019s Piper.\n\n\n[Sidenote: RICCARDO STEPHENS]\n\n O have ye heard of Angus Blair,\n Who lived long since in black Auchmair?\n And have ye heard old pipers tell\n His story--how he piped in Hell?\n When Angus piped the old grew young,\n Crutches across the floor were flung;\n Nay more, \u2019twas said his witching breath\n Had robbed the grave, and cheated death.\n\n Above all else, a march of war\n Was what men praised and feared him for;\n When that he played, like fire it ran\n In blood and brain of every man;\n Then stiffened hair began to rise,\n Bent brows scowled over staring eyes;\n Then, at his will, men spilt their blood\n Like water of a winter flood,\n Swearing, with Angus, ill or well,\n They\u2019d charge light-hearted into Hell.\n\n Long years, through many a feast and fray,\n Did Piper Angus pipe his way;\n Till, swept upon the swirling tide\n Of a night-charge, he sank and died.\n\n That night the Piper rose to tread\n The ways that lie before the dead.\n He saw God\u2019s battlements afar\n Blazing behind the utmost star,\n And turning in the chill night air,\n Thought he might find a shelter there.\n\n But as he turned to leave the earth,\n With all its music, maids, and mirth,\n The battered pipes beneath his feet\n Screamed out a wailing, last retreat;\n Then Piper Angus paused, and thought\n Of the wild work those pipes had wrought;\n \u201cBut there,\u201d quoth he, \u201cin peace and rest,\n Up there, the holy ones, the blest,\n Praise aye the Lord, and aye they sing,\n While golden harps and cymbals ring.\n To my wild march or mad strathspey\n The heavenly host would say me nay,\n And none would hear my chanter more\n Unless the Lord went out to war.\n But often have I heard men tell\n How they would follow pipes to Hell:\n That way I\u2019ll try: in Hell maybe\n Some corner\u2019s kept for them and me.\u201d\n\n So said, so done--for well content\n Down the dark way to Hell he went.\n The Chanter felt his finger-tips,\n The Blow-pipe thrilled between his lips,\n The Drones across his shoulder flung,\n Moaned till the Earth\u2019s foundations rung,\n The streamers flaunted on the blast\n As, striding smoke and shadow past,\n With bonnet cocked, and careless air,\n Piping his march, went Piper Blair.\n\n Down where the shackled earthquakes dwell\n Are piled the reeking halls of Hell.\n Their walls are steel, their gates are brass;\n Round them four flaming rivers pass;\n And sleepless sentinels are set\n On every point and parapet,\n To hedge the souls whose far-off cries\n Up to the world may never rise.\n\n That night, so still the whole place seemed,\n You\u2019d think all Hell had peace, and dreamed\n For the dark Master, brooding aye\n Over lost hope and ancient fray,\n Had, from his vantage, pale and grim,\n Perchance to please a passing whim,\n Hissed down a word which quelled and cowed\n And silenced all that shuddering crowd.\n So now aloft upon his throne\n He sat indifferent, alone,\n While poor damned souls who dared not cry\n In writhing droves went whirling by.\n These, dumb, before he noted aught,\n Some strange and wandering sound now caught.\n\n And first a little note they heard\n Far off--and like a lonely bird;\n And then it grew, and grew, and grew,\n As near and nearer still it drew,\n Until Hell\u2019s Lord in slow surprise\n Turned on the gates his weary eyes.\n\n Then they that bent beneath a load\n Stood up, nor felt the fiery goad.\n Then they that trod on forks of flame\n Tramped to the wild notes as they came.\n Then, look, old foes of long ago\n Feel old revenge revive and glow.\n Then, heedless of the flaming whip,\n They roll in one another\u2019s grip\n With shout and shriek and throttled jeer,\n --And over all the pipes rang clear.\n\n But from the march those pipes turned soon,\n And sank, to sing another tune;\n A low lament, whose sobbing wail\n Filled aching hearts and made them fail.\n And they that fought a breath ago\n Now wept at one another\u2019s woe.\n\n A second change--a lilting air\n Made Hell look bright, made Hell look fair,\n And wretches gasping new from death\n Followed the tune beneath their breath--\n Then, piping yet, erect, alone,\n The Piper stood before the throne.\n\n Up rose the Master in his place,\n Eyeing the Piper\u2019s careless face,\n \u201cNo room, no room in Hell can be\n For Piper Angus Blair,\u201d cried he;\n \u201cWould to such sounds my host had trod\n Ere I was hurled down here by God;\n Mine hadst thou been, before I fell,\n I\u2019d rule in Heav\u2019n now--not in Hell.\n Then every night and every day\n On Heav\u2019n\u2019s high ramparts shouldst thou play,\n But here--here\u2019s neither war nor mirth,\n Nor more in Heav\u2019n; so back to Earth.\u201d\n\n Thus now, as over glen and brae\n The wild wind wanders on its way,\n Dead Piper Angus Blair goes too,\n And pipes and pipes the whole world through.\n Unseen, unknown he goes. To-day\n He\u2019ll pipe perchance for bairns at play\n To set them dancing: maybe steal\n To-night to watch a roaring reel.\n There, when the panting pipers tire,\n He joins, and sets all hearts afire;\n And ere the dawn his pipes have pealed\n Fiercely across some stricken field.\n But when each year is at its close\n Right down the road to Hell he goes.\n There the gaunt porters all a-grin\n Fling back the gates to let him in,\n Then damned and devil, one and all,\n Make mirth and hold high carnival,\n The while the Master sits apart\n Plotting rebellion in his heart.\n Till, when above the dawn is grey,\n The Piper turns and tramps away.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\nMODERN AND CONTEMPORARY BRETON\n\n\n _O Breiz-Izel, O Kaera bro!_\n _Koat enn hi c\u2019 hreiz, mor enn he zro!_\n\n\n\n\nThe Poor Clerk.\n\n(Ar C\u2019Hloarek Paour.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: MEDI\u00c6VAL BRETON]\n\n My wooden shoes I\u2019ve lost them, my naked feet I\u2019ve torn\n A-following my sweeting through field and brake of thorn;\n The rain may beat, and fall the sleet, and ice chill to the bone,\n But they\u2019re no stay to hold away the lover from his own.\n\n My sweeting is no older than I that love her so:\n She\u2019s scarce seventeen, her face is fair, her cheeks like roses glow.\n In her eyes there is a fire, sweetest speech her lips doth part;\n Her love it is a prison where I\u2019ve locked up my heart.\n\n Oh, to what shall I liken her, that a wrong it shall not be?\n To the pretty little white rose, that is called Rose-Marie?\n The pearl of girls; the lily when among the flowers it grows,\n The lily newly opened, among flowers about to close.\n\n When I came to thee a-wooing, my sweet, my gentle May,\n I was as is the nightingale upon the hawthorn spray:\n When he would sleep the thorns they keep a-pricking in his breast,\n That he flies up perforce and sings upon the tree\u2019s tall crest.\n\n I am as is the nightingale, or as a soul must be\n That in the purgatory fires lies longing to be free,\n Waiting the bless\u00e8d time when I unto your house shall come,\n All with the marriage-messenger[32] bearing his branch of broom.\n\n Ah, me! my stars are froward: \u2019gainst nature is my state;\n Since in this world I came I\u2019ve dreed a dark and dismal fate:\n I have nor living kin nor friends, mother nor father dear,\n There is no Christian on earth to wish me happy here.\n\n There lives no one hath had to bear so much of grief and shame\n For your sweet sake as I have, since in this world I came;\n And therefore on my bended knees, in God\u2019s dear name I sue,\n Have pity on your own poor clerk, that loveth only you!\n\n\n\n\nThe Cross by the Way.\n\n(Kroaz ann Hent.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: MEDI\u00c6VAL BRETON]\n\n Sweet in the green-wood a birdie sings,\n Golden-yellow its two bright wings,\n Red its heartikin, blue its crest:\n Oh, but it sings with the sweetest breast!\n\n Early, early it \u2019lighted down\n On the edge of my ingle-stone,\n As I prayed my morning prayer,--\n \u201cTell me thy errand, birdie fair.\u201d\n\n Then sung it as many sweet things to me\n As there are roses on the rose-tree:\n \u201cTake a sweetheart, lad, an\u2019 you may;\n To gladden your heart both night and day.\u201d\n\n Past the cross by the way as I went,\n Monday, I saw her fair as a saint:\n Sunday, I will go to mass,\n There on the green I\u2019ll see her pass.\n\n Water poured in a beaker clear,\n Dimmer shows than the eyes of my dear;\n Pearls themselves are not more bright\n Than her little teeth, pure and white.\n\n Then her hands and her cheek of snow,\n Whiter than milk in a black pail, show.\n Yes, if you could my sweetheart see,\n She would charm the heart from thee.\n\n Had I as many crowns at my beck,\n As hath the Marquis of Poncalec;\n Had I a gold-mine at my door,--\n Wanting my sweetheart, I were poor.\n\n If on my door-sill up should come\n Golden flowers for furze and broom,\n Till my court were with gold piled high,\n Little I\u2019d reck, but she were by.\n\n Doves must have their close warm nest,\n Corpses must have the tomb for rest;\n Souls to Paradise must depart,--\n And I, my love, must to thy heart.\n\n Every Monday at dawn of day\n I\u2019ll on my knees to the cross by the way;\n At the new cross by the way I\u2019ll bend,\n In thy honour, my gentle friend!\n\n\n\n\nThe Secrets of the Clerk.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LATER BRETON]\n\n Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie,\n I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry.\n\n I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep,\n When I think of her I love so deep.\n\n Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear,\n In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear.\n\n When I see you come through the forest grove,\n On its leaves I write the secret of my love.\n\n --But a fragile trust are the forest leaves,\n To hold the secrets close which their page receives.\n\n When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air,\n Your secrets close are scattered everywhere.\n\n \u2019Twere safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write.\n Graven deep they\u2019d rest, and never take their flight.\n\n\n\n\nLove Song.\n\n\n[Sidenote: MODERN BRETON]\n\n In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain,\n Is my sweet, my love:\n\n Is my love, is my desire,\n And all my happiness.\n\n Before the night must I see her\n Or my little heart will break.\n\n My little heart will not break,\n For my lovely dear I have seen.\n\n Fifty nights I have been\n At the threshold of her door; she did not know it.\n\n The rain and the wind whipped me,\n Until my garments dripped.\n\n Nothing came to console me\n Except the sound of breathing from her bed.\n\n Except the sound of breathing from her bed,\n Which came through the little hole of the key.\n\n Three pairs of shoes I have worn out,\n Her thought I do not know.\n\n The fourth pair I have begun to wear,\n Her thought I do not know.\n\n Five pairs, alas, in good count,\n Her thought I do not know.\n\n --If it is my thought you wish to know,\n It is not I who will make a mystery of it.\n\n There are three roads on each side of my house,\n Choose one among them.\n\n Choose whichever you like among them,\n Provided it will take you far from here.\n\n[Sidenote: MODERN BRETON]\n\n --More is worth love, since it pleases me,\n Than wealth with which I do not know what to do.\n\n Wealth comes, and wealth it goes away,\n Wealth serves for nothing.\n\n Wealth passes like the yellow pears:\n Love endures for ever.\n\n More is worth a handful of love\n Than an oven full of gold and silver.\n\n\n\n\nHymn to Sleep.\n\n\n[Sidenote: HERV\u00c9-NO\u00cbL LE BRETON]\n\n Keeper of the keys of Heaven,\n Lingering near the starry Seven!\n Guardian of the gates of Hell,\n Hushed beneath thy drowsy spell!\n Fold thy wings and come to me,\n Sleep! thou soul\u2019s euthanasy.\n\n When the pilgrim of strange lore\n Haunts thy pale phantasmal shore,\n Dreams and absolution grant,\n Priestess thou and hierophant!\n Fold thy wings and come to me,\n Sleep! thou soul\u2019s euthanasy.\n\n Builder of eternal towers!\n Weaver of enchanted bowers!\n Thou dost forge the fighter\u2019s arms,\n Thee the lover woos for charms:\n Fold thy wings and come to me,\n Sleep! thou soul\u2019s euthanasy.\n\n Thou dost soothe the virgin\u2019s fears,\n Thou dost staunch the widow\u2019s tears,\n Smooth the wrinkled brows of Care,\n Still the cries of wild Despair:\n Fold thy wings and come to me,\n Sleep! thou soul\u2019s euthanasy.\n\n Healer of the sores of shame!\n Cleanser of the unholy flame!\n Thou dost breathe beatitude\n On the evil and the good:\n Fold thy wings and come to me,\n Sleep! thou soul\u2019s euthanasy.\n\n[Sidenote: HERV\u00c9-NO\u00cbL LE BRETON]\n\n When the cup that Pleasure sips\n Turns to wormwood on the lips;\n When Remorse, with venomed mesh,\n Frets and tears the writhing flesh:\n Fold thy wings and come to me,\n Sleep! thou soul\u2019s euthanasy.\n\n Queller of the storms of Fate!\n Quencher of the fires of Hate!\n In thy peaceful bosom furled\n Lies the turmoil of the world:\n Fold thy wings and come to me,\n Sleep! thou soul\u2019s euthanasy.\n\n Calm as noon\u2019s abysmal blue,\n Soundless as the falling dew,\n Soft as snow with fleecy plumes,\n Sweet as curling incense-fumes:\n Fold thy wings and come to me,\n Sleep! thou soul\u2019s euthanasy.\n\n Keeper of the keys of Heaven!\n (Cease your vigil, starry Seven)\n Guardian of the gates of Hell!\n (Loosen not the drows\u00e8d spell)\n Fold thy wings and come to me,\n Sleep! thou soul\u2019s euthanasy.\n\n\n\n\nThe Burden of Lost Souls.\n\n\n This was our sin. When Hope, with wings enchanted\n And shining aureole,\n Hung on the blossomed steps of Youth and haunted\n The chancel of the soul;\n\n When we whose lips haply had blown the bugle\n That cheers the wavering line,\n And solaced those to whom the world was frugal\n Of Love, the food divine;\n\n Whose hands had strength to strike men\u2019s chains asunder\n And heal the poor man\u2019s wrong,\n Whose breath was blended with the chords that thunder\n Along the aisles of song;\n\n Whose eyes had seen and hailed the Light of Ages,\n In cloudiest heavens a star,\n Whose ears had heard, on ringing wheels, the stages\n Of Freedom\u2019s trophied car:--\n\n We turned, rebellious children, to the clamour\n And tumult of the world;\n We gave our souls in fee for Circe\u2019s glamour\n And white limbs lightly whirled;\n\n We drank deep draughts of Moloch\u2019s unclean liquor\n Even to the dregs of shame,\n And blinded by the golden lights that flicker\n From Mammon\u2019s altar-flame\n\n We burned strange incense, bowed before his idol\n Whose eucharist is fire,\n And on the neck of passion loosed the bridle\n Of fierce and wild desire:--\n\n[Sidenote: HERV\u00c9-NO\u00cbL LE BRETON]\n\n Till now in our own hearts the ashy embers\n Of Love lie smouldering,\n And scarce our Autumn chill and bare remembers\n The glory of the Spring;\n\n While faith, that in the mire was fain to wallow,\n Returns at last to find\n The cold fanes desolate, the niches hollow,\n The windows dim and blind,\n\n And, strown with ruins round, the shattered relic\n Of unregardful youth,\n Where shapes of beauty once, with tongues angelic,\n Whispered the runes of Truth.\n\n\n\n\nConfession.\n\n\n[Sidenote: VILLIERS DE L\u2019ISLE-ADAM]\n\n Since I have lost the words, the flower\n Of youth and the fresh April breeze ...\n Give me thy lips; their perfumed dower\n Shall be the whisper of the trees!\n\n Since I have lost the deep sea\u2019s sadness,\n Her sobs, her restless surge, her graves ...\n Breathe but a word; its grief or gladness\n Shall be the murmur of the waves!\n\n Since in my soul a sombre blossom\n Broods, and the suns of yore take flight ...\n O hide me in thy pallid bosom,\n And it shall be the calm of night!\n\n\n\n\nDiscouragement.\n\n\n[Sidenote: VILLIERS DE L\u2019ISLE-ADAM]\n\n Athwart the unclean ages whirled\n To solitary woods sublime,\n Oh! had I first beheld this world\n Alone and free in Nature\u2019s prime!\n\n When on its loveliness first seen\n Eve cast her pure blue eyes abroad:\n When all the earth was fresh and green,\n And simple Man believed in God!\n\n When sacred accents, vibrating\n Beneath the naked sun and sky,\n Rose from each new-created thing\n To hail the Lord of Life on high;\n\n I would have learned and lived in hope\n And loved! For in those vanished days,\n Faith wandered on the mountain-slope ...\n But now the world has changed her ways:\n\n Our feet, less free, less fugitive,\n Tread beaten tracks from shore to shore ...\n Alas! what is the life we live?\n --A dream of days that are no more!\n\n\n\n\nThe Black Panther.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LECONTE DE LISLE]\n\n Along the rosy cloud light steals and twinkles;\n The East is flecked with golden filigree:\n Night from her loosened necklace slowly sprinkles\n Pearl-clusters on the sea.\n\n Clasped on the bosom of the sparkling azure\n Soft skirts of flame trail like a flowing train,\n And cast on emerald blades a bright emblazure,\n Like drops of fiery rain.\n\n The dew shines, like a sheaf of splendour shaken,\n On cinnamon leaves and lychee\u2019s purple flesh;\n Among the drowsed bamboos the wind\u2019s wings waken\n A myriad whisperings fresh.\n\n From mounds and woods, from mossy tufts and flowers,\n In the warm air, with sudden tremours thrilled,\n Fragrance bursts forth in sweet and subtile showers,\n With feverish rapture filled.\n\n By virgin jungle-track and hidden hollow,\n Where in the morning sun smoke tangled weeds,\n And where live streams their winding channels follow\n Through arches of green reeds,\n\n Steals the black panther from her midnight prowling,\n With dawn turned to the lair in which her cubs\n Among smooth shining bones, with hunger growling,\n Grovel beneath the shrubs.\n\n Restless she slinks along, with arrowy flashes\n That scan the shadows of the drooping wood.\n The bright, fresh-sprinkled crimsoned dew that dashes\n Her velvet skin is blood.\n\n[Sidenote: LECONTE DE LISLE]\n\n Behind she drags the relict of her quarry\n Torn from the stricken stag, a mangled spoil\n That leaves a loathsome trail and sanguinary\n Along the moss-flowered soil.\n\n Round her the tawny bees and light-winged dragons\n Flit fearless as she glides with supple flanks;\n And clustering foliage from a thousand flagons\n Pours fragrance on the banks.\n\n The python, through a scarlet cactus peering,\n Slowly above the bush lifts his flat head\n And curious eyes, his scaly folds uprearing\n To watch her stealthy tread.\n\n She glides in silence into the tall bracken,\n Then plunges lost beneath the lichened boughs:\n Air burns in the vast light, earth\u2019s noises slacken,\n And wood and welkin drowse.\n\n\n\n\nThe Spring.\n\n\n A live spring sparkles in the bosky gloom,\n Hidden from the noonday glare;\n The green reeds bend above its banks and there\n Blue-bells and violets bloom.\n\n No kids that batten on the bitter herb,\n On slopes of the near hill,\n Nor shepherd\u2019s song, nor flute-note sweet and shrill,\n Its crystal source disturb.\n\n Hard by, the dark oaks weave a peaceful screen\n Whose shade the wild-bee loves,\n And nestled in dense leaves the murmuring doves\n Their ruffled plumage preen.\n\n The lazy stags in mossy thickets browse\n And sniff the lingering dew;\n Beneath cool leaves, that let the sunlight through,\n The languorous Sylvans drowse.\n\n White Na\u00efs, near the sacred spring that drips,\n Closing her lids awhile,\n Dreams as she slumbers, and a radiant smile\n Floats on her purple lips.\n\n No eye, kindling with love\u2019s desire, has scanned\n Beneath those lucent veils\n The nymph whose snowy limbs and hair that trails\n Gleam on the silvery sand.\n\n None gazed on the soft cheek, suffused with youth,\n The splendid bosom\u2019s swerve,\n The ivory neck, the shoulder\u2019s delicate curve,\n White arms and innocent mouth.\n\n[Sidenote: LECONTE DE LISLE]\n\n But now the lecherous Faun, that haunts the grove,\n Spies from his leafy trench\n Those supple flanks, kissed by the oozy drench\n As with a kiss of love;\n\n Then laughs, as when the Satyr\u2019s wanton imps\n A wood-nymph\u2019s bower assail,\n And, waking with the sound the virgin pale\n Flies like the lightning-glimpse.\n\n Even as the Naiad, haunting the clear stream,\n Slumbers in woods obscure,\n Fly from the impious look and laugh impure\n O Beauty, the soul\u2019s dream!\n\n\n\n\nThe Return of Taliesen.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LEO-KERMORVAN]\n\n On my lips the speech, in my ears the sound of the Armorican:\n I hear the voice of Esus by the shores of the ocean,\n And the songs which the great bard Ossian\n Resings by the ancient dolmen.\n\n Many times since this, my twelfth rebirth on earth,\n Have I seen the mistletoe grow green on the oak,\n Seen the yellow crocus, the sunbright, and the vervein\n Bloom again in the woodlands:\n\n But never shall I see again the white-robed Druid of old\n Seek the sacred mistletoe as one seeketh a treasure;\n Never more shall I see him cut the living plant\n With his golden sickle.\n\n Alas! the valiant chiefs with the flowing locks!\n All sleep in the cairns, beneath the fresh green grass;\n In vain my voice o\u2019er the fields of the dead lamenting--\n \u201cVengeance! Treason!\n\n \u201cBe swift, Revenge, on the feet of the sorrows of Arvor!\u201d\n Alas, dull echoes alone answer my wailing summons.\n Treason, indeed, and Vengeance! for lo, in the hallowed N\u00e9m\u00e8des\n The wayside flaunt of the Cross!\n\n Tarann no longer sends forth his terror of thunder!\n Camul no longer laughs behind the strength of his arm!\n Tentat\u00e8s, rising in wrath, has not yet crumbled the earth;\n Esus is deaf to our call!\n\n Whither, O whither fled are ye, ye powerful, redoubtable gods;\n And ye, ye famous Druids, the glory and terror of Armor?\n Who has usurped, who has o\u2019erwhelmed ye, unconquerable knights,\n Warriors of the golden collar?\n\n[Sidenote: LEO-KERMORVAN]\n\n Thou, who harkenest, I have been in the place of the Ancients!