All loved him, only the shoneen,Whom the devils have by the hair,From the wives, and the cats, and the children,To the birds in the white of the air.
The birds, for he opened their cagesAs he went up and down;And he said with a smile, "Have peace now";And he went his way with a frown.
But if when any one diedCame keeners hoarser than rooks,He bade them give over their keening;For he was a man of books.
And these were the works of John,When weeping score by score,People came into Coloony;For he'd died at ninety-four.
There was no human keening;The birds from KnocknareaAnd the world round KnocknasheeCame keening in that day.
The young birds and old birdsCame flying, heavy and sad;Keening in from Tiraragh,Keening from Ballinafad;
Keening from Inishmurray,Nor stayed for bite or sup;This way were all reprovedWho dig old customs up.
THE BALLAD OF MOLL MAGEE
Come round me, little childer;There, don't fling stones at meBecause I mutter as I go;But pity Moll Magee.
My man was a poor fisherWith shore lines in the say;My work was saltin' herringsThe whole of the long day.
And sometimes from the saltin' shed,I scarce could drag my feetUnder the blessed moonlight,Along the pebbly street.
I'd always been but weakly,And my baby was just born;A neighbour minded her by dayI minded her till morn.
I lay upon my baby;Ye little childer dear,I looked on my cold babyWhen the morn grew frosty and clear.
A weary woman sleeps so hard!My man grew red and pale,And gave me money, and bade me goTo my own place, Kinsale.
He drove me out and shut the door,And gave his curse to me;I went away in silence,No neighbour could I see.
The windows and the doors were shut,One star shone faint and greenThe little straws were turnin' roundAcross the bare boreen.
I went away in silence:Beyond old Martin's byreI saw a kindly neighbourBlowin' her mornin' fire.
She drew from me my story —My money's all used up,And still, with pityin', scornin' eye,She gives me bite and sup.
She says my man will surely come,And fetch me home agin;But always, as I'm movin' round,Without doors or within,
Pilin' the wood or pilin' the turf,Or goin' to the well,I'm thinkin' of my babyAnd keenin' to mysel'.
And sometimes I am sure she knowsWhen, openin' wide His door,God lights the stars, His candles,And looks upon the poor.
So now, ye little childer,Ye won't fling stones at me;But gather with your shinin' looksAnd pity Moll Magee.
THE BALLAD OF THE FOXHUNTER
"Now lay me in a cushioned chair"And carry me, you four,"With cushions here and cushions there,"To see the world once more.
"And some one from the stables bring"My Dermot dear and brown,"And lead him gently in a ring,"And gently up and down.
"Now leave the chair upon the grass:"Bring hound and huntsman here,"And I on this strange road will pass,"Filled full of ancient cheer."
His eyelids droop, his head falls low,His old eyes cloud with dreams;The sun upon all things that growPours round in sleepy streams.
Brown Dermot treads upon the lawn,And to the armchair goes,And now the old man's dreams are gone,He smooths the long brown nose.
And now moves many a pleasant tongueUpon his wasted hands,For leading aged hounds and youngThe huntsman near him stands.
"My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn,"And make the hills reply."The huntsman loosens on the mornA gay and wandering cry.
A fire is in the old man's eyes,His fingers move and sway,And when the wandering music diesThey hear him feebly say,
"My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn,"And make the hills reply.""I cannot blow upon my horn,"I can but weep and sigh."
The servants round his cushioned placeAre with new sorrow wrung;And hounds are gazing on his face,Both aged hounds and young.
One blind hound only lies apartOn the sun-smitten grass;He holds deep commune with his heart:The moments pass and pass;
The blind hound with a mournful dinLifts slow his wintry head;The servants bear the body in;The hounds wail for the dead.
THE WANDERINGS OF USHEEN
"Give me the world if Thou wilt, but grant me an asylum for my affections."
To EDWIN J. ELLIS
BOOK I
S. PATRIC
You who are bent, and bald, and blind,With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,Have known three centuries, poets sing,Of dalliance with a demon thing.
USHEEN
Sad to remember, sick with years,The swift innumerable spears,The horsemen with their floating hair,And bowls of barley, honey, and wine,And feet of maidens dancing in tune,And the white body that lay by mine;But the tale, though words be lighter than air,Must live to be old like the wandering moon.
Caolte, and Conan, and Finn were there,When we followed a deer with our baying hounds,With Bran, Sgeolan, and Lomair,And passing the Firbolgs' burial mounds,Came to the cairn-heaped grassy hillWhere passionate Maive is stony still;And found on the dove-gray edge of the seaA pearl-pale, high-born lady, who rodeOn a horse with bridle of findrinny;And like a sunset were her lips,A stormy sunset on doomed ships;A citron colour gloomed in her hair,But down to her feet white vesture flowed,And with the glimmering crimson glowedOf many a figured embroidery;And it was bound with a pearl-pale shellThat wavered like the summer streams,As her soft bosom rose and fell.
S. PATRIC
You are still wrecked among heathen dreams.
USHEEN
"Why do you wind no horn?" she said."And every hero droop his head?"The hornless deer is not more sad"That many a peaceful moment had,"More sleek than any granary mouse,"In his own leafy forest house"Among the waving fields of fern:"The hunting of heroes should be glad."
"O pleasant woman," answered Finn,"We think on Oscar's pencilled urn,"And on the heroes lying slain,On Gavra's raven-covered plain;"But where are your noble kith and kin,"And from what country do you ride?"
"My father and my mother are"Aengus and Adene, my own name"Niam, and my country far"Beyond the tumbling of this tide."
"What dream came with you that you came"Through bitter tide on foam wet feet?"Did your companion wander away"From where the birds of Aengus wing?"