\n I, alone among mortals, thence have issued alive:\n Alas, the temple was deserted: I saw nought but some wind-haunted oaks\n Swaying in the silence.\n\n All is fugitive! pride, pleasure, the song, the dance,\n Blithe joys of friendship, noble rivalries all:\n The keen swift song of the swords, the whistling lances!\n Dreams of a dreamer all!... But no,\n\n A new dawn wakes and laughs on the breast of the darkness;\n Earth has her sunshine still, the grave her Spring;\n Many a time Dylan hath oared me afar in the deathbarque,\n Many a death-sleep mine, and long!\n\n For long I have slept with the heavy sleep of the dead,\n Ofttimes my fugitive body has passed into divers forms,\n I have spread strong wings on the air, I have swum in dark waters,\n I have crawled in the woods.\n\n But, amid all these manifold changes, my soul\n Remaineth ever the same: it is always, always \u201cmyself\u201d!\n And now I see well that this is the law of all that liveth,\n Though none beholdeth the reason, none the end.\n\n Still stand our lonely menhirs, and still the wayfarer shudders\n As in the desolate dusk he passes these Stones of Silence!\n Thou speakest, I understand! Thy Breton tongue\n Is that of the ancient Kymry.\n\n Lights steal through the hours of shadow flame-lit for unknown saints,\n As, in the days of old, our torches flared on the night:\n Ah, before ever these sacred lamps shone for your meek apostles,\n They burned for H\u00e9ol.\n\n Blind without reason are we, thus changing the names of the gods:\n Thus, mayhap, we think to destroy them, we who abandon their altars!\n But, cold, calm, unsmiling before our laughter and curses,\n The gods wait, immortal.\n\n Yea, while the sacred fires still burn along the hill-tops,\n Yea, while a single lichened menhir still looms from the brushwood,\n Yea, whether they name thee Armorica, Brittany, Breiz-Iz\u00e8l,\n Thou art ever the same dear land!\n\n Ah, soul of me ofttimes to thee, Land of mystery!\n Ofttimes again shall I breathe in thy charm\u00e8d air!\n Sure, every weary singer knoweth the secret name of thee,\n Land of Heart\u2019s Desire!\n\n Enduring thou art! For not the slow frost of the ages\n Shall dim from thy past thy glory immortally graven!--\n Granite thy soil, thy soul, loved nest of Celtic nations!--\n Sings the lost Voice, Taliesin.\n\n\n\n\nBy Menec\u2019hi Shore.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LOUIS TIERCELIN]\n\n Sad the sea-moan that echoes through my dream,\n And sad the auroral sky suffused with gold,\n Sad the blue wave that croons along the shore--\n\n O Joy of Night in whose still calms I sleep!\n\n Sadness of love, and O tired heart of man:\n Sadness of hope, and all brave vows that be:\n Sadness of joy itself, the joys we know!\n\n Joy of Oblivion, is there bliss with thee?\n\n Sad is the splendour, glory, the bright flame\n And laughter of the soul, since underneath\n Dreams and Desires veiled Mystery broods obscure ...\n\n O Joy of Death, with thee the Vials of Peace!\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nTHE CELTIC FRINGE\n\n\n\n\nSong.\n\n\n[Sidenote: BLISS CARMAN]\n\n Love, by that loosened hair\n Well now I know\n Where the lost Lilith went\n So long ago.\n\n Love, by those starry eyes\n I understand\n How the sea-maidens lure\n Mortals from land.\n\n Love, by that welling laugh\n Joy claims his own\n Sea-born and wind-wayward\n Child of the sun.\n\n\n\n\nThe War-Song of Gamelbar.\n\n\n Bowmen, shout for Gamelbar!\n Winds, unthrottle the wolves of war!\n Heave a breath\n And dare a death\n For the doom of Gamelbar!\n Wealth for Gamel,\n Wine for Gamel,\n Crimson wine for Gamelbar!\n\n Chorus:--Oh, sleep for a knave\n With his sins in the sod!\n And death for the brave,\n With his glory up to God!\n And joy for the girl,\n And ease for the churl!\n But the great game of war\n For our lord Gamelbar,\n Gamelbar!\n\n Spearmen, shout for Gamelbar,\n With his warriors thirty score!\n Heave a sword\n For our overlord,\n Lord of warriors, Gamelbar!\n Life for Gamel,\n Love for Gamel,\n Lady-loves for Gamelbar!\n\n Horsemen, shout for Gamelbar!\n Swim the ford and climb the scaur!\n Heave a hand\n For the maiden land,\n The maiden land of Gamelbar!\n Glory for Gamel,\n Gold for Gamel,\n Yellow gold for Gamelbar!\n\n Armourers for Gamelbar,\n Rivet and forge and fear no scar!\n Heave a hammer\n With anvil clamour,\n To weld and brace for Gamelbar!\n Ring for Gamel,\n Rung for Gamel,\n =Ring-rung-ring= for Gamelbar!\n\n Yeomen, shout for Gamelbar,\n And his battle-hand in war!\n Heave his pennon;\n Cheer his men on,\n In the ranks of Gamelbar!\n Strength for Gamel,\n Song for Gamel,\n One war-song for Gamelbar!\n\n Roncliffe, shout for Gamelbar!\n Menthorpe, Bryan, Castelfar!\n Heave, Thorparch\n Of the Waving Larch,\n And Spofford\u2019s thane, for Gamelbar!\n Blaise for Gamel,\n Brame for Gamel,\n Rougharlington for Gamelbar!\n\n Maidens, strew for Gamelbar\n Roses down his way to war!\n Heave a handful,\n Fill the land full\n Of your gifts to Gamelbar!\n Dream of Gamel,\n Dance for Gamel,\n Dance in the halls for Gamelbar!\n\n Servitors, shout for Gamelbar!\n Roast the ox and stick the boar!\n Heave a bone\n To gaunt Harone,\n The great war-hound of Gamelbar!\n Mead for Gamel,\n Mirth for Gamel,\n Mirth at the board for Gamelbar!\n\n Trumpets, speak for Gamelbar!\n Blare as ye never blared before!\n Heave a bray\n In the horns to-day,\n The red war-horns of Gamelbar!\n To-night for Gamel,\n The North for Gamel,\n With fires on the hills for Gamelbar!\n\n Shout for Gamel, Gamelbar,\n Till your throats can shout no more!\n Heave a cry\n As he rideth by,\n Sons of Orm, for Gamelbar!\n Folk for Gamel,\n Fame for Gamel,\n Years and fame for Gamelbar!\n\n Chorus:--Oh, sleep for a knave\n With his sins in the sod!\n And death for the brave,\n With his glory up to God!\n And joy for the girl,\n And ease for the churl!\n But the great game of war\n For our lord Gamelbar,\n Gamelbar!\n\n\n\n\nGolden Rowan.\n\n\n[Sidenote: BLISS CARMAN]\n\n She lived where the mountains go down to the sea,\n And river and tide confer.\n Golden Rowan, in Menalowan,\n Was the name they gave to her.\n\n She had the soul no circumstance\n Can hurry or defer.\n Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,\n How time stood still for her!\n\n Her playmates for their lovers grew,\n But that shy wanderer,\n Golden Rowan, of Menalowan,\n Knew love was not for her.\n\n Hers was the love of wilding things;\n To hear a squirrel chirr\n In the golden rowan of Menalowan\n Was joy enough for her.\n\n She sleeps on the hill with the lonely sun,\n Where in the days that were,\n The golden rowan of Menalowan\n So often shadowed her.\n\n The scarlet fruit will come to fill,\n The scarlet spring to stir\n The golden rowan of Menalowan,\n And wake no dream for her.\n\n Only the wind is over her grave,\n For mourner and comforter;\n And \u201cGolden Rowan, of Menalowan,\u201d\n Is all we know of her.\n\n\n\n\nA Sea Child.\n\n\n[Sidenote: BLISS CARMAN]\n\n The lover of child Marjory\n Had one white hour of life brim full;\n Now the old nurse, the rocking sea,\n Hath him to lull.\n\n The daughter of child Marjory\n Hath in her veins, to beat and run,\n The glad indomitable sea,\n The strong white sun.\n\n\n\n\nThe Quest.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON]\n\n It was a heavenly time of life\n When first I went to Spain,\n The lovely lands of silver mists,\n The land of golden grain.\n\n My little ship through unknown seas\n Sailed many a changing day;\n Sometimes the chilling winds came up\n And blew across her way.\n\n Sometimes the rain came down and hid\n The shining shores of Spain,\n The beauty of the silver mists\n And of the golden grain.\n\n But through the rains and through the winds,\n Upon the untried sea,\n My fairy ship sailed on and on,\n With all my dreams and me.\n\n And now, no more a child, I long\n For that sweet time again,\n When on the far horizon bar\n Rose up the shores of Spain.\n\n O lovely land of silver mists,\n O land of golden grain,\n I look for you with smiles, with tears,\n But look for you in vain!\n\n\n\n\nMoth-Song.\n\n\n What dost thou here,\n Thou dusky courtier,\n Within the pinky palace of the rose?\n Here is no bed for thee,\n No honeyed spicery,--\n But for the golden bee,\n And the gay wind, and me\n Its sweetness grows.\n Rover, thou dost forget;--\n Seek thou the passion-flower\n Bloom of one twilight hour.\n Haste, thou art late!\n Its hidden savours wait.\n For thee is spread\n Its soft, purple coverlet;\n Moth, art thou sped?\n --Dim as a ghost he flies\n Through the night mysteries.\n\n\n\n\nJune.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON]\n\n Of silvery-shining rains\n And noonday golds and shadows\n June weaves wild-daisy chains\n For happy meadows.\n\n She stoops to set the stream\n With scented alder-bushes,\n And with the rainbow gleam\n Of iris \u2019mid the rushes,\n She scatters eglantine\n And scarlet columbine.\n\n Ah, June, my lovely lass,--\n Sweetheart, dost thou not see\n I stay to watch thee pass--\n What hast thou brought to me?\n\n Thy mystic ministries\n Of glorious far skies,\n Thy wild-rose sermons, Sweet,\n Like dreams profound and fleet,\n Thy woodland harmony\n Thou givest me.\n\n The vision that can see,\n The loving will to learn,\n How fair thy skies may be,\n What in thy roses burn,\n Thy secret harmonies,--\n Ah, give me these!\n\n\n\n\nScent o\u2019 Pines.\n\n\n[Sidenote: HUGH M\u2018CULLOCH]\n\n Love, shall I liken thee unto the rose\n That is so sweet?\n Nay, since for a single day she grows,\n Then scattered lies upon the garden-rows\n Beneath our feet.\n\n But to the perfume shed when forests nod,\n When noonday shines,\n That lulls us as we tread the woodland sod,\n Eternal as the peace of God\n The scent o\u2019 pines.\n\n\n\n\nThe Reed-Player.\n\n\n[Sidenote: DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT]\n\n By a dim shore where water darkening\n Took the last light of spring,\n I went beyond the tumult, harkening\n For some diviner thing.\n\n Where the bats flew from the black elms like leaves,\n Over the ebon pool\n Brooded the bittern\u2019s cry, as one that grieves\n Lands ancient, bountiful.\n\n I saw the fire-flies shine below the wood,\n Above the shallows dank,\n As Uriel, from some great altitude,\n The planets rank on rank.\n\n And now unseen along the shrouded mead\n One went under the hill;\n He blew a cadence on his mellow reed,\n That trembled and was still.\n\n It seemed as if a line of amber fire\n Had shot the gathered dusk,\n As if had blown a wind from ancient Tyre\n Laden with myrrh and musk.\n\n He gave his luring note amid the fern;\n Its enigmatic fall\n Haunted the hollow dusk with golden turn\n And argent interval.\n\n I could not know the message that he bore,\n The springs of life from me\n Hidden; his incommunicable lore\n As much a mystery.\n\n And as I followed far the magic player\n He passed the maple wood;\n And, when I passed, the stars had risen there,\n And there was solitude.\n\n\n\n\nThe Celtic Cross.\n\n\n[Sidenote: THOMAS D\u2019ARCY M\u2018CGEE]\n\n Through storm and fire and gloom, I see it stand\n Firm, broad, and tall,\n The Celtic Cross that marks our Fatherland,\n Amid them all!\n Druids and Danes and Saxons vainly rage\n Around its base;\n It standeth shock on shock, and age on age,\n Star of our scatter\u2019d race.\n\n O Holy Cross! dear symbol of the dread\n Death of our Lord,\n Around thee long have slept our martyr dead\n Sward over sward.\n An hundred bishops I myself can count\n Among the slain:\n Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining mount\n Of God\u2019s ripe grain.\n\n The monarch\u2019s mace, the Puritan\u2019s claymore,\n Smote thee not down;\n On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar,\n In mart and town,\n In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone,\n We find thee still,\n Thy open arms still stretching to thine own,\n O\u2019er town and lough and hill.\n\n And would they tear thee out of Irish soil,\n The guilty fools!\n How time must mock their antiquated toil\n And broken tools!\n Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retir\u2019d,\n Baffled and thrown;\n William and Anne to sap thy site conspir\u2019d,--\n The rest is known.\n\n[Sidenote: THOMAS D\u2019ARCY M\u2018CGEE]\n\n Holy Saint Patrick, father of our faith,\n Belov\u2019d of God!\n Shield thy dear Church from the impending scaith,\n Or, if the rod\n Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise\n To emprise high\n Men like the heroic race of other days,\n Who joyed to die.\n\n Fear! wherefore should the Celtic people fear\n Their Church\u2019s fate?\n The day is not--the day was never near--\n Could desolate\n The Destin\u2019d Island, all whose clay\n Is holy ground:\n Its Cross shall stand till that predestin\u2019d day\n When Erin\u2019s self is drown\u2019d.\n\n\n\n\nThe Tryst of the Night.\n\n\n[Sidenote: MARY C. G. BYRON\n\n(M. C. Gillington)]\n\n Out of the uttermost ridge of dusk, where the dark and\n the day are mingled,\n The voice of the Night rose cold and calm--it called through\n the shadow-swept air;\n Through all the valleys and lone hillsides, it pierced, it\n thrilled, it tingled--\n It summoned me forth to the wild sea-shore, to meet with its\n mystery there.\n\n Out of the deep ineffable blue, with palpitant swift repeating\n Of gleam and glitter and opaline glow, that broke in ripples of light--\n In burning glory it came and went,--I heard, I saw it beating,\n Pulse by pulse, from star to star,--the passionate heart of the Night!\n\n Out of the thud of the rustling sea--the panting, yearning, throbbing\n Waves that stole on the startled shore, with coo and mutter of spray--\n The wail of the Night came fitful-faint,--I heard her stifled sobbing:\n The cold salt drops fell slowly, slowly, gray into gulfs of gray.\n\n There through the darkness the great world reeled, and the great\n tides roared, assembling--\n Murmuring hidden things that are past, and secret things that shall be;\n There at the limits of life we met, and touched with a\n rapturous trembling--\n One with each other, I and the Night, and the skies, and\n the stars, and sea.\n\n\n\n\nThe Doom-Bar.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ALICE E. GILLINGTON]\n\n O d\u2019you hear the seas complainin\u2019, and complainin\u2019, whilst it\u2019s rainin\u2019?\n Did you hear it mourn in the dimorts,[33] when the surf\n woke up and sighed?\n The choughs screamed on the sand,\n And the foam flew over land,\n And the seas rolled dark on the Doom-Bar at rising of the tide.\n\n I gave my lad a token, when he left me nigh heartbroken,\n To mind him of old Padstow town, where loving souls abide;\n \u2019Twas a ring with the words set\n All round, \u201cCan Love Forget?\u201d\n And I watched his vessel toss on the Bar with the outward-turning tide.\n\n D\u2019you hear the seas complainin\u2019, and complainin\u2019, while it\u2019s rainin\u2019?\n And his vessel has never crossed the Bar from the purple seas outside;\n And down the shell-pink sands,\n Where we once went, holding hands,\n Alone I watch the Doom-Bar and the rising of the tide.\n\n One day--\u2019twas four years after--the harbour-girls, with laughter\n So soft and wild as sea-gulls when they\u2019re playing seek-and-hide,\n Coaxed me out--for the tides were lower\n Than had ever been known before;\n And we ran across the Doom-Bar, all white and shining wide.\n\n I saw a something shinin\u2019, where the long, wet weeds were twinin\u2019\n Around a rosy scallop; and a gold ring lay inside;\n And around its rim were set\n The words \u201cCan Love Forget?\u201d--\n And there upon the Doom-Bar I knelt and sobbed and cried.\n\n I took my ring and smoothed it where the sand and shells had grooved it;\n But O! St Petrock bells will never ring me home a bride!--\n For the night my lad was leavin\u2019\n Me, all tearful-eyed and grievin\u2019,\n He had tossed my keepsake out on the Bar to the rise and fall of the tide!\n\n D\u2019you hear the seas complainin\u2019, and complainin\u2019, while it\u2019s rainin\u2019?\n Did you hear them call in the dimorts, when the surf woke up and sighed?\n Maybe it is a token\n I shall go no more heart-broken--\n And I shall cross the Doom-Bar at the turning of the tide.\n\n\n\n\nThe Seven Whistlers.\n\n\n[Sidenote: ALICE E. GILLINGTON]\n\n Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear,\n The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor;\n It was not in the morning, nor the noonday\u2019s golden grace,\n It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race:\n The tide swings round in the Race, and they\u2019re plaining whisht and low,\n And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray\n sea-lavenders grow,\n And the cotton-grass sways to and fro;\n And the gore-sprent sundews thrive\n With oozy hands alive.\n Canst hear the curlews\u2019 whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear,\n How they\u2019re crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?\n\n Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands,\n Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands\n Which hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall\n Keep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall?\n The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath\n Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea\n rattles of Death;\n \u201cI rise in the shallows,\u201d \u2019a saith,\n \u201cWhere the mermaid\u2019s kettle sings,\n And the black shag flaps his wings!\u201d\n Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear,\n When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan of Porthmeor!\n\n Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore,\n And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moor;\n And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane,\n When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine;\n The fishers cast the seine, and \u2019tis \u201cHeva!\u201d in the town,\n And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down;\n And ye hoist the mainsail brown,\n As over the deep-sea roll\n The lurker follows the shoal;\n To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear,\n When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!\n\n And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear,\n The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor!\n It was not in the morning, nor the noonday\u2019s golden grace,--\n It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race:\n --The tide swings round in the Race, and they\u2019re whistling whisht and low,\n And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged foxgloves blow,\n And the moor-grass sways to and fro,\n Where the yellow moor-birds sigh,\n And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by.\n Canst hear the curlews\u2019 whistle through the darkness wild and drear,--\n How they\u2019re calling, calling, calling Pentruan of Porthmeor?\n\n\n\n\nRequiem.\n\n\n[Sidenote: SHANE LESLIE]\n\n In sweet Irish clay may I lie\n Heart clasped to my race,\n O brothers and sisters of mine,\n Give me your space.\n For mine was the life that you lived,\n The fight that you fought,\n And bright in the gloom of mine own\n Were deeds you had wrought.\n So let the dear dust of your head\n Drift over my face,\n And this be the dirge that you sing\n And song that you trace.\n A pebble is thrown to the beach\n From whence it was brought,\n A leaf has dropped weary for rest\n To those it had sought.\n\n\n\n\nAn Old Woman of the Roads.\n\n(\u201cWild Earth and other Poems.\u201d Macmillan.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: PADRAIC COLUM]\n\n O, to have a little house!\n To own the hearth and stool and all!\n The heaped-up sods upon the fire,\n The pile of turf against the wall!\n\n To have a clock with weights and chains\n And pendulum swinging up and down!\n A dresser filled with shining delph,\n Speckled and white and blue and brown!\n\n I could be busy all the day\n Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,\n And fixing on their shelf again\n My white and blue and speckled store!\n\n I could be quiet there at night\n Beside the fire and by myself,\n Sure of a bed, and loath to leave\n The ticking clock and the shining delph!\n\n Och! but I\u2019m weary of mist and dark,\n And roads where there\u2019s never a house or bush,\n And tired I am of bog and road,\n And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!\n\n And I am praying to God on high,\n And I am praying Him night and day,\n For a little house--a house of my own--\n Out of the wind\u2019s and the rain\u2019s way.\n\n\n\n\nA Cradle Song.\n\n(\u201cWild Earth and other Poems.\u201d Macmillan.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: PADRAIC COLUM]\n\n O, men from the fields!\n Come softly within.\n Tread softly, softly,\n O men coming in.\n\n Mavourneen is going\n From me and from you,\n Where Mary will fold him\n With mantle of blue\n\n From reek of the smoke\n And cold of the floor,\n And peering of things\n Across the half-door.\n\n O men from the fields!\n Soft, softly come thro\u2019.\n Mary puts round him\n Her mantle of blue.\n\n\n\n\nThe Coolun.\n\n(\u201cReincarnations.\u201d Macmillan.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL]\n\n Come with me, under my coat,\n And we will drink our fill\n Of the milk of the white goat,\n Or wine if it be thy will;\n And we will talk until\n Talk is a trouble, too,\n Out on the side of the hill,\n And nothing is left to do,\n But an eye to look into an eye\n And a hand in a hand to slip,\n And a sigh to answer a sigh,\n And a lip to find out a lip:\n What if the night be black\n And the air on the mountain chill,\n Where the goat lies down in her track\n And all but the fern is still!\n Stay with me under my coat,\n And we will drink our fill\n Of the milk of the white goat\n Out on the side of the hill.\n\n\n\n\nThe Clouds.\n\n(\u201cSongs from the Clay.\u201d Macmillan.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: JAMES STEPHENS]\n\n I stood and looked around where, far and nigh,\n The heather bloom was swaying in the air,\n The clouds chased one another down the sky\n Beyond my sight, and everywhere\n The birds flew through the sunshine, where they sang\n So loud, so clear, so sweet, the heavens rang\n Of lark and thrush and stare.\n\n I never heard a melody so sweet\n As I heard then; I never knew a day\n So filled with sunshine; never saw the fleet\n And tinted clouds so high and free and gay;\n Each danced to the horizon like a boy\n Let out from school, each tumbled in its joy\n And ran away.\n\n\n\n\nThe Old Woman of Beare.\n\n(\u201cThe Poem Book of the Gael.\u201d Chatto & Windus.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL]\n\n Ebb tide to me!\n My life drifts downward with the drifting sea;\n Old age has caught and compassed me about,\n The tides of time run out.\n\n The \u201cHag of Beare!\u201d\n \u2019Tis thus I hear the young girls jeer and mock;\n Yet I, who in these cast-off clouts appear,\n Once donned a queenly smock.\n\n Ye love but self,\n Ye churls! to-day ye worship pelf!\n But in the days I lived we sought for men,\n We loved our lovers then!\n\n Ah! swiftly when\n Their splendid chariots coursed upon the plain,\n I checked their pace, for me they flew amain,\n Held in by curb and rein.\n\n I envy not the old,\n Whom gold adorns, whom richest robes enfold,\n But ah! the girls, who pass my cell at morn,\n While I am shorn!\n\n On sweet May-morn\n Their ringing laughter on the breeze is borne,\n While I, who shake with ague and with age,\n In Litanies engage.\n\n Amen! and woe is me!\n I lie here rotting like a broken tree;\n Each acorn has its day and needs must fall,\n Time makes an end of all!\n\n[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL]\n\n I had my day with kings!\n We drank the brimming mead, the ruddy wine,\n Where now I drink whey-water; for company more fine\n Than shrivelled hags, hag though I am, I pine.\n\n The flood-tide thine!\n Mine but the low down-curling ebb-tide\u2019s flow,\n My youth, my hope, are carried from my hand,\n Thy flood-tide foams to land.\n\n My body drops\n Slowly but sure towards the abode we know;\n When God\u2019s High Son takes from me all my props\n It will be time to go!\n\n Bony my arms and bare\n Could you but see them \u2019neath the mantle\u2019s flap.\n Wizened and worn, that once were round and fair,\n When kings lay in my lap.\n\n \u2019Tis, \u201cO my God\u201d with me,\n Many prayers said, yet more prayers left undone;\n If I could spread my garment in the sun\n I\u2019d say them, every one.\n\n The sea-wave talks,\n Athwart the frozen earth grim winter stalks;\n Young Fermod, son of Mugh, ne\u2019er said me nay,\n Yet he comes not to-day.\n\n How still they row,\n Oar dipped by oar the wavering reeds among,\n To Alma\u2019s shore they press, a ghostly throng,\n Deeply they sleep and long.\n\n No lightsome laugh\n Disturbs my fireside\u2019s stillness; shadows fall,\n And quiet forms are gathering round my hearth,\n Yet lies the hand of silence on them all.\n\n I do not deem it ill\n That a nun\u2019s veil should rest upon my head;\n But finer far my feast-robe\u2019s various hue\n To me, when all is said.\n\n My very cloak grows old;\n Grey its tint, its woof is frayed and thin;\n I seem to feel grey hairs within its fold,\n Or are they on my skin?\n\n O happy Isle of Ocean,\n Thy flood-tide leaps to meet eddying wave\n Lifting it up and onward. Till the grave\n The sea-wave comes not after ebb for me.\n\n I find them not\n Those sunny sands I knew so well of yore;\n Only the surf\u2019s sad roar sounds up to me,\n My tide will turn no more.\n\n\n\n\nFrom a \u201cLitany of Beauty.\u201d\n\n\n[Sidenote: THOMAS MACDONAGH]\n\n O shapely Flower that must for aye endure!\n O Voice of God that every heart must hear!\n O Hymn of purest souls that dost unsphere\n The ravished soul that lists! O white, white Gem!\n O Rose that dost the senses drown in bliss!\n No thing can stay, no thing can stem,\n No thing can lure the heart to miss\n Thy love, thy joy, thy rapture divine--\n O Beauty, Beauty, ever thine\n The soul, the heart, the brain,\n To hymn thee in a loud perpetual strain,\n Shriller and sweeter than song of wine,\n Than lay of sorrow or love or war--\n Beauty of heaven and sun and day,\n Beauty of water and frost and star,\n Beauty of dusk-tide, narrowing, grey ...\n Beauty of silver light,\n Beauty of purple night,\n Beauty of solemn breath,\n Beauty of closed eye, and sleep, and death ...\n Beauty of dawn and dew,\n Beauty of morning peace\n Ever ancient and ever new,\n Ever renewed till waking cease\n Or sleep forever, when loud the angel\u2019s word\n Through all the world is heard ...\n Beauty of brute and bird,\n Beauty of earthly creatures\n Whose hearts by the hand of God are stirred ...\n Beauty of the soul,\n Beauty informing forms and features,\n Fairest to God\u2019s eye,\n Beauty that cannot fade or die\n Till eternal atoms to ruin roll!\n\n (By permission of The Talbot Press, Dublin.)\n\n Beauty of blinded Trust,\n Led by the hand of God\n To a heaven where cherub hath never trod.\n Austere Beauty of Truth,\n Lighting the way of the Just ...\n Splendid Beauty of Youth,\n Staying when Youth is fled,\n Living when Life is dead,\n Burning in funeral dust!\n\n The glory of form doth pale and pall,\n Beauty endures to the end of all.\n\n\n\n\nI will go with my Father a-ploughing.\n\n\n[Sidenote: SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL]\n\n I will go with my father a-ploughing\n To the green field by the sea,\n And the rooks and the crows and the seagulls\n Will come flocking after me.\n I will sing to the patient horses\n With the lark in the white of the air,\n And my father will sing the plough-song\n That blesses the cleaving share.\n\n I will go with my father a-sowing\n To the red field by the sea,\n And the rooks and the gulls and the starlings\n Will come flocking after me.\n I will sing to the striding sowers\n With the finch on the flowering sloe,\n And my father will sing the seed-song\n That only the wise men know.\n\n I will go with my father a-reaping\n To the brown field by the sea,\n And the geese and the crows and the children\n Will come flocking after me.\n I will sing to the weary reapers\n With the wren in the heat of the sun,\n And my father will sing the scythe-song\n That joys for the harvest done.\n\n\n\n\nA Northern Love Song.\n\n\n[Sidenote: SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL]\n\n Brighid\u00edn Bh\u00e1n of the lint-white locks,\n What was it gave you that flaxen hair,\n Long as the summer heath in the rocks?\n What was it gave you those eyes of fire,\n Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?\n Tell me, tell me, Brighid\u00edn Bh\u00e1n,\n Little white bride of my heart\u2019s desire.\n\n Was it the Good People stole you away,\n Little white changeling, Brighid\u00edn Bh\u00e1n?\n Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,\n Laid like a queen on her purple car,\n Carried you back between night and day;\n Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,\n Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,\n Lit at the wheel of the northern star?\n Gave you that look so far away?\n Tell me, tell me, Brighid\u00edn Bh\u00e1n,\n Little white bride of my heart\u2019s desire.\n\n\n\n\nFairy Workers.\n\n(\u201cSongs of Donegal.\u201d Herbert Jenkins.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: PATRICK MACGILL]\n\n Said the Fairies of Kilfinnan\n To the Fairies of Macroom:\n \u201cOh! send to us a shuttle\n For our little fairy loom.\n Our workers, one and twenty,\n Are waiting in the Coom----\u201d\n So Kilfinnan got a shuttle\n From the Fairies of Macroom.\n\n Kilfinnan got the shuttle,\n The shuttle for the loom.\n \u201cNow, send us back a hammer,\u201d\n Said the Fairies of Macroom.\n \u201cWe\u2019ve cobblers, one and twenty,\n All idle in their room.\u201d\n And Kilfinnan sent a hammer\n To the Fairies of Macroom.\n\n The Queen of all the Fairies\n Sat in her drawing-room:\n Her robes came from Kilfinnan,\n Her brogues came from Macroom.\n Now, at the Royal Dinner\n The proudest in the room\n Were the Fairies from Kilfinnan\n And the Fairies from Macroom.\n\n\n\n\nThe Shadow People.\n\n(\u201cComplete Poems.\u201d Published by Herbert Jenkins.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE]\n\n Old lame Bridget doesn\u2019t hear\n Fairy music in the grass\n When the gloaming\u2019s on the mere\n And the shadow people pass:\n Never hears their slow grey feet\n Coming from the village street\n Just beyond the parson\u2019s wall,\n Where the clover globes are sweet\n And the mushroom\u2019s parasol\n Opens in the moonlit rain.\n Every night I hear them call\n From their long and merry train.\n Old lame Bridget says to me,\n \u201cIt is just your fancy, child.\u201d\n She cannot believe I see\n Laughing faces in the wild,\n Hands that twinkle in the sedge\n Bowing at the water\u2019s edge\n Where the finny minnows quiver,\n Shaping on a blue wave\u2019s ledge\n Bubble foam to sail the river.\n And the sunny hands to me\n Beckon ever, beckon ever.\n Oh! I would be wild and free,\n And with the shadow people be.\n\n\n\n\nMy Mother.\n\n(\u201cComplete Poems.\u201d Published by Herbert Jenkins.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE]\n\n God made my mother on an April day,\n From sorrow and the mist along the sea,\n Lost birds\u2019 and wanderers\u2019 songs and ocean spray,\n And the moon loved her wandering jealously.\n\n Beside the ocean\u2019s din she combed her hair,\n Singing the nocturne of the passing ships,\n Before her earthly lover found her there\n And kissed away the music from her lips.\n\n She came unto the hills and saw the change\n That brings the swallow and the geese in turns.\n But there was not a grief she deem\u00e9d strange,\n For there is that in her which always mourns.\n\n Kind heart she has for all on hill or wave\n Whose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away.\n I bless the God Who such a mother gave\n This poor bird-hearted singer of a day.\n\n\n\n\nLyric from \u201cThe Crier by Night.\u201d\n\n(\u201cKing Lear\u2019s Wife and other Plays.\u201d Published by Constable.)\n\n\n[Sidenote: GORDON BOTTOMLEY]\n\n The bird in my heart\u2019s a-calling through a far-fled, tear-grey sea\n To the soft slow hills that cherish dim waters weary for me,\n Where the folk of rath and dun trail homeward silently\n In the mist of the early night-fall that drips from their hair like rain.\n\n The bird in my heart\u2019s a-flutter, for the bitter wind of the sea\n Shivers with thyme and woodbine as my body with memory;\n I feel their perfumes ooze in my ears like melody--\n The scent of the mead at the harping I shall not hear again.\n\n The bird in my heart\u2019s a-sinking to a hushed vale hid in the sea,\n Where the moonlit dew o\u2019er dead fighters is stirred by the feet\n of the Shee,\n Who are lovely and old as the earth but younger than I an be\n Who have known the forgetting of dying to a life one lonely pain.\n\n\n\n\nThe Quest.\n\n(Dublin University Press.)\n\n\n They said: \u201cShe dwelleth in some place apart,\n Immortal Truth, within whose eyes\n Who looks may find the secret of the skies\n And healing for life\u2019s smart.\u201d\n\n I sought Her in loud caverns underground--\n On heights where lightnings flashed and fell;\n I scaled high Heaven; I stormed the gates of Hell,\n But Her I never found.\n\n Till thro\u2019 the tumults of my Quest I caught\n A whisper: \u201cHere, within thy heart,\n I dwell; for I am thou: behold thou art\n The Seeker--and the Sought.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nThe Fool.\n\n\n[Sidenote: PADRAIC H. PEARSE]\n\n Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool;\n A fool that hath loved his folly,\n Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses,\n or their quiet homes,\n Or their fame in men\u2019s mouths;\n A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing,\n Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped\n The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed;\n A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all\n Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks\n And the poor are filled that were empty,\n Tho\u2019 he go hungry.\n\n I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth\n In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil.\n Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God.\n\n I have squandered the splendid years:\n Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again,\n Aye, fling them from me!\n For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard,\n Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow\u2019s teen,\n Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ\u2019s\n And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?\n\n The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,\n\n[Sidenote: PADRAIC H. PEARSE]\n\n And said, \u201cThis man is a fool,\u201d and others have said, \u201cHe blasphemeth\u201d;\n And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life\n In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things,\n To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart\n could hold.\n\n O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?\n What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell\n In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought?\n Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin\n On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures,\n But remember this my faith.\n\n And so I speak.\n Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say:\n Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;\n Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;\n Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word.\n And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter,\n O people that I have loved, shall we not answer together?\n\n (By permission of Messrs. Maunsel & Roberts, Dublin.)\n\n\n\n\nThe Return of Song.\n\n\n[Sidenote: LORD DUNSANY]\n\n\u201cThe swans are singing again,\u201d said to one another the gods. And looking\ndownwards, for my dreams had taken me to some fair and far Valhalla, I\nsaw below me an iridescent bubble not greatly larger than a star shine\nbeautifully but faintly, and up and up from it looking larger and larger\ncame a flock of white, innumerable swans, singing and singing and\nsinging, till it seemed as though even the gods were wild ships swimming\nin music.\n\n\u201cWhat is it?\u201d I said to one that was humble among the gods.\n\n\u201cOnly a world has ended,\u201d he said to me, \u201cand the swans are coming back\nto the gods returning the gift of song.\u201d\n\n\u201cA whole world dead!\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cDead,\u201d said he that was humble among the gods. \u201cThe worlds are not for\never; only song is immortal.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook! look!\u201d he said. \u201cThere will be a new one soon.\u201d\n\nAnd I looked and saw the larks, going down from the gods.\n\n\n\n\nDance to your Shadow.\n\n\n[Sidenote: KENNETH MACLEOD]\n\n Dance to your shadow when it\u2019s good to be living, lad,\n Dance to your shadow when there\u2019s nothing better near you.\n Dance to your shadow when it\u2019s fine to be living, lad,\n Dance to your shadow when there\u2019s nothing better near you.\n Ho ro haradal, hind[34] ye haradal,\n Ho ro haradal, hind ye han dan.\n\n Dance to your shadow when it\u2019s hard to be living, lad,\n Dance to your shadow when there\u2019s nothing better near you.\n Dance to your shadow when it\u2019s sore to be living, lad,\n Dance to your shadow when there\u2019s nothing better near you.\n Ho ro haradal, etc.\n\n Dance to your shadow, letting Fate to her fiddle, lad,\n Dance to your shadow when there\u2019s nothing better near you.\n Dance to your shadow, for it\u2019s fine to be living, lad,\n Dance to your shadow when there\u2019s nothing better near you.\n Ho ro haradal, etc.\n\n\n\n\nSea Longing.\n\n\n Sore sea-longing in my heart,\n Blue deep Barra waves are calling,\n Sore sea-longing in my heart.\n Glides the sun, but ah! how slowly,\n Far away to luring seas!\n Sore sea-longing in my heart,\n Blue deep Barra waves are calling,\n Sore sea-longing in my heart.\n Hear\u2019st, O Sun, the roll of waters,\n Breaking, calling by yon Isle?\n Sore sea-longing in my heart,\n Blue deep Barra waves are calling,\n Sore sea-longing in my heart.\n Sun on high, ere falls the gloamin\u2019,\n Heart to heart, thou\u2019lt greet yon waves.\n Mary Mother, how I yearn,\n Blue deep Barra waves are calling,\n Mary Mother, how I yearn.\n\n\n\n\nThe Reiving Ship.\n\n\n[Sidenote: KENNETH MACLEOD]\n\n A ho hi! hirrum bo!\n Early sails she to the reiving,\n A ho hi! Hirrum bo!\n Flashing by the frowning headlands.\n A ho hi! Hirrum bo!\n Early sails she to the reiving.\n\n A ho hi! Hirrum bo!\n Grinds beneath her, gray-blue limpets,\n A ho hi! hirrum bo!\n Crunches curving whelks to sand-drift.\n A ho hi! hirrum bo!\n Early sails she to the reiving.\n\n Sweeps she gaily[35]Moola\u2019s waters, Kyles and Moyles to fair green Isla,\n Leaps her way to Isles of daring, gleaming Isles of blades and laughter.\n A ho hi! hirrum bo!\n Early sails she to the reiving.\n\n\n\n\nLand of Heart\u2019s Desire.\n\n\n[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER]\n\n Land of Heart\u2019s Desire, Isle of Youth,\n Dear Western Isle, gleaming in sunlight!\n Land of Heart\u2019s Desire, Isle of Youth!\n\n Far the cloudless sky stretches blue\n Across the isle, green in the sunlight,--\n Far the cloudless sky stretches blue.\n\n There shall thou and I wander free,\n On sheen-white sands, dreaming in starlight.\n Land of Heart\u2019s Desire, Isle of Youth!\n\n\n\n\nOssian\u2019s Midsummer Day-Dream.\n\n\u201cSleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.\u201d\n\n(After Thos. Pattison\u2019s translation from Ossian--\u201cThe sweet voice of\nCona.\u201d)\n\n\n[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER]\n\n Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky,\n While bright the sun shines on Cona\u2019s steep.\n Sweet sounds the note of the lonely heron,\n Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.\n\n Bright the sun shines on Cona\u2019s steep,\n While hounds for chase all on fire are straining.\n Their deep-mouthed bay sweet as bardic music,\n Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.\n\n Sweet the winds softly murmuring,\n Of eagle sweet is the far-heard cry.\n As sails she o\u2019er Morven\u2019s mighty sea-board,\n Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.\n\n\n\n\nKishmul\u2019s Galley.\n\n\n[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER]\n\n High from the Ben a Hayich\n On a day of days\n Seaward I gaz\u2019d,\n Watching Kishmul\u2019s galley sailing.\n O hio huo faluo!\n\n Homeward she bravely battles\n \u2019Gainst the hurtling waves\n Nor hoop nor yards,\n Anchor, cable, nor tackle has she.\n O hio huo faluo!\n\n Now at last \u2019gainst wind and tide\n They\u2019ve brought her to\n \u2019Neath Kishmul\u2019s walls,\n Kishmul Castle our ancient glory.\n O hio huo faluo!\n\n Here\u2019s red wine and feast for heroes\n And harping too,\n O hio hu!\n Sweet harping too!\n O hio huo faluo!\n\n\n\n\nAignish on the Machair.\n\n\n[Sidenote: AGNES MURE MACKENZIE]\n\n When day and night are over,\n And the World is done with me,\n Oh carry me West and lay me\n In Aignish by the Sea.\n\n And never heed me lying\n Among the ancient dead,\n Beside the white sea breakers\n And sand-drift overhead.\n\n The grey gulls wheeling ever,\n And the wide arch of sky,\n On Aignish on the Machair,\n And quiet there to lie.\n\n\n\n\nFingal\u2019s Weeping.\n\n\n[Sidenote: NEIL MUNRO]\n\n Because they were so brave and young\n Who now are sleeping,\n His old heart wrung, his harp unstrung,\n Fingal\u2019s a-weeping.\n\n There\u2019s warble of waters at morning in Etive glen,\n And the mists are flying;\n Chuckle of Spring in the wood, on the moor, on the ben,\n No heed for their dying!\n So Fingal\u2019s weeping the young brave sleeping,\n Fingal\u2019s weeping.\n\n They\u2019ll be forgot in Time,--forgot!\n Time that goes sweeping;\n The wars they fought remembered not,\n And Fingal\u2019s weeping.\n\n Hearken for voices of sorrow for them in the forest den\n Where once they were rovers--\n Only the birds of the wild at their building again,\n Whispering of lovers!\n So Fingal\u2019s weeping, his old grief keeping,\n Fingal\u2019s weeping.\n\n They should be mourned by the ocean wave\n Round lone isles creeping,\n But the laughing wave laments no grave,\n And Fingal\u2019s weeping.\n\n Morven and Moidart, glad, gallant and gay in the sun,\n Rue naught departed;\n The moon and the stars shine out when the day is done,\n Cold, stony-hearted,\n And Fingal\u2019s weeping war\u2019s red reaping,\n Fingal\u2019s weeping!\n\n\n\n\nNOTES\n\n\nANCIENT IRISH AND SCOTTISH\n\nTHE MYSTERY OF AMERGIN. PAGE 3\n\nOf this strange pantheistical fragment, Dr Douglas Hyde writes:--\u201cThe\nfirst poem written in Ireland is said to have been the work of Amergin,\nwho was brother of Evir, Ir, and Eremon, the first Milesian princes who\ncolonised Ireland many hundred of years before Christ. The three short\npieces of verse ascribed to Amergin are certainly very ancient and very\nstrange. But, as the whole story of the Milesian invasion is wrapped in\nmystery and is quite possibly only a rationalised account of early Irish\nmythology (in which the Tuatha De Danann, Firbolgs, and possibly\nMilesians, are nothing but the gods of the early Irish euhemerised into\nmen), no faith can be placed in the alleged date or genuineness of\nAmergin\u2019s verses. They are, however, of interest, because as Irish\ntradition has always represented them as being the first verses made in\nIreland, so it may very well be that they actually do present the oldest\nsurviving lines in any vernacular tongue in Europe except Greek.\u201d\n\nTHE SONG OF FIONN. PAGE 4\n\n\u201cThe Song of Finn MacCool, composed after his eating of the Salmon of\nKnowledge.\u201d This, if not the earliest, is almost the earliest authentic\nfragment of Erse poetry. The translation is after O\u2019Donovan and Dr\nDouglas Hyde.\n\nCREDHE\u2019S LAMENT. PAGE 5\n\nFrom _The Colloquy of the Ancients_ (called also \u201cThe Dialogue of the\nSages,\u201d and by other analogues), translated by Standish Hayes O\u2019Grady\n(_vide_ _The Book of Lismore_; _Silva Gadelica_; etc.). See specific\nmention in Introduction.\n\nCUCHULLIN IN HIS CHARIOT. PAGE 6\n\n(_Source_: Hector MacLean\u2019s _Ultonian Hero Ballads_. See Introduction.)\n\nDEIRDRE\u2019S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH. PAGE 8\n\nOf the many Irish-Gaelic and Scottish-Gaelic and English translations\nand paraphrases, I have selected the rendering of Sir Samuel Ferguson.\nThe original Erse is of unknown antiquity. (See Introduction.)\n\nTHE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV. PAGE 10\n\nThis admirable translation is by Mr T. W. Rolleston (_vide_ Note to p.\n166), after the original in _The Book of Leinster_.\n\nTHE MARCH OF THE FAERIE HOST. PAGE 12\n\nThis striking poem is given as translated by Professor Kuno Meyer. It\nand other verses are to be found, in the original, in _The Book of\nLismore_ (15th century). The particular narrative therein deals with the\nvisit of Laegaire mac Crimthainn to the land of Faerie. The episodic\nportion of this narrative has been translated and edited by Mr Standish\nHayes O\u2019Grady (see _Silva Gadelica_); but the general reader may be more\ninterested in the brief and lucid commentary of Professor Kuno Meyer\n(see _The Voyage of Bran_--with Essay on the Celtic Elysium, by Mr\nAlfred Nutt--recently published by D. Nutt). Professor Meyer considers\nthis and the other verses of \u201cLaegaire mac Crimthainn\u201d to be as old as\nthe 10th century period. \u201cThe Faerie Host,\u201d as here given, is\nfragmentary, being part of an episode; but I have further curtailed it\nby three lines, for the sake of effect and unity of impression. The\nother three lines are--\n\n\u201cAt all times melodious are they,\nQuick-witted in song-making,\nSkilled at playing _fiachell_.\u201d\n\nVISION OF A FAIR WOMAN. PAGE 13\n\nThis characteristic Scoto-Celtic poem is supposed by some scholars to be\nvery ancient. The Gaelic version permits of some doubt on the\nconjecture, but the text is not in this instance conclusive. The\n\u201cAisling\u201d will be found in Smith\u2019s _Collection of Ancient Poems, from\nthe Gaelic of Ossian, Ullin, Orran, and others_ (1780)--the reputed\noriginals of which were published in 1787. See, for easier reference,\nNigel MacNeil\u2019s _Literature of the Highlanders_, p. 218.\n\nTHE FIAN BANNERS. PAGE 14\n\nThis paraphrase of an ancient poem is modern. The original is supposed\nto relate to the Scoto-Celtic and Viking wars of the 11th century. (See\nNigel MacNeil\u2019s _Literature of the Highlanders_, p. 117.)\n\nTHE RUNE OF ST PATRICK (\u201cTHE FAEDH; OR, THE CRY OF THE DEER\u201d). PAGE 17\n\nThis translation of the \u201cFaedh,\u201d from _The Book of Hymns_ (11th\ncentury), is by Charles Mangan.\n\nCOLUMCILLE CECENIT. PAGE 18\n\nThe version of Colum\u2019s Hymn here given is the translation of Dr Douglas\nHyde, himself a poet, and one of the foremost living Irish folk-lorists.\nAll students of Celtic literature should see his fascinating volume of\nmetrical renderings of the old Erse, _The Three Sorrows of\nStory-Telling_. (_Vide_ Notes to p. 126.)\n\nCOLUMCILLE FECIT. PAGE 20\n\nThis well-known poem is given as translated by Michael O\u2019Curry, from an\nIrish MS. in the Burgundian Library of Brussels.\n\nTHE SONG OF MURDOCH THE MONK. PAGE 22\n\nThis \u201cMonastic Shaving Song\u201d is the version of Professor Blackie, as\ntranslated from _Bishop Ewing\u2019s Book_.\n\nDOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH. \u201cTHE AGED BARD\u2019S WISH.\u201d PAGE 23\n\nAlthough this undoubtedly old Gaelic poem is attributed by its\ntranslators, Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski, to the early bard\nDomhnull Mac Fhionnlaidh, there is no certainty (as they admit) either\nas to authorship or date. This version is taken from _Ballads and Songs_\nby Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski.\n\n\u201cOSSIAN SANG.\u201d PAGE 28\n\nThe original was jotted down in phonetic Gaelic by Dean Macgregor some\n380 years ago.\n\nFINGAL AND ROS-CRANA. PAGE 29\n\nThis is not part of the text of Macpherson\u2019s _Ossian_ though the\nEnglishing is by Macpherson, who attributes the original to Colgan, an\nancient Scoto-Irish bard. It will be found in the Notes to _Temora_.\n(See Introduction.)\n\nTHE NIGHT-SONG OF THE BARDS. PAGE 31\n\nMacpherson \u201ctranslated\u201d this, he avers, from an old Gaelic original. His\nversion is to be found in the Notes to _Croma_.\n\nOSSIAN. \u201cCOMALA.\u201d PAGE 35\n\nI have selected this short poem as representative of the semi-mythical\nOssian of Macpherson. It is undoubtedly ancient substantially.\n\nTHE DEATH-SONG OF OSSIAN. PAGE 41\n\nThe close of \u201cThe Songs of Selma.\u201d (See foregoing Note.)\n\n\nANCIENT CORNISH\n\nTHE POOL OF PILATE. PAGE 45\n\nFrom the ancient Cornish drama, _The Resurrection of Christ_ (_vide_\nsection: \u201cThe Death of Pilate\u201d). See the volume on the subject by Mr\nEdwin Norris, referred to in Note to \u201cThe Vision of Seth.\u201d\n\nMERLIN THE DIVINER. PAGE 46\n\n(_Vide_ Introduction.) This, though it exists in the old Cornish\ndialect, is really an ancient Breton incantation. The Cornish variant is\nto be found in that invaluable depository of Armorican legendary lore,\nthe _Barzaz Breiz_. The translation here given is by Thos. Stephens.\n(_Vide_ _Thos. Stephens: a Memoir_. Wm. Rees, Llandovery, 1849.)\n\nTHE VISION OF SETH. PAGE 47\n\nThis dramatic fragment is from _The Ancient Cornish Drama_, edited and\ntranslated by Edwin Norris, Sec. R.A.S. (Oxford, 1859).\n\n\nARMORICAN\n\nTHE DANCE OF THE SWORD. PAGE 53\n\n(_Vide_ Introduction.) In Armorican, _Gwin ar C\u2018 Hallaoued: Ha Korol or\nC\u2018 Hlezf_--_i.e._ The Wine of the Gauls, and the Dance of the Sword.\nSupposed to be the fragment of a Song that accompanied the old Celtic\nsword-dance in honour of the Sun. [This and the following translation by\nthe late Tom Taylor are, by courteous permission of Messrs Macmillan,\nquoted from _Ballads and Songs of Brittany_ (selections from the _Barzaz\nBreiz_ of the Vicomte Hersart de la Villemarqu\u00e9).]\n\nTHE LORD NANN AND THE FAIRY. PAGE 55\n\n(By the same, and from the same source.) The \u201cKorrigan\u201d of Breton\nsuperstition has his familiar congeners in Celtic Scotland and Ireland;\nand is identical with the \u201celf\u201d of Scandinavian mythology and of the\nDanish ballads. In this English version of \u201cThe Lord Nann\u201d the metre and\ndivisions into stanzas of the original Armorican have been adhered to.\nThe triplet indicates antiquity in Cambrian and Armorican compositions.\n\nALAIN THE FOX. PAGE 58\n\nThis and the following poem are from the same Franco-Breton source as\ntheir two predecessors, but are translated by Mr F. G. Fleay, M.A. (_The\nMasterpieces of Breton Ballads._ Printed for Private Circulation.\nHalifax, 1870).\n\nBRAN (THE CROW). PAGE 60\n\nSee foregoing Note.\n\n\nEARLY CYMRIC\n\nTHE SOUL. PAGE 67\n\nThis strange fragment is of unknown antiquity, and may well be, as\naffirmed, of as remote a date as the 6th or even 5th century. It is from\nthat remarkable depository of early Cymric lore, _The Black Book of\nCaermarthen_ (1154-1189).\n\nLLYWARC\u2019H HEN. PAGE 68\n\nThe \u201cGorwynion\u201d of Llywarc\u2019h H\u00ean, \u201cPrince of the Cambrian Britons\u201d (if\nit is really the work of that poet), is one of the most famous\nproductions of early Cymric literature. Llywarc\u2019h H\u00ean\u2019s _floreat_ is by\nsome authorities placed in the middle of the 7th century, by others so\nearly as the beginning of the 6th, and by others as really extending\nfrom early in the 6th till the middle of the 7th: the drift of evidence\nindicates the remoter date as the more probable. The translation here\ngiven was made about a hundred years ago by William Owen. It is not easy\nto find an English equivalent for \u201cGorwynion,\u201d a plural word which\nsignifies objects that have a very bright whiteness or glare. Perhaps\nthe word glitterings might serve, though, as has been suggested, the\nnearest term would be _Coruscants_. The last line of these verses\ngenerally contains some moral maxim, unconnected with the preceding\nlines, except in the metre. It is said that the custom arose through the\ndesire of the bards to assist the memory in the conveyance of\ninstruction by oral means. In the translation the rhymed or assonantal\nunity of the tercets is lost, with the result that the third-line maxim\ngenerally comes in with almost ludicrous inappositeness. According to\nthe _Triads of the Isle of Britain_, Llywarc\u2019h H\u00ean passed his younger\ndays at the Court of Arthur. In one triad he is alluded to as one of\nthe three free guests at the Arthurian Court; in another, as one of the\nthree counselling warriors. According to tradition, the bones of this\nprincely bard lie beneath the Church of Llanvor, where, as averred, he\nwas interred at the patriarchal age of 150 years. He was not one of the\nSacred Bards, because of his military profession as a prince and knight;\nfor these might not carry arms, and in their presence a naked sword even\nmight not be held. The _Beirdd_ were not poets and sages only, but were\naccounted and accepted as missioners of peace.\n\nLLYWARC\u2019H HEN. PAGE 71\n\nThis is another series of \u201cGorwynion,\u201d attributed to Llywarc\u2019h H\u00ean by Mr\nSkene, who has translated it from _The Red Book of Hergest_ (MS.\ncompiled in 14th and 15th centuries). The English rendering of _The Red\nBook_ was issued through Messrs Edmonston & Douglas of Edinburgh in\n1868.\n\nTALIESIN. PAGE 73\n\n\u201cSong to the Wind\u201d (_Vide_ Introduction). \u201cThe Song about the Wind,\u201d of\nwhich only a section is given here, will be found in full in Skene\u2019s\n_Four Ancient Books of Wales_, Vol. I., page 535, and is the most famous\npoem by the most famous of Cymric bards. It was first translated, some\nforty-five years ago, by Lady Charlotte Guest, whose Englished\nrenderings of the \u201cMabinogion\u201d attracted the attention of scholars\nthroughout the whole Western world. (Longmans, 1849 and later.) Emerson\ndelighted in the \u201cSong,\u201d and declared it to be one of the finest pieces\nof its kind extant in any literature. See also the _Myvyrian\nArchaiology_.\n\nANEURIN. PAGE 75\n\nAneurin was one of the famous warrior bards of ancient Wales. His birth\nis noted as _Circa_ 500 A.D., and in any case he flourished during the\nfirst half of the 6th century. Aneurin--like Taliesin, called \u201cthe\nmonarch of the bards\u201d--was a Briton of Manau Gododin, a principality or\nprovince of Cymric Scotland, now Mid-Lothian and Linlithgowshire. Manau\nGododin stretched from the Carron of to-day (the Carun of Ossian), some\nmiles to the north-west of Falkirk to the river Esk, that now divides\nMid-Lothian and East Lothian. Manau Gododin was then much more Celtic\n(Pictish) than Gododin. \u201cBreatan Cymru\u201d (_i.e._ the country of the Welsh\nBritons) then comprised the larger part of southern Scotland--that is,\nfrom the north end of Loch Lomond, and from the upper reaches of the\nGwruid (the Forth), to the Mull of Galloway on the south-west; eastward\nto a line drawn from the western Lammermuirs, by Melrose, Kelso, and\nJedburgh, and so down by the Cheviots to Hexham, and thence\nsouthwesterly by Cumberland. The exception was the Pictish or Celtic\nprovince of Galloway--bounded on the west by Carrawg (that part of\nAyrshire known as Carrick); on the north by Coel (Kyle); on the east by\na line drawn from Sanquhar through Nithsdale and by Dumfries to\nLocharmoss and the Solway; on the south-west, by Novant (Mull of\nGalloway); and on the south by the Solway Firth.\n\nAneurin was a contemporary of the princely poet, Llywarc\u2019h H\u00ean. He was\ncalled Aneurin y Coed Awr ap Caw o Gwm Cawlwyd--or, again, Aneurin\nGwadrydd--both designations indicative of his greatness. It has been\nmaintained that Aneurin is identical with the celebrated Gildas, \u201cthe\nauthor of the Latin epistle which Bede so blindly copied,\u201d both Aneurin\nand Gildas having been sons of Caw. He is supposed to be alluded to as\nthe seventh bard, in a curious fragment preserved in the _Myvyrian\nArchaiology_ (Vol. III.), which I excerpt here.\n\n\u201cThe seven questions put by Catwg the Wise, to the Seven Wise Men of the\nCollege of Llanvuthan, and the answers of these men:\n\n 1. \u201cWhat is the greatest wisdom of man?\u201d \u201cTo be able to do evil and\n not to do it,\u201d answered _St Tedio_.\n\n 2. \u201cWhat is the highest goodness of man?\u201d \u201cJustice,\u201d answered\n _Tahaiarn_.\n\n 3. \u201cWhat is the worst principle of man?\u201d \u201cFalsehood,\u201d answered\n _Taliesin_, chief of Bards.\n\n 4. \u201cWhat is the noblest action of man?\u201d \u201cCorrectness,\u201d answered\n _Cynan_, son of Clydno Eddin.\n\n 5. \u201cWhat is the greatest folly of man?\u201d \u201cTo desire a common evil,\n which he cannot do,\u201d answered _Ystyvan_, the Bard of Teilo.\n\n 6. \u201cWho is the poorest man?\u201d \u201cHe who is not contented with his own\n property,\u201d answered _Arawn_, son of Cynvarch.\n\n 7. \u201cWho is the richest man?\u201d \u201cHe who does not covet anything\n belonging to others,\u201d answered _Gildas_ of Coed Awr.\n\n\u201cThe Ode to the Months\u201d is given in the translation of William Probert\n(1820), according to whom the Ode contains moral maxims and observations\nwhich were known and repeated long before Aneurin lived, and were put\ninto verse by him as an aid to the memory: \u201cvaluable, because they show\nthe modes of thinking and expression which the primitive inhabitants of\nBritain used nearly 2000 years ago.\u201d\n\nDAFYDD AP GWILYM. PAGE 78\n\n(Fl. 14th century.) In his love of Nature, and in the richness of his\npoetic imagination (as well, so say those who can read Welsh fluently,\nas in his poetry), Dafydd ap Gwilym is the Keats of Wales. The romance\nof his life and wild-wood experiences has yet to be written: and we\nstill await an adequate translator--though, to judge from some recent\nrenderings by Mr Ernest Rhys, in an interesting short study of Dafydd,\nrecently published in _The Chap Book_ (Stone & Kimball, Chicago) we may\nnot have to wait much longer. He was a love-child: of noble parentage,\nthough born under a hedge at Llandaff. His mother wedded after his\nbirth; but he remained the \u201cwilding\u201d throughout his life. He became the\nfavourite of Ivor Hael of Emlyn, with whose daughter Morvydd he fell in\nlove. He wooed and won her \u201cunder the greenwood tree,\u201d but only to lose\nher shortly afterward, when she was forcibly married to a man called Bwa\nBach. Dafydd stole her from her legitimate husband, but was captured and\nimprisoned. His ultimate release was due to the payment of the imposed\nfine, the sum having been got together by the men of Glamorgan. His most\nardent love-poetry is addressed to this fair Morvydd.\n\nRHYS GOCH OF ERYRI. PAGE 82\n\nThere are two famous poets of the name of Rhys Goch; probably both\nbelong to the 14th century (and Wilkins certainly disputes the claim of\nRhys Goch ap Rhiccart to be of the 12th century). This Ode is an\nillustration of the sound answering the sense. Rhys was in love with the\nfair Gwen of Dol, and sent a peacock to her. His rival, also a bard,\ncomposed a poem to the Fox, beseeching it to kill his rival\u2019s present,\nand, singularly enough, the bird was destroyed by a fox, and the rival\nbard was happy. Stung by this misadventure, Rhys composed the above,\nwhich, in the original, so teems with gutturals that Sion Tudor called\nit the \u201cShibboleth of Sobriety, because no man, when drunk, could\npossibly pronounce it.\u201d\n\nRHYS GOCH AP RHICCART. PAGE 83\n\nSee foregoing Note.\n\n\nIRISH (MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY)\n\nA.E. PAGES 87-91\n\nFrom _Homeward Songs by the Way_ (Whaley, Dublin).\n\nThis little book, published in paper covers, and apparently with every\neffort to avoid rather than court publicity, almost immediately\nattracted the notice of the few who watch contemporary poetry with\nscrupulously close attention. The author, who is well known in Dublin\nliterary society, prefers to disguise his identity in public under the\ninitials A.E., though it is no longer a secret that Mr G. W. Russell is\nthe name of this poet-dreamer, who, like Blake, of whom he is a student\nand interpreter, has also a faculty of pictorial expression of a rare\nand distinctive kind.\n\nWM. ALLINGHAM. (1824-1889.) PAGES 92-94\n\nEvery lover of Irish poetry is familiar with \u201cThe Fairies\u201d of the late\nWilliam Allingham. He is an Irish rather than distinctively a Celtic\npoet in the strict sense of the word; but every now and again he strikes\nthe genuine Celtic note, as in his well-known \u201cFairies,\u201d and the little\npoem called the \u201c\u00c6olian Harp,\u201d by which he is also represented here.\nMuch the best critical summary of his life-work is to be found in the\nbrief memoir by Mr W. B. Yeats in Miles\u2019 _Poets and Poetry of the\nCentury_, Vol. V., p. 209. Among the innumerable love songs of the Irish\npeasantry there are few more beautiful than Allingham\u2019s \u201cMary Donnelly.\u201d\nAs Mr Yeats says, he was \u201cthe poet of little things and little moments,\nand neither his emotions nor his thoughts took any wide sweep over the\nworld of Man and Nature.\u201d His \u201cLaurence Bloomfield\u201d is already\npractically forgotten; but many of the lighter and often exquisitely\ndeft lyrics of his early life will remain in the memory of the Irish\npeople, and one or two at least in English literature.\n\nTHOMAS BOYD. PAGE 95\n\nSo far as I know, Mr Thomas Boyd has not published any volume of verse.\nSome of his poems have appeared in _United Ireland_, among them the\nbeautiful lines, \u201cTo the Lianhaun Shee.\u201d\n\nEMILY BRONT\u00cb. (1818-1848.) PAGE 97\n\nIt may be as well to explain to those readers who take it for granted\nthat Emily Bront\u00eb is to be accounted an English poet, that she was of\nIrish nationality and birth. The name Bront\u00eb, so familiar now through\nthe genius of herself and her sister, was originally Prunty. Everything\nfrom her pen has a note of singular distinction; but perhaps she could\nhardly be more characteristically represented than by the poem called\n\u201cRemembrance.\u201d The, in quantity, meagre poetic legacy of the author of\n_Wuthering Heights_ is comprised (under her pseudonym, Ellis Bell) in\nthe volume _Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell_.\n\nSTOPFORD A. BROOKE. PAGE 98-100\n\n\u201cThe Earth and Man\u201d and \u201cSong\u201d (from the poem called \u201cSix Days\u201d) are\nfrom Mr Stopford Brooke\u2019s volume, _Poems_ (Macmillan & Co.). These seem\nto me fairly representative of the distinctive atmosphere which Mr\nBrooke conveys in all his poetry. See particularly his _Riquet of The\nTuft_ (1880) and _Poems_ (1888).\n\nJOHN K. CASEY. PAGE 101-3\n\nMost of Mr Casey\u2019s poems appeared above the signature \u201cLeo.\u201d Born in\n1846, the son of a peasant, his early efforts to make literature his\nprofession were handicapped by inevitable disadvantages. In 1876 he was\narrested as a Fenian conspirator, and imprisoned. This, combined with\nthe influence of his unselfish patriotism and the popularity of many of\nhis lyrics, gave him a recognised place in the Irish Brotherhood of\nSong.\n\nGEORGE DARLEY. (1795-1846.) PAGE 104\n\nThis remarkable poet, who has so strangely lapsed from public\nremembrance, was in his own day greatly admired by his fellow-poets and\nthe most discerning critics of the period. Mrs Browning, and Robert\nBrowning still more, were deeply impressed by what is now his best known\nproduction--_Sylvia: a Lyrical Drama_ (1836); and Alfred Tennyson was so\nstruck by the quality of the young poet\u2019s work that he volunteered to\ndefray the cost of publishing his verse. Lord Tennyson frequently, in\nconversation, alluded to George Darley as one of the \u201chopelessly\nmisapprehended men\u201d; and we have Robert Browning\u2019s own authority, says\nDarley\u2019s latest biographer, Mr John H. Ingram, for stating that\n_Sylvia_ did much to determine the form of his own early dramas.\n_Sylvia_, again, charmed Coleridge; and in 1836, Miss Mitford, whom Mr\nIngram calls a leading spirit among the _literati_ of her day,\nwrites:--\u201cI have just had a present of a most exquisite poem, which old\nMr Carey (the translator of Dante and Pindar) thinks more highly of than\nany poem of the present day--\u2018Sylvia, or The May Queen,\u2019 by George\nDarley. It is exquisite--something between the \u2018Faithful Shepherdess\u2019\nand the \u2018Midsummer Night\u2019s Dream.\u2019\u201d\n\nDarley was the eldest child of Arthur Darley, of the Scalp, County\nWicklow. The poet, however, was not born there, but in Dublin, in the\nyear 1795. While he was a child, his parents emigrated to the United\nStates; and the boy spent the first ten years of his life at the family\nhome in Wicklow. In due time, and subsequent to the return of his\nparents from America, he went through the usual scholastic routine,\nthough he did not graduate at Trinity College, Dublin, till his\ntwenty-fifth year--a delay in great part due to what, then and later, he\nconsidered a disastrous impediment of speech. From the loss of a\nscholarship to the social deprivations he underwent in London, this\ninfirmity, he declared, was his evil fortune. His first book, _The\nErrors of Ecstasie_, was published (1822) in London, where he had\nsettled. Needless to say, as this volume consists mainly of a dialogue\nbetween a Mystic and the Moon, the reading public remained in absolute\nignorance of the new poet. His second book (1826) consisted of a series\nof prose tales and verses, collectively entitled--_The Labours of\nIdleness; or, Seven Nights\u2019 Entertainments_--set forth as by \u201cGuy\nPenseval.\u201d Three years later appeared his chief work, _Sylvia_.\nNotwithstanding its divers shortcomings, some of them frankly\nacknowledged by the author himself, _Sylvia_ is a creation of genuine\nimagination, and possesses a haunting and quite distinctive charm. Both\nthe merits and demerits of his too often uncontrolled style are\nadequately indicated in the criticism of Mr Ingram: \u201c[frequently] his\nwild Celtic fancy breaks its curb and carries him into clouds of\nmetaphor as marvellous as they are musical, although often the flight\nends by a hasty and undignified descent to commonplace earth.\u201d There is\nno commonplace, however, in his exquisite fa\u00ebry verse, which, in the\nwords of the same critic, \u201cis among the loveliest in the language; at\ntimes is even sweeter than Drayton\u2019s, and is as fantastic as\nShakespeare\u2019s own.\u201d\n\nFor ten years the poet kept silence; but in 1839 he issued his\nfragmentary and extraordinary _Nepenthe_--a poem which, with all its\nbrilliant quality and daring richness of imagery, might well be taken as\nan example of the Celtic genius _in extremis_--so unreservedly does he\ngive way to an uncontrolled imagination. Perhaps the best thing said\nabout _Nepenthe_ is in a letter from the author himself, wherein he\nwrites:--\u201cDoes it not speak a heat of brain mentally Bacchic?\u201d\n\nNothing that Darley published afterwards enhanced his reputation. Lovers\nof his best work, however, should read the posthumous volume of his\n\u201cPoems\u201d edited by R. and M. J. Livingstone--a rare volume, as it was\nprinted for private circulation. It contains some of the songs from an\nunpublished lyrical drama called _The Sea Bride_; and it is from this\nthat the \u201cDirge,\u201d quoted at page 104 in this book, comes. In this\nposthumous collection also is included the following striking and\ncharacteristic lyric:--\n\n\nTHE FALLEN STAR.\n\nA star is gone! a star is gone!\n There is a blank in Heaven,\nOne of the cherub choir has done\n His airy course this even.\n\nHe sat upon the orb of fire\n That hung for ages there,\nAnd lent his music to the choir\n That haunts the nightly air.\n\nBut when his thousand years are passed,\n With a cherubic sigh\nHe vanished with his car at last,\n For even cherubs die!\n\nHear how his angel brothers mourn--\n The minstrels of the spheres--\nEach chiming sadly in his turn\n And dropping splendid tears.\n\nThe planetary sisters all\n Join in the fatal song,\nAnd weep this hapless brother\u2019s fall\n Who sang with them so long.\n\nBut deepest of the choral band\n The Lunar Spirit sings,\nAnd with a bass-according hand\n Sweeps all her sullen strings.\n\nFrom the deep chambers of the dome\n Where sleepless Uriel lies,\nHis rude harmonic thunders come\n Mingled with mighty sighs.\n\nThe thousand car-borne cherubim,\n The wandering eleven,\nAll join to chant the dirge of him\n Who fell just now from Heaven.\n\nAfter a life of great intellectual activity, but of singular isolation\nand of misanthropic unhappiness, George Darley died in London on the\n23rd of November 1846, in his fifty-first year. For further information\nas to the personality and writings of this strange, undeservedly\nneglected, but unbalanced man of genius, the reader may be referred to\nthe delightful edition of _Sylvia_, with Introduction, by Mr John H.\nIngram, published by Mr J. M. Dent (1892).\n\nAUBREY DE VERE. PAGE 105-6\n\nMr Aubrey De Vere is one of the most scholarly poets of Ireland. All his\nwork is informed with a high and serious spirit; and though the bulk of\nit is not distinctively Celtic, either in sentiment or utterance, not\neven distinctively Irish, he has written some poems which are as dear to\nNationalists and Celticists as is almost any other verse by contemporary\npoets. Mr Aubrey De Vere is the younger brother of Sir Stephen De Vere,\nBart. (the translator of Horace, and himself a poet of distinction), and\nson of Aubrey De Vere, the poet friend of Wordsworth. He was born in\n1814, and has lived most of his life, with long intervals in London and\nin several parts of Europe, at his birthplace, Curragh Chase, Adare, Co.\nLimerick. Among his most noteworthy writings are:--_The Waldensees_\n(1842); _The Search after Proserpine_ (1843); _Poems_ (1853); _The\nSisters_ (1861); _The Infant Bridal: and other Poems_ (1864); _Irish\nOdes_ (1869); _The Legends of St Patrick_ (1872); _Alexander the Great_,\na poetical drama (1874); and another drama, _St Thomas of Canterbury_\n(1876); _Antar and Zara: and other Poems_ (1877); _Legends of the Saxon\nSaints_ (1879); and _The Foray of Queen Meave_, based upon an ancient\nIrish epic (1882). Since then Mr Aubrey De Vere has published a\nSelection of his poems and one or two books of a religious nature. His\nbest prose work is to be found in his _Essays chiefly on Poetry_ (1887),\nand _Essays chiefly Literary and Ethical_ (1889).\n\nFRANCIS FAHY. PAGE 107\n\nAuthor of _Irish Songs and Poems_, published under the pseudonym\n\u201cDreolin.\u201d Mr Fahy is a member of the group of notable lyrists whose\ncaptain is Sir Samuel Ferguson.\n\nSIR SAMUEL FERGUSON. (1810-1886.) PAGE 109\n\nThis celebrated poet and arch\u00e6ologist was born in Belfast. He has aptly\nbeen called a man of encyclop\u00e6dic learning; but this learning did not\nprevent his becoming perhaps the foremost Irish poet of the Middle\nVictorian period. His most ambitious poetic work is _Congal: an Epic\nPoem_ (1872)--a work full of lofty imagination and epical music, but\nunfortunate in its metrical setting. His short poem, \u201cThe Forging of the\nAnchor,\u201d is one of the most celebrated and popular poems of our era.\nEven yet, the influence of his _Lays of the Western Gael_ (1865) is\nconsiderable, and for good. \u201cCean Dubh Deelish\u201d (darling dark head), of\nwhich several able, and one or two good translations have been made,\nfinds its happiest interpreter in Ferguson. How many poets and lovers\nhave repeated these lines--\n\n\u201cThen put your head, darling, darling, darling,\n Your darling black head my heart above;\nOh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,\n Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?\u201d\n\nPAGE 110\n\n\u201cMolly Asthore\u201d is also a paraphrase. The original is ascribed to a\ncelebrated Irish Gaelic bard, Cormac O\u2019Con.\n\nPAGE 112\n\n\u201cThe Fair Hills of Holy Ireland,\u201d is familiar to Irish men and women in\nevery part of the world.\n\nALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. PAGE 113\n\nOne of the best known names of Ireland of to-day. Mr Graves, born in\nDublin in 1846, is thoroughly national, and his delightful work is\nperhaps as adequately typical of the Irish spirit as that of any one man\ncould be. His lyric faculty--or at any rate his movement, his verve--is\nunsurpassed by any living Irishman. These few examples of his poetical\nwritings should win him many more readers. His first book, _Songs of\nKillarney_, was published over twenty years ago. Since then he has\nissued _Irish Songs and Ballads_, _Songs of Old Ireland_, and (1880) his\nbest known collection, _Father O\u2019Flynn: and other Irish Lyrics_. _Irish\nSongs and Airs_ is the title of his promised contribution to Sir Gavan\nDuffy\u2019s Irish Library.\n\nGERALD GRIFFIN. (1803-1840.) PAGE 121\n\nThe author of the lovely song, \u201cEileen Aroon\u201d (Nellie, my Darling), was\nborn in Limerick. His chief work is his novel, _The Collegians_, which\nhas been pronounced to be \u201cthe most perfect Irish novel published.\u201d I\nhave heard that Tennyson once \u201cwent mooning about for days,\u201d repeating\nwith endless gusto, and with frequent expressions of a wish that he was\nthe author of, the closing lines:--\n\nYouth must with time decay,\n Eileen Aroon!\nBeauty must fade away,\n Eileen Aroon!\nCastles are sacked in war,\nChieftains are scattered far,\nTruth is a fix\u00e8d star,\n Eileen Aroon!\n\nNORA HOPPER. PAGE 123 ETC.\n\nThis young Irish poet made an immediate impression by her _Ballads in\nProse_ (John Lane). Both in prose and verse she displays the true Celtic\nnote, and often the unmistakable Celtic intensity. The lovely lyrics\n\u201cApril in Ireland,\u201d and \u201cThe Wind among the Reeds,\u201d are from _Ballads in\nProse_. \u201cThe Dark Man\u201d has not hitherto appeared in print, and I am\nindebted to Miss Hopper for her permission to quote it here. It is, I\nunderstand, to be included in her shortly forthcoming volume, to be\npublished by Mr John Lane.\n\nDOUGLAS HYDE, LL.D. PAGE 126\n\nDr Hyde, one of the foremost living expositors of Gaelic folklore in\nIreland, was born about thirty-five years ago in the Co. Roscommon,\nwhere he has since resided. He graduated at Trinity College, Dublin,\nafter an exceptionally brilliant University career. He is now President\nof the Gaelic League, and one of the acknowledged leaders of the Gaelic\nwing of the Celtic Renascence; but from the first he was in the front\nrank of those who are working for the preservation of the ancient Irish\nlanguage and the rescue of its beautiful fugitive literature. Although\nbest known by his Irish Tales, taken down at first hand from the\npeasantry, and other Folk-collections, and his invaluable and unique\n_The Love Songs of Connacht_ (Connaught), he is himself a poet of mark.\n(See, also, Note XI., _supra_.) Those who are in a position to judge\ndeclare his Gaelic poetry, which appears in the Irish Press above the\nsignature \u201cAn Chraoibhin Aoibhinn,\u201d to be of altogether exceptional\nexcellence. The work Dr Douglas Hyde does deserves the most cordial\nrecognition. No man has worked more whole-heartedly, more\nenthusiastically, and with more far-reaching success for the cause of\nthe Irish-Gaelic language, folk-lore, and literature, and, it may be\nadded, the best interests of the Irish of the soil.\n\nThe songs by which he is represented in this volume are from the _Love\nSongs of Connacht_ (Fisher Unwin, 1893), a book which is not only\nindispensable to the Celtic scholar, but should be in the hands of every\nlover of Celtic literature, old-time or new. All are translations,\nthough perhaps paraphrastic rather than metaphrastic. Both in their\nmusic and in their intensity--in, also, their peculiar lyric lilt--they\nare distinctively West Irish. The collection from which these poems are\ndrawn was issued as _The Fourth Chapter of the Songs of Connacht_. The\npreceding three appeared in the now defunct _Nation_. They were all\noriginally written in Irish; but very wisely, or at any rate for us very\nfortunately, Dr Hyde interpolated translations. In these he has\nendeavoured to reproduce the vowel-rhymes as well as the exact metres of\nthe original poems. We must hope to see the reprint, in like fashion, of\nthe predecessors of this volume.\n\nLIONEL JOHNSON. PAGE 133\n\nThough come of a Dublin family, and otherwise Irish by descent, Mr\nJohnson was born at Broadstairs in Kent (1867). He first became known to\nthe reading public, as a poet, by his contributions to _The Book of the\nRhymers\u2019 Club_, notable for their distinction of touch. Since then Mr\nJohnson has published much in prose and verse, though in book form he\nhas not, I think, produced any other prose work than his admirable study\nof Thomas Hardy, or any other volume of poetry than his _Poems_. His\nwork is not characterised by distinctively Celtic quality, though\noccasionally, as in \u201cThe Red Wind\u201d and \u201cTo Morfydd,\u201d the Celtic note\nmakes itself audible. No doubt--to judge from internal evidence in his\nlater writings--Mr Johnson\u2019s poetic work, at least, will develop more\nand more along the line of his racial bent.\n\nDENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY. (1817-1882.) PAGE 135\n\nMr Maccarthy, who was a barrister in Dublin, and one of the main\nsupports of the _Nation_, is best known by his fine translations of\nCalderon\u2019s Dramas. The \u201cLament,\u201d by which he is here represented, has\nalways seemed to me his most haunting lyrical achievement. It is\nnecessary to add, however, that this poem is somewhat condensed from the\noriginal--which is weakened by diffuseness. The score or so of lines\nbeginning \u201cAs fire-flies fade,\u201d have been favourites with many poets of\nMaccarthy\u2019s own time and later.\n\nJAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. (1803-1849.) PAGE 137\n\nWhile it is not the case, as sometimes averred, that Mangan was, or is,\nto Ireland what Burns is to Scotland, it is indisputable that the claim\nmay be made for him rather than for any other Irish poet of the Early\nVictorian period. In fire and energy his faculty is unsurpassed by any\nof his poetic countrymen, though we may dispute Sir Charles Gavan\nDuffy\u2019s assertion that Mangan \u201chas not, and perhaps never had, any rival\nin mastery of the metrical and rhythmical resources of the English\ntongue.\u201d Mangan was the child of a small tradesman of Dublin, where, in\n1803, he was born. From childhood, fate dealt hardly with him. Abandoned\nin his early boyhood, he was indebted to a relative for his education;\nbut when, in his fifteenth year, he became a copyist in a lawyer\u2019s\noffice, at a small pittance, his kindred discovered him and compelled\nhim to share his meagre gains with them. For ten years thereafter he\ntoiled in this bitter bondage. In his own words:--\u201cI was obliged to work\nseven years of the ten from five in the morning, winter and summer, to\neleven at night; and during the three remaining years, nothing but a\nspecial Providence could have saved me from suicide.\u201d No wonder that,\nfrom an early period in his life, he found relief from his misery in\ndrink; but it was misery and unbroken ill-fortune and adversity, much\nmore than the curse of his fatal habit, that really killed him. There is\na period in his life which is a blank, \u201ca blank into which he entered a\nbright-haired youth and emerged a withered and stricken man.\u201d His first\nchance for a happier life came with his appointment to a minor post in\nthe University Library of Dublin, and it was during this time that most\nof his best work was done. His highest level is reached in his\nbrilliant free paraphrases of German originals: _Anthologia Germania_\n(1845). His later years were darkened by the worst phases of his malady,\nand he died (as in most part he had lived, in misery and poverty) in\nMeath Hospital, in his forty-seventh year. He has written one lyric that\nIrishmen will always account immortal: \u201cDark Rosaleen\u201d--a wild and\npassionate rhapsody on Ireland herself. \u201cDark Rosaleen,\u201d \u201cSilk of the\nKine,\u201d \u201cThe Little Black Rose,\u201d \u201cKathleen Ny Houlahan\u201d--these were at\none time the familiar analogues of Ireland. Of his Oriental paraphrases\nthe most stirring is \u201cThe Karamanian Exile.\u201d Strangely enough, Mangan\u2019s\nIrish renderings are less happy than those poems which he based upon\nGerman and Oriental originals; but sometimes, as in the beautiful \u201cFair\nHills of Eir\u00e9, O!\u201d after the Irish of Donough mac Con-Mara, he has\nbequeathed a memorable lyric. Of poems that are strictly original,\nnothing seems to me more characteristic of Mangan than \u201cThe One Mystery\u201d\n(see p. 142).\n\nROSA MULHOLLAND. PAGE 144\n\nThis accomplished prose-writer and poet was born in Belfast. Since her\n_Vagrant Verses_ (1886) she has published many stories and poems, and is\na regular contributor to the leading Irish periodicals. Her \u201cFionnula\u201d\nis one of the happiest renderings of the legend of the Swan Daughters of\nLir; but is too long for quotation in the text. \u201cThe Wild Geese,\u201d by\nwhich she is represented here, is eminently characteristic. Her latest\npoem, and one of her best, appears under the title \u201cUnder a Purple\nCloud\u201d in the autumn number of _The Evergreen_. It is a vision of Earth\npersonified, and opens thus:\n\nUnder a purple cloud along the west\nThe great brown mother lies and takes her rest,\nA dark cheek on her hand, and in her eyes\nThe shadow of primeval mysteries.\n\nHer tawny velvets swathe her, manifold,\nHer mighty head is coifed in filmy gold,\nHer youngest babe, the newly-blossomed rose\nUpon her swarthy bosom feeds and grows.\n\nWith her wide darkling gaze the mother sees\nHer children in their homes, the reddening trees,\nRoofing wet lawns, fruit-laden lattices,\nBlue mountain domes, and the grey river-seas.\n\nTHE HON. RODEN NO\u00cbL. (1834-1894.) PAGE 146\n\nMr Roden No\u00ebl was son of the first Earl of Gainsborough, grandson of\nLord Roden of Tullymore in Ireland, and nephew to the present Marquis of\nLondonderry. By birth, descent, training, and sympathy, he considered\nhimself an Irishman: though he was half English by blood, and lived the\ngreater part of his life in England, while his intellectual homage was\nlargely evoked by Hellenic mythology and lore, and by Teutonic mysticism\nand speculation. It was this confused blending of influences which,\nperhaps, militated so strongly against the concentration of his\nbrilliant abilities into long-sustained and organic creative effort.\nWith all his shortcomings, he still remains a poet of genuine impulse\nand occasionally of high distinction; and some of his lyrics and\nballads, of a more essentially human interest than his more ambitious\nwork, are likely to be held in honourable remembrance. The \u201cLament for a\nLittle Child\u201d (see p. 146) has passed into literature; as, indeed, may\nperhaps be said of the book whence it comes: _A Little Child\u2019s Monument_\n(1881). In one of his Cornish poems he begins thus:--\n\n\u201cFor me, true son of Erin, thou art rife,\nGrand coast of Cornwall, cliff, and cave, and surge,\nWith glamour of the Kelt.\u201d\n\nI do not think there is much \u201cglamour of the Kelt\u201d in Roden No\u00ebl\u2019s work,\nbut it may be discerned in one or two poems in each of his volumes, and\nin many of his lyrics and irregular lyrical compositions there is much\nof Celtic intensity and dream. Few poets have written of the sea with\nmore loving knowledge and profound sympathy; hence it is that he is\nrepresented here by one characteristic sea-poem, called \u201cThe\nSwimmer\u201d--as autobiographical as anything of the kind can be. The\nswimmer\u2019s joy was Roden No\u00ebl\u2019s chief physical delight. All who knew the\nman himself remember him as one of the personalities of his time, and as\na man of individual distinction and charm. Besides the book already\nmentioned, his chief poetic volumes are _Beatrice and Other Poems_\n(1868); _Songs of the Heights and Deeps_ (1885); and _A Modern Faust_\n(1888). See also the Selection from his poems published in the\nCanterbury Poets Series (edited, with a Critical Introduction, by Mr\nRobert Buchanan), and the posthumous volumes _My Sea_ and _Selected\nLyrics_ (Elkin Mathews).\n\nCHARLES P. O\u2019CONOR. PAGE 158\n\nBesides this typical Irish song, Mr O\u2019Conor has written other winsome\nlyrics of the same kind. One of the best is that called \u201cErinn\u201d\nbeginning--\n\n\u201cO, a lovely place is Erinn, in the summer of the year,\n Roseen dhu ma Erinn.\u201d\n\nThis and \u201cMaura Du of Ballyshannon\u201d are from his _Songs of a Life_\n(Kentish Mercury Office, 1875).\n\nJOHN FRANCIS O\u2019DONNELL. PAGE 160\n\nThis pretty Spinning Song is characteristic of the always deft and\ngenerally delicate and winsome lyrical writing of Mr Francis O\u2019Donnell.\n\nJOHN BOYLE O\u2019REILLY. PAGE 161\n\nThis prolific writer, often designated an Irish-American poet, through\nthe accident of his enforced exile to, and long residence in, the United\nStates, is inadequately represented by the brief lyric, \u201cA White Rose\u201d;\nbut it is significant of his best achievement, for he is always at his\nhappiest in brief, spontaneous lyrics, often in a Heinesque vein. John\nBoyle O\u2019Reilly was born at Dowth Castle in Ireland. In his early manhood\nhe enlisted in a hussar regiment; and it was while as a hussar that he\nwas arrested on the charge of spreading republican principles in the\nranks, and was sentenced to be shot. This sentence was commuted to\ntwenty years of penal servitude; when the unfortunate man, victim of\nthat disastrous as well as iniquitous tyranny which has characterised\nthe English official attitude towards the Celtic populations, was taken\nto the convict settlements of Western Australia. Thence, in time, he\nescaped, and after hairbreadth escapes reached Philadelphia. From there\nhe went to Boston, where he settled; and in a few years, by virtue of\nhis remarkable gifts as a poet, a prose-writer, and a brilliant\njournalist, became an acknowledged power in trans-Atlantic literature. A\nnovel of his, _Moondyne_, is widely and deservedly celebrated. Of his\npoetical works, the best are _Songs of the Southern Seas_, _Songs,\nLegends, and Ballads_, and _In Bohemia_.\n\nARTHUR O\u2019SHAUGHNESSY. (1844-1881.) PAGE 162\n\nO\u2019Shaughnessy is to be ranked as an English rather than as an Irish\npoet; for the national sentiment played a minor, indeed hardly a\nperceptible part in his poetic life. The Celtic part of him found its\nbest expression in his translations of the _Lays of Marie_\n(particularly the difficult and extraordinary \u201cBisclaveret\u201d), powerful\nparaphrases rather than translations. The poem by which he is\nrepresented here shows the influence of Edgar Allan Poe, but is founded\nupon a Celtic legend. In his early youth he was appointed to a\nsubordinate position in the Library of the British Museum, and was\nafterwards promoted to the Natural History Department. His first\nliterary success was his _Epic of Women_ (1870), a volume of exceptional\npromise, which, however, was never adequately fulfilled. His _Lays of\nFrance_ (1872) was followed by _Music and Moonlight_ (1874) and a\nposthumous volume, _Songs of a Worker_ (1881). Always delicate, his\ndeath without any previous breakdown surprised none of his friends. I\nrecollect that on the Saturday preceding his death, which I think was on\na Wednesday, he came into the rooms of his brother-in-law, and\nfellow-poet and friend, Philip Bourke Marston, and asked me to come to\nhis residence on the following Wednesday, to hear him read from the\nproofs of his new book. That evening he went to a theatre, came home on\nthe top of an omnibus, caught a chill, and died before any of his\nfriends knew that he was seriously indisposed. The best critical and\nbiographical accounts of this charming if insubstantial poet, are to be\nfound in Dr Garnett\u2019s memoir in Miles\u2019 _Poets and Poetry of the\nCentury_, Vol. VIII., and in the biographical edition of his poems\nrecently put forth by Mrs Louise Chandler Moulton. Of the poem here\ngiven, Dr Garnett speaks as a \u201cmiracle of melody,\u201d and as one of the\npieces in which \u201cthe poet\u2019s inward nature has perhaps most clearly\nexpressed itself.\u201d\n\nFANNY PARNELL. (1855-1883.) PAGE 165\n\nA remarkable poem by a remarkable woman. Frances Isabelle Parnell was\nthe sister of Charles Stewart Parnell, and grand-daughter of Charles\nStewart (from whom the great Irish patriot derived his baptismal names),\nthe historic commander of the U.S. Frigate _Constitution_. Miss\nParnell\u2019s poems, which always appeared above the signature of Fanny\nParnell, have not yet been published collectively. She was secretary of\nthe Ladies\u2019 Land League, and was as intensely wrought by the fervour of\npatriotism as was her famous brother.\n\nT. W. ROLLESTON. PAGE 166\n\nThe sometime editor of the _Dublin University Review_, and one of the\nmost valued present members of the Irish Literary Society, was born at\nShinrone, King\u2019s County, in 1857. Mr Rolleston has had a cosmopolitan\ntraining since he left Trinity College, and has in particular been\ninfluenced by his long residence in Germany; but he has remained a\nCeltic poet and ardent Celticist through every intellectual development.\nWhile resident in Germany and in London, he wrote his _Life of Lessing_\nand his introductions to Epictetus and Plato. He is now responsibly\nconnected with the Irish Industries Association, but is more and not\nless engrossed by his Celtic studies. If there were a few more\npoet-scholars who could translate or paraphrase so beautifully as Mr\nRolleston has paraphrased the Irish of Enoch o\u2019 Gillan (see p. 166) and\nother poems, there would be a wider public in England for the lovely\nwork of early Irish poetry. \u201cThe Lament of Queen Maev,\u201d given here in\nthe Ancient Irish section, is also a translation by Mr Rolleston.\n\nDORA SIGERSON. PAGE 167\n\nThis young and promising writer comes of poetic stock. Her sister Hester\nis also a writer of verse, and her father, Dr Sigerson, is one of the\nforemost workers in the Gaelic Revival. Miss Dora Sigerson\u2019s only\npublished book as yet bears the modest title _Verses_. It is, perhaps,\nmore significant in its promise than in its achievement; and I find\nnothing in it so mature as the poem by which she is represented here,\ntaken from a recent issue of the _Chap Book_ (Stone & Kimball, Chicago).\nThe following lines, from _Verses_, may be given as an example of her\npoetic first-fruits:--\n\n\nIN SOUTHERN SEAS.\n\nIn southern seas we sailed, my love and I,\nIn southern seas.\nDeath joined no chorus as the waves swept by,\nNo storm hid in the breeze.\nLow keeled our boat until her white wings dipped half wet with spray,\nAnd seeking gulls tossed on the passing wave laughed on our way,\nThe rhyme of sound, the harmony of souls--of silence too;\nYour silence held my thoughts, my love, as mine of you;\nThe wing\u00e8d whispering wind that blew our sails was summer sweet--\nI found my long-sought paradise crouched at thy feet.\n\nIn northern seas I weep alone, alone,\nIn winter seas.\nDeath\u2019s hounds are on the waves, with many moans\nDeath\u2019s voice comes with the breeze,\nMy helpless boat, rocked in the wind, obeys no steadfast hand,\nHer swinging helm and ashing sheet have lost my weak command;\nThe shrieking sea-birds seek the sheltering shore,\nThe writhing waves leap upward, and their hoar\nStrong hands tear at the timbers of my shuddering craft.\nI cry in vain, the Fates have seen and laughed,\nTime and the world have stormed my summer sea--\nI ate my fruit, the serpent held the tree.\n\nDR GEORGE SIGERSON. PAGE 168\n\nThe distinguished translator and editor of _The Poets and Poetry of\nMunster_ was born near Strabane, Co. Tyrone, in 1839. Much of his\noriginal work has appeared above his Irish pen-name \u201cErionnach\u201d; and\nfrom first to last Dr Sigerson\u2019s name is indissolubly associated with\nthe wide-reaching Celtic Renascence in Ireland.\n\nDR JOHN TODHUNTER. PAGE 170\n\nOne of the foremost contemporary poets of Ireland, was born in Dublin in\n1839, and, like so many of his literary compatriots, was educated at\nTrinity. He then pursued his medical studies in Paris and Vienna;\nreturned to Dublin and practised awhile as a physician; succeeded Prof.\nDowden as Professor of English Literature in Alexandria College; and,\nsince 1875, has devoted himself exclusively to literature. Some of his\nlyrical pieces are known to all lovers of poetry--_e.g._ \u201cThe Banshee\u201d;\nand for the rest he has won a distinctive place for himself by work at\nonce varied in theme and beautiful in treatment. Though he has won\ndeserved reputation as a playwright for the contemporary stage, as well\nas in the poetic drama, he seems to me to be at his best when most\nCeltic in feeling and expression. He is represented here, not by pieces\nso well known as \u201cThe Banshee\u201d or any part of _The Three Sorrows of\nStory-Telling_, but by two typical Irish poems, and one lovely fragment\n(see p. 173) from _Forest Songs_. Personally, I consider the \u201cLove Song\u201d\ngiven at page 170 to be one of the finest compositions of its kind in\nmodern Celtic literature. I have regretfully refrained from quoting two\nother poems by Dr Todhunter, one familiar to every Irishman, \u201cThe Shan\nVan Vocht of \u201987,\u201d beginning--\n\nThere\u2019s a spirit in the air,\n Says the _Shan Van Vocht_,\nAnd her voice is everywhere,\n Says the _Shan Van Vocht_;\nThough her eyes be full of care,\nEven as Hope\u2019s, born of Despair,\nHer sweet face looks young and fair,\n Says the _Shan Van Vocht_.--\n\nand the other, which I think the strongest of his short lyrical poems,\n\u201cAghadoe\u201d--of which I may give the two concluding quatrains--\n\nI walked to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe;\nBrought his head from the gaol\u2019s gate to Aghadoe,\nThen I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn,\nLike an Irish king he sleeps in Aghadoe.\n\nOh! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!\nThere to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe,\nSure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,\nYour own love, cold on your cairn, in Aghadoe.\n\nKATHERINE TYNAN. PAGE 174\n\nThe author of _Louise de la Valli\u00e8re_ (1885), _Shamrocks_ (1887),\n_Ballads and Lyrics_ (1891), and later volumes in prose as well as\nverse, is one of the best known representatives of the Irish poetic\nfellowship. Mrs Hinkson (though best known by her maiden name) is\ndistinctively Irish rather than Celtic, and pre-eminently a Catholicist\nin the spirit of her work. She has a St Francis-like love of birds and\nall defenceless creatures and humble things, and has a most happy lyric\nfaculty in dealing with aspects and objects which excite her rhythmic\nemotion. In lyric quality and in her all-pervading sense of colour, she\nis, however, characteristically Celtic. Miss Tynan was born in Dublin in\n1861, but since her marriage a few years ago to Mr Hinkson (himself one\nof the Dublin University _Young Ireland_ men) she has resided in or near\nLondon. Some of her work has a lyric ecstasy, of a kind which\ndistinguishes it from the poetry of any other woman-writer of to-day.\n\nCHARLES WEEKES. PAGE 179\n\nMr Weekes is one of the small band of Irish poet-dreamers who may be\nparticularly associated with Mr W. B. Yeats and Mr G. W. Russell\n(\u201cA.E.\u201d). His book, _Reflections and Refractions_, contains fine\nachievement as well as noteworthy promise.\n\nWILLIAM BUTLER YEATS. PAGE 181\n\nBorn (of an Irish father, and of a Cornish mother come of a family\nsettled in Ireland) at Sandymount, Dublin, in 1866; but early life\nchiefly spent in Sligo, and on the Connaught seaboard. Of late years, Mr\nYeats has passed much of his time in London, but is never absent from\nIreland for any long period--\n\n\u201c... for always night and day\n I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds on the shore;\nWhile I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,\n I hear it in the deep heart\u2019s core.\u201d\n\nW. B. Yeats is the prince of contemporary Irish poets. While no one is\nmore essentially Celtic, and none is more distinctively national, his\npoetry belongs to English literature. Mr Yeats himself would be the last\nman to nail his flag to the mast of parochialism in literature. He is\none of the two or three absolutely poetic personalities in literature at\nthe present moment; and in outlook, and, above all, in atmosphere,\nstands foremost in the younger generation. It is noteworthy that the two\nmost convincingly poetic of all our younger poets, since the giants who\n(with the exception of George Meredith, A. C. Swinburne, and William\nMorris) have gone from our midst, are predominantly Celtic; W. B. Yeats\nand John Davidson--and noteworthy, also, that both are too wise, too\nclear-sighted, too poetic, in fact, to aim at being Irish or\nScoto-Celtic at the expense of being English in the high and best sense\nof the word. This, fortunately, is consistent with being paramountly\nnational in all else. In the world of literature there is no geography\nsave that of the mind.\n\nMr Yeats\u2019 poetic work is best to be read, and perhaps best to be\nenjoyed, in the revised collective edition of his poems, in one volume,\npublished recently by Mr Fisher Unwin. His first volume of verse, _The\nWanderings of Ois\u00ecn_, was published in 1889. This was followed (in 1892)\nby _The Countess Kathleen: and Various Legends and Lyrics_; _The Land of\nHeart\u2019s Desire_, and two short prose tales (in the Pseudonym Library),\n_John Sherman_ and _Dhoya_. Two new books are promised in 1896 (through\nMr Elkin Mathews), _The Shadowy Waters_ (a poetic play), and _The Wind\nAmong the Reeds_ (poems). He has also published several volumes of\nselected Irish tales and legendary lore; edited, in conjunction with Mr\nE. J. Ellis, the _Works of William Blake_ (3 vols., 1893); and _A Book\nof Irish Verse_ (Methuen, 1895), an interesting rather than an\nadequately representative anthology of nationalistic Irish poetry. All\nthat is most distinctive in Mr Yeats\u2019 own original work is to be found\nin his _Poems_ (Collective Edition, in 1 vol., Fisher Unwin, 1895), and\nthe prose volume entitled _The Celtic Twilight_ (Lawrence & Bullen,\n1893), one of the most fascinating prose-books by a poet published in\nour time.\n\n\nLATER SCOTO-CELTIC\n\nTHE PROLOGUE TO GAUL. PAGE 189\n\nComes from the _Sean Dana_: _vide_ Dr John Smith\u2019s _Collection of\nAncient Poems_ (1780), (_vide_ Note to page 13 _supra_, and also\nIntroduction).\n\nIN HEBRID SEAS. PAGE 191\n\nThis stirring Hebridean poem is given as from the ancient Gaelic.\nProbably by this is meant merely old Gaelic, medi\u00e6val or even later. The\ntranslation is by Mr Thomas Pattison, and is included in his _Gaelic\nBards_. He has the following note upon it: \u201cThis effusion, although in\nits original form it is only a kind of wild chant--almost indeed half\nprose--yet it is the germ of the ballad. It occurs in many of the tales\ncontained in that collection, the repository of old Gaelic lore, the\n_Popular Tales of the West Highlands_, sometimes more and sometimes less\nperfect. The original will be found in the second volume of the\nTales.... The vigorous and elastic spirit that pervades these verses\nmust have strung the heart of many a hardy mariner who loved to feel the\nfresh and briny breeze drive his snoring birlinn bounding like a living\ncreature over the tumbling billows of the inland loch or the huge swell\nof the majestic main.\u201d\n\nLULLABY. PAGE 193\n\nSupposed to be the composition of the wife of Gregor MacGregor after the\njudicial murder of her husband.\n\nDROWNED. PAGE 194\n\nThis folk-poem, the antiquity of which may be anywhere from a hundred to\ntwo hundred years or more, is given in the translation of the Rev. Dr\nStewart of Nether Lochaber.\n\nALEXANDER MACDONALD. PAGE 195\n\nThis celebrated Gaelic poet was born in the first half of the 17th\ncentury. In the Highlands and Western Isles he is invariably styled _Mac\nMhaighstir Alastair_--_i.e._ the son of Mr Alexander. Alastair the Elder\nresided at Dalilea in Moydart of Argyll, and was both Episcopal\nclergyman and official tacksman. He was a man of immense strength and\nvigour, and his muscular Christianity may be inferred from the saying\ncurrent in Moydart that \u201chis hand was heavier on the men of Suainart\nthan on the men of Moydart.\u201d Alexander Macdonald had a good education\nfor his time--first under his father, and later, for a year or so, at\nGlasgow University. Poverty, however, compelled him to leave Glasgow and\nretire to Ardnamurchan, where, as his biographer, Mr Pattison, says, he\nlived, teaching and farming, and composing poetry, until the advent of\nthe year 1745. In this momentous year he left not only his farm and his\nteaching, but even his eldership in the Established Church, and forsook\nall to join Prince Charlie, and to take upon him the onus of a change to\nthe detested Roman Catholic faith. He was a Jacobite of the Jacobites,\nand his fiery and warlike songs were repeated from mouth to mouth\nthroughout Celtic Scotland. It is supposed that he had a commission in\nthe Highland army of the Prince, though whether he served as an officer\nis uncertain; at any rate, after the battle of Culloden he had to share\nthe privations of his leaders, and he lived in hiding in the woods and\ncaves of the district of Arisaig. On one occasion, when lurking among\nthese caves with his brother Angus, the cold was so intense that the\nside of Macdonald\u2019s head which rested on the ground became quite grey in\na single night. When the troubles were over he went to Edinburgh, where\nhe taught the children of a staunch Jacobite, but soon returned to his\nbeloved West, where he remained till his death. Macdonald\u2019s first\npublished book was a _Gaelic and English Vocabulary_ (1741), nor was it\ntill ten years later that his poems were published in Edinburgh--said to\nbe one of the earliest volumes of original poems ever published in\nGaelic. Pattison declares that he is the most warlike, and much the\nfiercest of the Highland poets; and altogether ranks him as, if not the\nforemost, certainly second only to the famous Duncan B\u00e0n MacIntyre. His\npoem called \u201cThe Birlinn of the Clan-Ranald\u201d is by this critic, and most\nothers, ranked as the finest composition in Modern Gaelic; certainly\nmany Highlanders prefer it even to the \u201cCoire Cheathaich,\u201d or the still\nmore famous \u201cBen Dorain\u201d of Duncan B\u00e0n. Assuredly no one could read this\npoem \u201cOf the hurling of the birlinn through the cold glens of the sea,\nloudly snoring,\u201d without being stirred by its vigour and power. The\nportion here given is merely a fragment, for the original is much too\nlong for quotation--indeed, it is said to be the longest poem in Gaelic,\nexcept such as are Ossianic. For a full account of Macdonald and his\npoems, including the translation of the greater part of \u201cThe Manning of\nthe Birlinn,\u201d see Pattison\u2019s _Gaelic Bards_.\n\nANGUS MACKENZIE. PAGE 201\n\n\u201cThe Lament of the Deer\u201d is the work of a favourite Highland poet whose\nname is particularly familiar in the Northern Highlands. Angus Mackenzie\nwas head forester of Lord Lovat, and most of his poems have the impress\nof his well-loved profession. \u201cThe Cumha nam Fiadh\u201d was composed during\nthe recovery from a severe illness, when the poet\u2019s chief regret was his\ninability to be with Lovat and his Frasers at the hunting of the stag.\nThe translation here given was made by Charles Edward and John Sobieski\nStuart, and is to be found in their _Lays of the Deer Forest_\n(Blackwood, 1848).\n\nDUNCAN B\u00c0N MACINTYRE. PAGE 203\n\nA name loved throughout the Highlands and Islands. Even the most\nilliterate crofters are familiar with Duncan B\u00e0n and much of his poetry,\nand there are few who could not repeat at least some lines of \u201cBen\nDorain.\u201d The Hunter Bard of Glenorchy, as he is often called--though his\nbest title is the affectionate Gaelic \u201cDuncan of the Songs\u201d--was born on\nthe 20th of March 1724, at Druimliaghart in Glenorchy, Argyll. His first\nsong was composed on a sword with which he was armed at the battle of\nFalkirk--where he served on the Royalist side as substitute for a\ngentleman of the neighbourhood. \u201cThis sword,\u201d says his biographer,\nThomas Pattison, \u201cthe poet lost or threw away in the retreat. On his\nreturn home therefore, the gentleman to whom it belonged, and whose\nsubstitute he had been, refused to pay the sum for which he had engaged\nDuncan B\u00e0n to serve in his stead. Duncan consequently composed his song\non \u2018The Battle of the Speckled Kirk\u2019--as Falkirk is called in Gaelic--in\nwhich he good-humouredly satirised the gentleman who had sent him to the\nwar, and gave a woful description of \u2018the black sword that worked the\nturmoil,\u2019 and whose loss, he says, made its owner \u2018as fierce and furious\nas a grey brock in his den.\u2019 The song immediately became popular, and\nincensed his employer so much that he suddenly fell upon the poor poet\none day with his walking-stick, and, striking him on the back, bade him\n\u2018go and make a song about that.\u2019 He was, however, afterward compelled by\nthe Earl of Breadalbane to pay the bard the sum of 300 merks Scots (\u00a316,\n17s. 6d.), which was his legal due.\u201d Although in his later years he was\nfor a time one of the Duke of Argyll\u2019s foresters, most of his later\nlife was spent in Edinburgh, where he was one of the City Guard. In that\ncity he died in 1812, in his eighty-ninth year, and lies in Greyfriars\nChurchyard. In all there have been seven editions of his _Gaelic Songs_.\n\u201cBen Dorain\u201d has been translated several times, most successfully by\nThomas Pattison and the late Professor Blackie. The version here given\nis that of the former; while the following poem (\u201cThe Hill Water,\u201d page\n208) is that of Professor Blackie.\n\nTranslations of both \u201cBen Dorain\u201d (in full) and of \u201cCoire Cheathaich\u201d\n(The Misty Corrie) are included in Pattison\u2019s _Gaelic Bards_. Professor\nBlackie\u2019s version of \u201cBen Dorain\u201d is in his well-known book, _Altavona_.\n\nMARY MACLEOD. PAGE 210\n\nThe most famous of Hebridean poets was born in Harris of the Outer\nHebrides in 1569. She may be regarded either as the last of the poets of\nthe Middle Scoto-Celtic period, or, more properly, as the first of the\nmoderns. She is generally spoken of in the Western Isles as M\u00e0iri\nnighean Alastair Ruaidh (Mary, daughter of Alexander the Red). \u201cAlthough\nshe could never either read or write, her poetry is pure and chaste in\nits diction, melodious, though complicated, in its metre, clear and\ngraceful, and frequently pathetic\u201d (Pattison). She died at Dunvegan, in\nthe Isle of Skye, in 1674, at the great age of 105. For some reason,\nMary Macleod was banished from Dunvegan by Macleod of Macleod, but his\nheart was melted by the song here given, and the exile was recalled, and\nthat, too, with honour, and enabled to live in Macleod\u2019s country\nthenceforth in prosperity and happiness.\n\n\nMODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC\n\nMONALTRI. PAGE 217\n\nThese lines tell their own tale. The translation given is that of Thomas\nPattison.\n\nHIGHLAND LULLABY. PAGE 218\n\nThis lullaby first appeared in the _Duanaire_, edited by D. C.\nMacpherson (1864). It is supposed to be sung by a disconsolate mother\nwhose babe has been stolen by the fairies. In each verse she mentions\nsome impossible task she has performed, but still she has not found her\nbaby. _Coineachan_ is a term of endearment applied to a child. (Quoted\nby \u201cFionn\u201d in the _Celtic Monthly_ for September 1893.)\n\nBOAT SONG. PAGE 219\n\nThis boat song, so familiar to West Highlanders, is in the rendering of\nProfessor Blackie.\n\nJOHN STUART BLACKIE. (1809-1895.) PAGE 222\n\nThe late Professor Blackie was born in Glasgow and brought up for the\nlaw. This he forsook for literature, and ultimately, in 1852, was\nappointed to the Greek Chair in Edinburgh University. All particulars of\nthe brilliant Professor\u2019s life and writings will be found in the\nrecently-published biography by Miss Anna Stoddart. Professor Blackie\u2019s\nname will always be held in affectionate regard for his unselfish\nefforts to preserve and cultivate the Gaelic language and literature,\nand because of his having been mainly instrumental in founding the Chair\nof Celtic Literature in the University of Edinburgh. His poetical\nwritings are mostly to be found in _Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece_\n(1857), _Lyrical Poems_ (1860), and _Lays of the Highlands and Islands_\n(1872).\n\nROBERT BUCHANAN. PAGE 224\n\nThe foremost Scoto-Celtic poet of our time, was born in Glasgow, 1841.\nIt would be needless to give particulars concerning the life and work of\nso eminent a contemporary. Lovers of the Celtic Muse will doubtless be\nfamiliar (or if not, ought to be) with Mr Buchanan\u2019s _Book of Orm_. Much\nof his early poetry is strongly imbued with the Celtic atmosphere. Those\nwho have read his several volumes of verse need no further guidance, but\nreaders unacquainted with the poetical work of one of the foremost poets\nof our day should obtain the collective edition of his poems published\nby Messrs Chatto & Windus. \u201cThe Flower of the World\u201d (page 224), \u201cThe\nDream of the World without Death\u201d (pages 228-234) are from _The Book of\nOrm_; \u201cThe Strange Country\u201d comes from _Miscellaneous Poems and Ballads_\n(1878-1883). No more memorable poem than \u201cThe Dream\u201d has been written by\nan Anglo-Celtic poet.\n\nLORD BYRON. (1788-1824.) PAGES 238-239\n\nByron is represented in _Lyra Celtica_ by virtue of his Celtic blood and\nundoubtedly Celtic nature, rather than because there is much trace of\nCeltic influence in his poetry. The two lyrics given here may be taken\nas fairly representative of that part of his poetical work which may\nwith some reason be called Celtic, though, of course, there is nothing\nin them which radically differentiates them from the lyrics of any\nEnglish poet. More than one eminent critic, foreign as well as British,\nhas claimed for Byron that he was the representative Celtic voice of the\nearly part of the century; but Byron was really much more the voice of\nhis own day and time than anything more restricted.\n\nCRODH CHAILLEAN. PAGE 240\n\nThis familiar Highland Milking Song is given in the translation of Dr\nAlexander Stewart of Nether Lochaber.\n\nMACCRIMMON\u2019S LAMENT. PAGE 241\n\nPerhaps the most famous pipe-tune in the Highlands is the \u201cCumha mhic\nCriomein,\u201d composed by Donald B\u00e0n MacCrimmon, on the occasion of the\nClan MacLeod, headed by their chief, embarking to join the Royalists in\n1746. The Lament is said to have been composed by Donald B\u00e0n under the\ninfluence of a presentiment that he as well as many others of the clan\nwould never return; a presentiment fulfilled, for he was killed in a\nskirmish near Moyhall. The tune and the chorus are old, but it is\ncommonly believed the poem was composed by Dr Norman Macleod; at any\nrate, they first appeared in a Gaelic article on the MacCrimmons, which\nhe contributed in 1840 to \u201cCuairtear nan Gleann\u201d (\u201cFionn,\u201d the _Celtic\nMonthly_). The translation here given is that of Professor Blackie.\n\nIAN CAMERON (\u201cIAN MOR\u201d). PAGE 242\n\nTranslated from the Gaelic by Miss Fiona Macleod.\n\nJOHN DAVIDSON. PAGE 243\n\nMr Davidson was born at Barrhead, near Paisley, on April 11th, 1857.\nAfter his preliminary education at the Highlanders\u2019 Academy, Greenock,\nhe went to Edinburgh University. For a time he taught in Greenock, and\nalso gained a certain amount of literary experience in occasional\ncontributions to the _Glasgow Herald_ and other papers. In 1886 he\npublished _Bruce: a Drama_, followed by _Smith: a Tragedy_ (1888),\n_Scaramouch in Naxos: and other Places_ (1889), _In a Music Hall, and\nother Poems_ (1891), _Fleet Street Eclogues_ (1893), _Ballads and Songs_\n(1894), _Second Series of Fleet Street Eclogues_ (1895), besides several\nvolumes of prose papers and fiction. Although _Bruce_ was Mr Davidson\u2019s\nfirst published work, he had begun to write at a much earlier period:\nhis _An Historical Pastoral_ was composed in 1877; _A Romantic Farce_ in\n1878; while _Bruce_ was written four years before its publication. Mr\nDavidson\u2019s later poetical writings have been mainly in the form of songs\nand lyrical ballads, and these have placed him in the foremost rank of\nthe younger poets of to-day. He has the widest range, the largest\nmanner, and the intensest note of any of the later Victorians. The two\npoems by which he is represented here are eminently characteristic, and\nnone the less Celtic in their essential quality from the fact that the\none deals with a loafer of the London streets and the other with a\nscenic rendering of an impression gained in Romney Marsh. Mr Davidson\u2019s\nlatest writings are \u201cThe Ballad of an Artist\u2019s Wife,\u201d not as yet issued\nin book form, and the just published second series of the _Fleet Street\nEclogues_ (John Lane). Both \u201cA Loafer\u201d and \u201cIn Romney Marsh\u201d are from\n_Ballads and Songs_.\n\nJEAN GLOVER. (1758-1800.) PAGE 246\n\nThe author of \u201cO\u2019er the Muir amang the Heather\u201d was the daughter of a\nHighland weaver settled in Kilmarnock. She married a strolling actor,\nand her fugitive songs became familiar throughout the West of Scotland.\n\u201cO\u2019er the Muir amang the Heather\u201d has become a classic.\n\nGEORGE MACDONALD. PAGE 247\n\nThis popular Scottish novelist and poet was born at Huntly, in\nAberdeenshire, December 10, 1824. As a novelist he has almost as large\nan audience as have any of his contemporary romancists. His poems are\nless widely known, though in them he has expressed himself with great\nvariety and subtlety. The Celtic element is not conspicuous in Dr\nMacdonald\u2019s work either in prose or verse; but sometimes, as in the\nlittle song \u201cOim\u00e8,\u201d quoted here, it finds adequate expression. This song\nis from his early volume _Within and Without_.\n\nRONALD CAMPBELL MACFIE. PAGE 249\n\nThe author of _Granite Dust_ (Kegan Paul) is one of the most promising\nof the younger Celtic Scots.\n\nWILLIAM MACDONALD. PAGE 250\n\nOne of the band of young writers associated with _The Evergreen_\n(Patrick Geddes and Colleagues, Edinburgh). Mr Macdonald has not yet\nissued his poems in book form.\n\nAMICE MACDONELL. PAGE 251\n\nMiss Macdonell has not, so far as I know, published a volume. \u201cCulloden\nMoor\u201d appeared in the _Celtic Monthly_ in June 1893.\n\nALICE C. MACDONELL. PAGE 252\n\nMiss Alice Macdonell of Keppoch has contributed many poems to Scottish\nand other periodicals. \u201cThe Weaving of the Tartan\u201d appeared in the\n_Celtic Monthly_ for December 1894.\n\nWILLIAM MACGILLIVRAY. (1796-1852.) PAGE 254\n\nThe author of \u201cThe Thrush\u2019s Song\u201d was not a poet, but occasionally\nindulged in the pleasure of verse-making. He was a well-known Highland\nornithologist, and it may be added that his attempt at an onomatopoeic\nrendering of the song of the thrush has been pronounced by Buckland and\nother ornithologists to be remarkably close.\n\nFIONA MACLEOD. PAGE 255\n\nMiss Macleod is one of the younger writers most intimately associated\nwith the Celtic Renascence in Scotland. \u201cThe Prayer of Women\u201d (see page\n255) is from _Pharais: a Romance of the Isles_ (Frank Murray, Derby,\n1894); \u201cThe Rune of Age\u201d and \u201cA Gaelic Milking Song\u201d are from _The\nMountain Lovers_ (John Lane); the \u201cLullaby\u201d and the two songs of Ethlenn\nStuart are from her last volume, _The Sin-Eater: and other Tales_\n(Patrick Geddes and Colleagues, Edinburgh). \u201cThe Closing Doors\u201d has not\nbeen published hitherto. The brief lyric, \u201cThe Sorrow of Delight,\u201d was\ncontributed to an as yet unpublished fantastic sketch, _The Merchant of\nDreams_, written in collaboration with a friend. Such of the poems\nscattered through her several volumes, and others, as she wishes to\npreserve in connected form, will be published by Miss Macleod early in\n1896 (Patrick Geddes and Colleagues), under the title of _Lyric Runes\nand Fonnsheen_.\n\nNORMAN MACLEOD. PAGE 266\n\nThere is no Highlander held in more affectionate remembrance and\nadmiration than the late Dr Norman Macleod: and with justice; for no one\nworked more arduously, understandingly, and sympathetically for the\ncause of the Gaelic language, Gaelic literature, and the Gaelic people\nthan the famous poet-minister, who, to this day, is commonly spoken of\nas \u201cThe Great Norman.\u201d It was, however, Dr Norman the elder who wrote\n\u201cFiunary,\u201d--and not, as commonly stated, the late Dr Norman. His\n\u201cFarewell to Fiunary\u201d is probably the most universally-known modern poem\nin the West Highlands. (For critical remarks as to the authenticity of\nthis poem, see Dr Nigel M\u2018Neil\u2019s _Literature of the Highlanders_, pp.\n283-286.)\n\nSARAH ROBERTSON MATHESON. PAGE 267\n\nMrs Robertson Matheson, some of whose poems in periodicals have\nattracted the attention of lovers of poetry, is chief secretary and\ntreasurer of the Clan Donnachaidh Society. The fine lyric, \u201cA Kiss of\nthe King\u2019s Hand,\u201d appeared in the _Celtic Monthly_ for May 1894; but I\nregret that version has inadvertently been followed, for it twice\nmisspells _tae_ for \u201cto,\u201d and in the third line of the third quatrain\nhas a misreading (\u201cjewels\u201d instead of \u201cruffles\u201d).\n\nIt may interest many readers to know that \u201cA Kiss of the King\u2019s Hand\u201d\ndecided the descendant of Flora Macdonald to leave Mrs Robertson\nMatheson the last heirloom of Scottish romance, the \u201cring of French\ngold\u201d given by Prince Charlie to Flora, and holding the lock of hair cut\nfrom \u201cthe king\u2019s head\u201d by her and her mother.\n\nDUGALD MOORE. PAGE 268\n\n\u201cThe First Ship\u201d is so remarkable a poem that it is difficult to\nunderstand how it has met with so little recognition, and escaped most,\nif not all, of the Scottish and British anthologists. Dugald Moore was\nthe son of Highland parents, and was born in Glasgow in 1805. His first\nbook was entitled _The Bard of the North_, and consisted of a series of\npoetical tales illustrative of Highland scenery and character (1833).\n_The Hour of Retribution_ and _The Devoted One_ appeared respectively in\n1835 and 1839. Moore died unmarried in the 36th year of his age (Jan. 2,\n1841), and was buried in the Necropolis of Glasgow. It is a pity that\nthe poem could not have appeared without its fourth stanza, which is\ninferior to the others.\n\nLADY CAROLINE NAIRNE. (1766-1845.) PAGE 269\n\nNeedless to say anything here concerning the \u201cFlower of Strathearn.\u201d\nBaroness Nairne was mainly Celtic in blood and wholly Celtic in genius.\n\u201cThe Land o\u2019 the Leal\u201d is now one of the most famous and most loved\nlyrics in the English language. (Readers may be referred to _Life and\nSongs of Baroness Nairne_, 1868.)\n\nALEXANDER NICOLSON. PAGE 270\n\nBesides this fine poem, \u201cOn Skye,\u201d Sheriff Nicolson has translated the\n\u201cBirlinn\u201d of Alexander Macdonald, and has written many moving verses\nfull of Gaelic sentiment of a robust kind.\n\nSIR NO\u00cbL PATON. PAGE 272\n\nJoseph No\u00ebl Paton was born at Dunfermline on the 13th of December 1821;\nand while his father was also of partial Celtic origin, Sir No\u00ebl is,\nthrough his mother, the descendant of the last of the Scoto-Celtic\nkings. Of his career as a painter it is not necessary to speak here. His\ntwo volumes of poetry are _Poems by a Painter_ (1861) and _Spindrift_\n(1867). The best account of the life and work of this distinguished Scot\nis the monograph recently published by Mr David Croal Thomson, as the\n\u201cArt-Annual\u201d of _The Art Journal_. The two poems by which Sir No\u00ebl is\nrepresented in this book are not to be found in either of his volumes,\nand their appearance here is due to the courtesy of the author.\n\nWILLIAM RENTON. PAGE 274\n\nMr Renton was born in Perthshire, of Scoto-Celtic parents. \u201cMountain\nTwilight\u201d is taken from his first volume of poems called _Oils and Water\nColours_ (Hamilton, Edinburgh, 1876). Mr Renton\u2019s only other volume of\nverse is his _Songs_ (Fisher Unwin, 1893).\n\nLADY JOHN SCOTT. PAGE 275\n\nThe author of \u201cDurisdeer\u201d was of mixed Highland and Lowland descent. Her\npoem has a permanent place in our literature because of its haunting\npassion and pain.\n\nEARL OF SOUTHESK. PAGE 276\n\nLord Southesk (James Carnegie) was bom in 1827. He first made his name\nin literature by his strange and vigorous _Jonas Fisher_ (1875). This\nwas followed by _Greenwood\u2019s Farewell_ (1876), and _The Meda Maiden_\n(1877); though most of the poems contained in these two volumes, with\nseveral others, are comprised in _The Burial of Isis_ (1884).\n\nJOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP. PAGE 277\n\nThis able Scottish writer was of Celtic origin through his mother.\nReaders unacquainted with the poems of the late Principal Shairp, and\nex-Professor of Poetry at Oxford, will do best to turn to the posthumous\nvolume, edited, with a memoir, by Francis Turner Palgrave, entitled\n_Glen Dessary_ (Macmillan, 1888).\n\nUNA URQUHART. PAGE 279\n\nI know nothing else of Gaelic or English verse by this young writer. \u201cAn\nOld Tale of Three,\u201d as it appears here, is a rendering of the original\nby Miss Fiona Macleod.\n\nLOST LOVE. PAGE 280\n\nThe author of this poem is unknown. The original is in the Gaelic of the\nWestern Isles, and is one of the several fugitive songs rescued by\nThomas Pattison. The version given here, however, is not identical with\nhis, the first and last quatrains having been added by another hand.\n\n\nCONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS (WALES)\n\nGEORGE MEREDITH. PAGE 283\n\nMr George Meredith, who recently has been addressed in a dedication as\n\u201cThe Prince of Celtdom,\u201d is rather the sovereign of contemporary English\nliterature. Although of Welsh descent and sympathies, and with a nature\npre-eminently Celtic in its distinguishing characteristics, Mr Meredith\nwas born in Hampshire on February 12th, 1828. Part of his early\neducation was received in Germany, and after his return to England it\nwas intended that he should pursue the legal profession: an intention\nset aside on account of an irresistible bias toward literature. His\nfirst published writings were in verse: and now this early little book,\n_Poems_, published in his twenty-third year (1851) is one of the rarest\ntreasures for the bibliophile. It is dedicated to Thomas Love Peacock,\nwhose intellectual influence upon the young writer is obvious. In 1850\nthe poet married the daughter of Peacock, but it was not till a year or\ntwo later that he definitely set himself to the profession of literature\nas also a means of livelihood. It is characteristic of him that his\nfirst prose book should be one of his most individual writings; for _The\nShaving of Shagpat_ might have been written at almost any period of its\nauthor\u2019s career. A fascinating and perplexing production it must indeed\nhave seemed at that time, published as it was in a year which, with the\nexception of two radically distinct American works of pre-eminent note,\nLongfellow\u2019s _Hiawatha_ and Walt Whitman\u2019s _Leaves of Grass_, was a\nsingularly barren one. The fantasy has always remained a favourite with\nstaunch Meredithians. It was followed two years later by the somewhat\nakin _Farina_; and two years passed again before that first important\nwork appeared which so profoundly affected the minds and imagination of\nMr Meredith\u2019s contemporaries--the now famous _Ordeal of Richard\nFeverel_, (1859). Since that date Mr Meredith has given us what many\nconsider the greatest literary legacy of our time; and unquestionably he\nhas had no compeer in brilliant delineation of life at white heat. It is\nunnecessary to specify the works of an author with which all lovers of\nliterature must be familiar; but a word must be added as to the delight\nwhich the reading world has known this year in the publication of _The\nAmazing Marriage_, one of the most brilliant and vivid of all Mr\nMeredith\u2019s romances, and, in its display of his characteristic quality\nat his best, ranking with _Harry Richmond_, _The Egoist_, and _Diana of\nthe Crossways_. As a poet George Meredith is less widely known, or,\nrather, is less widely accepted. There are, nevertheless, many who\nregard his poetic achievement as perhaps the most essential part of what\nhe has given us. In depth of thought, in clarity of vision, and in\nremarkable expressional subtlety,--often, if not invariably, set forth\nin a lyric utterance whose only fault is that of an occasional apparent\nincoherence due to rapidity of thought and eagerness of rhythmic\nemotion--he stands here, as in all else, alone. From that\nextraordinarily powerful study of contemporary life, expressed\nemotionally and rhythmically in singularly convincing verse, _Modern\nLove_, to his latest volume, _The Empty Purse_, there is a range of\nrhythmic and lyric beauty which may well be a challenge to posterity to\nredeem the relative neglect of the mass of Mr Meredith\u2019s contemporaries.\nI am not of those who consider Mr Meredith\u2019s least popular poems as mere\ncryptic utterances in verse; for everywhere I find the lyric\nspirit,--hampered, at times, it is true, by a wind-rush of images, and\nby a sudden drove of unshepherded words. But who could read \u201cLove in the\nValley,\u201d \u201cThe Lark Ascending,\u201d \u201cThe Woods of Westermain,\u201d \u201cThe\nSouth-Wester,\u201d \u201cThe Hymn to Colour,\u201d to mention five only, without\nrecognising that here indeed we have one of the great poets of our time.\nThe poems by which, owing to the gracious courtesy of Mr Meredith--who\nhas consented to forego for once his great objection to the appearance\nof any of his poems in miscellaneous collections--he is here\nrepresented, are from his later volumes. The \u201cDirge in Woods,\u201d \u201cOuter\nand Inner,\u201d and the superb \u201cHymn to Colour,\u201d are from _A Reading of\nEarth_ (1888), the volume which contains \u201cHard Weather,\u201d \u201cThe\nSouth-Wester,\u201d \u201cThe Thrush in February,\u201d \u201cThe Appeasement of Demeter,\u201d\n\u201cWoodland Peace,\u201d the noble ode \u201cMeditation under Stars,\u201d and that\nflawless and memorable sonnet, \u201cWinter Heavens.\u201d The \u201cNight of Frost in\nMay\u201d is from the volume entitled _The Empty Purse_ (1892). Mr Meredith\u2019s\nother volume of poetry, the favourite with most of his readers, is\n_Poems and Lyrics of the Joy of Earth_ (1883). This book includes \u201cThe\nWoods of Westermain,\u201d \u201cThe Day of the Daughter of Hades,\u201d \u201cThe Lark\nAscending,\u201d \u201cPh\u0153bus with Admetus,\u201d \u201cMelampus,\u201d \u201cLove in a Valley,\u201d and\nthe group of sonnets beginning with \u201cLucifer in Starlight,\u201d and ending\nwith \u201cTime and Sentiment.\u201d All Mr Meredith\u2019s poetical writings are now\npublished by Messrs Macmillan.\n\nSEBASTIAN EVANS. PAGE 292\n\nBorn in 1830, the grandson of the Rev. Lewis Evans, a well-known Welsh\nastronomer, and the son of the Rev. Arthur Benoni Evans, a linguist,\nscholar, and author. He was not the only one of this parentage who came\nto some distinction, for his brother, John Evans, F.R.S., became\nPresident of the Society of Antiquaries, and his sister, Anne, had some\nrepute as a poetess and musician. Sebastian Evans won a fair measure of\nfugitive fame by his _Brother Fabian\u2019s Manuscript and Other Poems_\n(Macmillan, 1865). In the early \u201970\u2019s Dr Evans published his second\nvolume, _In the Studio: a Decade of Poems_ (Macmillan). The true note of\nhis strangely subtle and illusive muse is not that of either irony or\naudacity as commonly supposed, but rather a living belief in the passage\nof the contemporary mind and aspiration from the sureties of the ancient\nfaith to the assurance of a still finer faith to come. Among his short\npoems perhaps the most indicative is that entitled \u201cThe Banners\u201d--\n\nLordly banners, waving to the stars,\n Flap upon the night-wind, heavy with the dew,\nTrustful youth is wending to the wars,\n Strong in ancient faith to battle with the new.\n\nLordly banners, trodden in the clay,\n Lie upon the mountain dank with other dew,\nHapless Youth hath lost the bloody day,\n Ancient faith is feeble, stronger is the new.\n\nLordly banners, other than of yore,\n Flap upon the night-wind, heavy with the dew:\nYouth to battle girdeth him once more,\n New and Old are feeble,--mighty is the True!\n\nEBENEZER JONES. (1820-1860.) PAGE 293\n\nOf Welsh parentage and descent, Ebenezer Jones was born in Islington,\nLondon. Much has been written upon the famous Chartist poet, both in his\nrelation to the socialistic movements in which he participated, and in\nliterary criticism of his two at one time much discussed volumes,\n_Studies of Sensation and Event_ (1843), and _Studies of Resemblance and\nConsent_ (1849); but perhaps the best critical summary of his life-work\nis that of Mr Wm. J. Linton in Miles\u2019 _Poets and Poetry of the Century_,\nVol. V. The two poems by which Ebenezer Jones is represented here are\nrespectively from his second and first volumes.\n\nEMILY DAVIS (MRS PFEIFFER). (1841-1890.) PAGE 296\n\nMrs Pfeiffer, many of whose poems achieved a wide popularity, was the\ndaughter of a Welsh gentleman settled in Oxfordshire, and an officer in\nthe army. She was born in Wales. Of her several volumes of verse, the\nfirst was _Gerard\u2019s Monument_, etc. (1873), and the best are _Sonnets\nand Other Songs_, _Under the Aspens_ (1884), and _Sonnets_ (1887).\n\nERNEST RHYS. PAGE 297\n\n\u201cThe House of Hendra\u201d is not given here intact: for the whole poem, see\n_A London Rose_, etc. (Elkin Mathews). Mr Rhys is the most noteworthy of\nthe younger generation of Welsh poets and romancists, and may well be\naccepted as the leader of the Neo-Celtic movement in Wales. He has in a\nmore marked degree than almost any of his compatriots of his own period\nthe gift of style; and already his enthusiasm, knowledge, and fine and\nnotable work in prose and verse have brought him to the front as the\nrecognised representative of young Wales. Of Welsh parentage, Mr Rhys\nwas born in London in 1860, spent much of his boyhood in South Wales,\nand his youth and early manhood in the north-country, where he intended\nto follow the profession of a mining engineer. However, he came to\nLondon in the early \u2019eighties and settled down to literary work. His\nfirst publication in book form was _The Great Cockney Tragedy_ (1891).\nHis poems first became known to the outside reading world through his\ncontributions to _The Book of the Rhymers\u2019 Club_ (1893). In the\nfollowing year he published his first and as yet sole volume of verse:\n_A London Rose: and Other Rhymes_, whence comes the fine \u201cHouse of\nHendra\u201d by which he is represented here. Besides other writings, in\nprose, Mr Ernest Rhys was editor of the \u201cCamelot Series\u201d of popular\nreprints and translations in 65 volumes (1885-1890), and now is critical\neditor of _The Lyric Poets_ (Dent), one of the most delightful\npoets-series extant.\n\n\nCONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS (MANX)\n\nTHOMAS EDWARD BROWN. PAGE 307\n\nWas born at Douglas, in the Isle of Man, in 1830. After a career of\nexceptional distinction at Oxford, he was appointed Vice-Principal of\nKing William\u2019s College in the Isle of Man (1855). Since 1863 he has been\nassistant-master of Clifton College. The book by which Mr Brown is best\nknown is his admirable _Fo\u2019c\u2019sle Yarns_ (Macmillan, 1881 and 1889),\nthough the first of his tales in verse included therein, \u201cBetsy Lee,\u201d\nappeared in _Macmillan\u2019s Magazine_ in 1873 where it at once attracted\nwide attention. He has also published _The Doctor_ (1887) and _The Manx\nWitch_ (1889). The author of _Fo\u2019c\u2019sle Yarns_ is by far the most\nnoteworthy poetic representative of the Isle of Man. In range, depth of\ninsight, dramatic vigour, keen sympathy, and narrative faculty, all\ntransformed by the alchemy of his poetic vision, he is not only the\nforemost Manx poet, but one of the most notable of living writers in\nverse. It is probably because most of his poems deal almost wholly with\nManx scenes and characters, and are for the most part written in the\nManx dialect, that he is so little talked of by literary critics and so\nlittle known to the reading world at large. Than \u201cBetsy Lee\u201d (_Fo\u2019c\u2019sle\nYarns_) there is no more moving, human, and beautiful poem, of the\nnarrative kind, written in our time. The fragmentary lines by which the\nauthor is represented here were selected from one of his most\ncharacteristic Manx poems, and give a good idea of the common parlance\nof the islanders of to-day. It is from _The Doctor: and Other Poems_\n(Swan Sonnenschein, 1887).\n\nHALL CAINE. PAGE 309\n\nThis fine Manx ballad of \u201cGraih my Chree\u201d appeared this year in the\nfirst number of _London Home_, to the editor and proprietor of which, as\nwell as to Mr Hall Caine, I am indebted for the permission to include\n\u201cLove of my Heart\u201d here. Mr Caine, so celebrated as a novelist, has\npublished no volume of poems; but at rare intervals something of his in\nverse has appeared. I think that his earliest appearance as a poet was\nin _Sonnets of this Century_ (1886, and later editions), where he is\nrepresented by two fine sonnets, \u201cWhere Lies the Land to which my Soul\nwould go?\u201d and \u201cAfter Sunset.\u201d Mr Caine\u2019s own first acknowledged book\nwas an anthology of sonnets (_Sonnets of Three Centuries_, Stock, 1882),\npublished in the author\u2019s twenty-seventh year. Of his many books, the\nbest known are his _Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti_; and his\nromances, _The Shadow of a Crime_, _The Deemster_, _The Bondman_, _The\nScapegoat_, and _The Manxman_. Mr Hall Caine is himself a Manxman,\ncrossed with a strong strain of Cumberland blood. Both in his strength\nand weakness he is eminently Celtic, after his own kind; for he could\nbelong to no other Celtic people than either the Manx or the Welsh. He\nhas, and not without good reason, been called the Walter Scott of Man.\nCertainly, _The Deemster_ and _The Manxman_ alone have revealed Manxland\nand Manx life and character to the great mass of English readers.\n\n\nCONTEMPORARY ANGLO-CELTIC POETS (CORNISH)\n\nARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER COUCH. PAGE 317\n\nSo well known as \u201cQ,\u201d was born at Bodwin, in Cornwall, of an old Cornish\nfamily, in 1863. He left Trinity College, Oxford, for London; but, after\na brief experience of literary life in the metropolis, returned to the\n\u201cDuchy,\u201d and has since resided there, mainly at Fowey. He is not only\nthe most noteworthy living Cornishman of letters, and the romancer _par\nexcellence_ of contemporary Cornwall and Cornish life, but is\nacknowledged as one of the best story-tellers of the day. His first book\nwas _The Splendid Spur_ (1889), a stirring romance, which was followed\nby _The Delectable Duchy_, _Noughts and Crosses_, and _I Saw Three\nShips_. He has published little poetry; and even in his slender volume,\n_Green Bays_ (1893), there are not more than one or two poems, the other\nverses being for the most part what are called \u201coccasional.\u201d If,\nhowever, he had written nothing in verse except the lyric called \u201cThe\nSplendid Spur,\u201d he would be accounted a poet for remembrance. \u201cThe\nWhite Moth\u201d is the most distinctively Celtic poem he has written. In the\nmain, he is more Cornish than Celtic--in this a contrast to Dr Riccardo\nStephens, who is far more distinctively Celtic than Cornish.\n\nROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER. (1804-1875.) PAGE 319\n\nThe celebrated vicar of Morwenstow (born at Plymouth) came of an old\nCornish family, and spent the greater part of his life in the Duchy. In\n1834 he became Vicar of Morwenstow, a remote parish on the Cornish\nsea-board. His best-known book is _Cornish Ballads_ (1869); but the\nreader who may not be acquainted with his writings should consult the\n_Poetical Works, and Other Literary Remains, with a Memoir_ (1879).\nHawker has much of the sombre note which is supposed to be\ncharacteristic of Celtic Cornwall.\n\nRICCARDO STEPHENS. PAGE 321\n\nDr Stephens is a Cornishman settled in Edinburgh, where he practises as\na physician. He has not, as yet, published any of his poems in book\nform; but, none the less, has won (if necessarily, as yet, a limited)\nreputation by his exceedingly vigorous and individual poems. He has\nwritten several \u201cCastle Ballads\u201d (of which the very striking \u201cHell\u2019s\nPiper\u201d given here is one)--poems suggested by legendary episodes\nconnected with Edinburgh Castle, or perhaps only vaguely influenced by\nthat romantically picturesque and grand vicinage--for Dr Stephens is one\nof the many workers, thinkers, and dreamers who congregate in the\nsettlement founded by Professor Patrick Geddes on the site of Allan\nRamsay\u2019s residence--\u201cNew Edinburgh,\u201d as University Hall is sometimes\ncalled, an apt name in more ways than one. Dr Stephens is a poet of\nmarked originality, and his work has all the Celtic fire and fervour,\nwith much of that sombre gloom which is held to be characteristically\nCornish. \u201cHell\u2019s Piper\u201d has lines in it of Dantesque vigour, as those\nwhich depict, among \u201cthe shackled earthquakes,\u201d the \u201creeking halls of\nHell,\u201d and the torture-wrought denizens of that Inferno. \u201cThe Phantom\nPiper\u201d will never be forgotten by any one who has once read and been\nthrilled by this highly-imaginative poem.\n\n\nMODERN AND CONTEMPORARY BRETON\n\nTHE POOR CLERK (IN BRETON, \u201cAR C\u2019HLOAREK PAOUR\u201d) PAGE 331\n\nis rather a medi\u00e6val than a modern folk-poem. The translation is that of\nthe late Tom Taylor (_Ballads and Lyrics_, Macmillan), who has the\nfollowing note upon it:--\u201cThe Kl\u00f6arek is a seminarist of Tr\u00e9guier, a\npeasant who has a turn for books, or shows some vocation for the\npriesthood. Their miserable life, hard study, and abnegation of family\nlife are provocative of regretful emotion, passionate and mystic\nasceticism. The Kl\u00f6arek is the poet and hero of most of the Breton\n_S\u00f4nes_; Tr\u00e9guier, therefore, is the nursery of the elegaic and\nreligious popular poetry of Brittany.\u201d\n\nTHE CROSS BY THE WAY (KROAZ ANN HENT). PAGE 332\n\n_Vide_ preceding Note. This translation is from the same source as last.\n\nTHE SECRETS OF THE CLERK, AND LOVE SONG. PAGES 335-337\n\nSee Note to \u201cThe Poor Clerk.\u201d The first of these poems was probably\ncomposed in the transition period--late medi\u00e6val or early modern. Both\nare given in the rendering of Mr Alfred M. Williams (_vide_ \u201cFolk-Songs\nof Lower Brittany\u201d in _Studies in Folk-Song and Popular Poetry_ (1895)).\n\u201cThe Love Song\u201d is modern--probably _circa_ 1800, or even 1750.\n\nHERV\u00c9 NO\u00cbL LE BRETON. PAGE 338\n\nFor all particulars concerning this poet I must refer interested readers\nto Mr W. J. Robertson\u2019s brief memoir in that most delightful of all\nbooks of translation, _A Century of French Verse_ (A. D. Innes & Co.,\n1895). This is without exception the ablest work of its kind we have. It\nis the production of one who is unmistakably himself a poet, who has the\nrare double power to translate literally, and at the same time with\nsubtle art and charm, so that the least possible loss in translation is\ninvolved. In addition to these often exquisitely felicitous, and always\nnotably able and suggestive renderings, Mr Robertson has prefixed to\neach representative selection a brief critical and biographical study of\nthe poet represented--short _\u00e9tudes_ of remarkable insight and critical\nmerit. Of Herv\u00e9 No\u00ebl le Breton he gives some interesting particulars.\nThe poet is of the ancient Armorican race, and was born in Nantes in\n1851. He has not yet published any volume; and it is from an unpublished\ncollection, _R\u00eaves et Symboles_, that Mr Robertson has drawn. Strangely\nenough, neither in Tiercelin\u2019s Breton Anthology nor anywhere else can I\nfind any allusion to Herv\u00e9 No\u00ebl le Breton: and his name is unknown to M.\nLouis Tiercelin, M. Anatole le Braz, and M. Charles Le Goffic,\nrespectively the most eminent living Breton anthologist, Breton\nfolk-lorist, and Breton poet-romancist and critic. For several reasons I\ntake it that Le Breton is an assumed name; and it is even possible that\nthe Armorican blood is only in the brain, and not in the body of the\nauthor of _R\u00eaves et Symboles_. \u201cThe Burden of Lost Souls\u201d is in three\nparts, of which that given here is the first. Here is the second:\n\n\nTHE BURDEN OF LOST SOULS.\n\n\nII.\n\nThis is our doom. To walk for ever and ever\n The wilderness unblest,\nTo weary soul and sense in vain endeavour\n And find no coign of rest;\n\nTo feel the pulse of speech and passion thronging\n On lips for ever dumb,\nTo gaze on parched skies relentless, longing\n For clouds that will not come;\n\nThirsty, to drink of loathsome waters crawling\n With nameless things obscene,\nTo feel the dews from heaven like fire-drops falling,\n And neither shade nor screen;\n\nTo fill from springs illusive riddled vessels,\n Like the Dana\u00efdes,\nTo grapple with the wind that whirls and wrestles,\n Knowing no lapse of ease;\n\nTo weave fantastic webs that shrink and crumble\n Before they leave the loom,\nTo build with travail a\u00ebry towers that tumble\n And temples like the tomb;\n\nTo watch the stately pomp and proud procession\n Of splendid shapes and things,\nAnd pine in silent solitary session\n Because we have no wings;\n\nTo woo from confused sleep forlorn the dismal\n Oblivion of despair;\nTo seek in sudden glimpse of dreams abysmal\n Sights beautiful and rare,\nAnd waking, wild with terror, see the vision\n Cancelled in swift eclipse,\nMocked by the pallid phantoms of derision,\n With spectral eyes and lips;\n\nTo turn in endless circles round these purlieus\n With troops of spirits pale,\nWhose everlasting song is like the curlew\u2019s,\n One ceaseless, changeless wail.\n\nMr Robertson gives four poems by this poet: \u201c_La Plainte des Damn\u00e9s_,\u201d\n\u201c_Vers les Etoiles_,\u201d \u201c_Le Tombeau du Po\u00e8te_,\u201d and \u201c_Hymne au Sommeil_.\u201d\nHis translation of the last-named also appears in this anthology.\n\nVILLIERS DE L\u2019ISLE-ADAM. (1838-1889.) PAGE 342\n\nThis famous French novelist and poet was born at St Brieuc, in Brittany,\nof parents who were each of old Breton stock. The full details of the\nlife and work of Philippe-Auguste-Mathias de Villiers de l\u2019Isle-Adam,\nson of the Marquis Joseph de Villiers de l\u2019Isle-Adam and his wife Marie\nFran\u00e7oise le Nepveu de Carfort, can be read in the recently-published\n_Life_, by the late Vicomte Robert du Pontavice de Heussey--an English\ntranslation of which, by Lady Mary Lloyd, was issued last year by Mr\nHeinemann. This distinguished writer lived in misfortune, and died amid\ndarker shadows than those he had too long been bitterly acquainted with.\nHis first volume of poems was published when he was little more than\ntwenty years old--as Mr Robertson says, \u201cone of the most remarkable ever\nwritten by so young a poet.\u201d The young Breton poet came under the strong\npersonal influence of Baudelaire, and in the process he lost much of his\nnative Celtic fire and spirituality. Besides the poems given here,\n\u201cConfession\u201d (\u201c_D\u2019aveu_\u201d) and \u201cDiscouragement\u201d (\u201c_D\u00e9couragement_\u201d), Mr\nRobertson translates, in his _Century of French Verse_,\n\u201c_Eblouissement_\u201d and \u201c_Les Pr\u00e9sents_.\u201d\n\nLECONTE DE LISLE. (1818-1894.) PAGE 344\n\n\u201cThe great Creole poet, Charles Marie Ren\u00e9 Leconte, known as Leconte de\nLisle, was the child of a Breton father and a Gascon mother, and was\nborn at St Paul, in the isle of Bourbon (_R\u00e9union_) in 1818. He had the\nCeltic clearness of vision and love of beauty, and the vigour and\ncourage of the Pyrenean race. In his youth he travelled through the East\nIndies, and the vivid impressions of tropical colour and warmth which\nare visible in his poetry derive their value from the personal\nobservation of Nature in those regions\u201d (W. J. Robertson, _A Century of\nFrench Verse_). Leconte de Lisle, one of the greatest of modern French\npoets, is assured of immortality by his beautiful trilogy:--_Po\u00e8mes\nAntiques_ (1852), _Po\u00e8mes Barbares_ (1862), and _Po\u00e8mes Tragiques_\n(1884). The reader who, unfamiliar with this poet, wishes to know more\nof Leconte de Lisle and his work, cannot do better than turn first to Mr\nRobertson\u2019s biographical and critical memoir in _A Century of French\nVerse_. There, too, he will find five poems from _Po\u00e8mes Antiques_,\nincluding the long \u201c_Dies Ir\u00e6_\u201d; two from _Po\u00e8mes Barbares_, and two\nfrom _Po\u00e8mes Tragiques_. Of the two given here, the first (\u201cThe Black\nPanther\u201d) is from _Po\u00e8mes Barbares_, and \u201cThe Spring\u201d (\u201c_La Source_\u201d)\nfrom _Po\u00e8mes Antiques_. Leconte de Lisle strove after an ideal\nperfection of form. The spirit of that almost flawless work of his, is\nof intellectual emotion rather than of passion; but in colour, and\nsplendour of imagery, no romanticist can surpass him. He is of the great\nminds who create, calm and serene. He is often classed with the two\ngreat master-spirits of modern German and French literature; but, while\nhe has neither the lyric rush nor epic sweep of Victor Hugo, nor the\nphilosophical modernity and innate human sentiment of G\u0153the, he is much\nmore akin to the latter than to the former. For the rest, to quote Mr\nRobertson, \u201che gives the noblest expression to human revolt and desire,\nto ideal dreams, and to the pure and sometimes pathetic love of external\nnature.\u201d\n\nLEO-KERMORVAN. PAGE 348\n\nLeo-Kermorvan has been represented here as one of the most distinctively\nCeltic of the contemporary Breton poets. In translating his \u201cTaliesen,\u201d\nas well as Louis Tiercelin\u2019s \u201cBy Menec\u2019hi Shore,\u201d I have endeavoured to\nconvey the atmosphere, as well as to be literal; and, partly to this\nend, and partly because of a personal preference for unrhymed metrical\ntranslation, have not ventured to make a rhymed paraphrase. M. Kermorvan\nis a poet worthy to be named with his two most notable living\ncompatriots, Tristran Corbi\u00e8re and Charles Le Goffic.\n\nLOUIS TIERCELIN. PAGE 351\n\n(See foregoing note.) M. Tiercelin is a Breton poet and critic, perhaps\nbest known as co-editor of the _Parnasse de la Bretagne_. No more\ncharacteristic Breton poem, apart from folk-poetry, could close _Lyra\nCeltica_. It is the keynote of the poetry that is common to all the\nCeltic races.\n\n\nTHE CELTIC FRINGE\n\nBLISS CARMAN. PAGE 355\n\nMr Bliss Carman, the trans-Atlantic poet who, it seems to me, has the\nmost distinctive note of any American poet (and the word \u201cAmerican\u201d is\nused in its widest sense), is of Scoto-Celtic descent through his\nfather\u2019s side, and of East-Anglian through the maternal side; but was\nborn of a family long settled in Canada--viz., at Fredericton, New\nBrunswick, in 1861. His poetry is intensely individual, and with a lyric\nnote at once poignant and reserved. Work of very high quality is\nexpected of him, on both sides of the Atlantic; for his beautiful lyrics\nand poems have appeared in the periodicals of both countries. His slight\nvolume, _Low Tide on Grand-Pr\u00e9_ (1893), is published in this country by\nMr Nutt. About half of the _Songs from Vagabondia_ (written in\ncollaboration with Mr Richard Hovey) are of his authorship. This book,\npublished in 1894 by Messrs Stone & Kimball of Chicago, is to be had\nhere through Mr Elkin Mathews. It is from the _Songs_ that the stirring\nwar-chant of \u201cGamelbar\u201d comes.\n\nELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON. PAGE 361\n\nThis distinguished American lady is descended from old Highland stock. I\nknow of no other book by her than _Songs and Lyrics_ (Boston, Osgood &\nCo., 1881), but that is one which all lovers of poetry should possess.\nMiss Hutchinson\u2019s name is best known in connection with that colossal\nand invaluable work, the _Cyclop\u00e6dia of American Literature_ (eleven\nvols.), in which she was the collaborator of Mr Edmund Clarence Stedman.\n\nHUGH M\u2018CULLOCH. PAGE 364\n\nThis descendant of an old Highland family is the author of _The Quest of\nHeracles_ (Stone & Kimball, Chicago, 1894).\n\nDUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT. PAGE 365\n\nMr Scott is a member of one of the many Scoto-Celtic families settled in\nCanada. He was born at Ottawa in 1862, and is the author of _The Magic\nHouse_ (1893).\n\nTHOMAS D\u2019ARCY M\u2018CGEE. (1821-1868.) PAGE 366\n\nThis distinguished Irishman is to be accounted only an adopted American.\nHe emigrated to the States in 1842, edited _The Boston Pilot_, and in\n1857 went to Montreal and entered the Canadian Parliament. It was when\nreturning from a night-session that he was assassinated in Ottawa by\nFenian malcontents.\n\nMARY C. G. GILLINGTON (MRS BYRON) AND ALICE E. GILLINGTON. PAGES 368-373\n\nThese two sisters, whose names have become so deservedly well-known by\ntheir contributions to British and American periodicals, are of Celtic\nblood, though born and resident in England. They are included here as\nrepresentative of the Anglo Celtic strain so potent in England itself.\nThe elder, Mrs Byron, was born in Cheshire in 1861. Their joint volume,\n_Poems_, was published in 1892. Mr Elkin Mathews has just published a\nvolume entitled, _A Little Book of Lyrics_, by Mrs Byron.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] Apropos, let me quote a word or two from Dr Douglas Hyde: \u201cWe all\nremember the inimitable felicity with which that great English-speaking\nGael, Sir Walter Scott, has caught,\u201d &c. (with this note) \u201cBoth\nthe Buccleugh Scots, and the other four branches of the name, were\noriginally Gaelic-speaking Celts.\u201d\n\n[2] \u201cFailte do Mharcus Latharna \u2019s do \u2019Mhnaoi oig Rioghail.\u201d\n\n[3] Published by Mr Fisher Unwin at a shilling. The reader will have\nto discount Mr Brooke\u2019s over-emphasis on the word Irish, which he\nfrequently uses instead of Celtic, even when alluding to Scoto-Celtic\nliterature and influence.\n\n[4] \u201cOn the first day of the =Trogan-month=, we, to the number\nof Fianna\u2019s three battalions, practised to repair to Arran, and there\nto have our fill of hunting until such time as from the tree-tops the\ncuckoo would call in Ireland. More melodious than all birds whatsoever,\nit was to give ear to the voices of the birds as they rose from the\nbillows, and from the island\u2019s coast line; thrice fifty separate flocks\nthere are that encircled her, and they clad in all brilliance of all\ncolours; as blue, and green, and azure, and yellow.\u201d\n\n[5] Readers should obtain Dr Hyde\u2019s \u201cThree Sorrows of Story-Telling\u201d\n(1/-), wherein the beautiful old tale of Deirdr\u00ea is re-told by one who\nis at once a poet and a scholar.\n\n[6] Whence comes the \u201cPrologue to Gaul,\u201d given at p. 187 of this book.\n\n[7] =Dearg=-=dr\u00fachtach=--i.e. \u201cDewy-Red\u201d--was the name of St\nColumba\u2019s boat.\n\n[8] That is, \u201cBack turned to Ireland.\u201d\n\n[9] Solitary cell.\n\n[10] i.e. the sheepskin or deerskin coverings for apertures, still used\nin some remote shealings and =bothain=.\n\n[11] Shed.\n\n[12] Here probably the byre.\n\n[13] =Gracie \u00f3g mo-chridhe=--\u201cYoung Gracie, my heart.\u201d\n\n[14] Pron. =Cawn dhu dee-lish=--i.e. \u201cdarling black head.\u201d\n\n[15] The second line to the refrain translates the first.\n\n[16] Creek.\n\n[17] Piglings.\n\n[18] Potatoes.\n\n[19] My heart\u2019s delight.\n\n[20] A large basket carried on the back.\n\n[21] =Maura du=, \u201cDear Mary.\u201d\n\n[22] =Asthore machree=, \u201cThe darling of my heart.\u201d\n\n[23] Pron. =Colleen Dhun=--a \u201cbrown (haired) girl.\u201d\n\n[24] Low Country.\n\n[25] Mull.\n\n[26] =Eilidh= is pronounced Eily (liq.).\n\n[27] than.\n\n[28] of hers.\n\n[29] frightened.\n\n[30] Hobgoblins.\n\n[31] The Blackrock is a bold, dark, pillared mass of schist, which\nrises midway on the shore of Widemouth Bay, near Bude, and is held\nto be the lair of the troubled spirit of Featherstone the wrecker,\nimprisoned therein until he shall have accomplished his doom.\n\n[32] The =bazvalan=, the bearer of the rod of broom.\n\n[33] Twilight.\n\n[34] Pronounce like English \u201chind.\u201d\n\n[35] Gaelic pronunciation of Mull.","title":"Lyra Celtica: An Anthology of Representative Celtic Poetry","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":87277}