Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Clann Cartie

MY heart is withered and my health is gone,
For they who were not easy put upon,
Masters of mirth and of fair clemency,
Masters of wealth and gentle charity,
They are all gone. Mac Caura Mór is dead,
Mac Caura of the Lee is finishéd,
Mac Caura of Kanturk joined clay to clay
And gat him gone, and bides as deep as they.

Their years, their gentle deeds, their flags are furled,
And deeply down, under the stiffened world,
In chests of oaken wood are princes thrust,
To crumble day and day into the dust
A mouth might puff at ; nor is left a trace
Of those who did of grace all that was grace.

O Wave of Cliona, cease thy bellowing !
And let mine ears forget a while to ring
And I, in little time, will stoop my head
And put it under, and will be forget
With them, and be with them, and thus be not :
Ease thee, cease thy long keening, cry no more :
End is, and here is end, and end is sore,
And to all lamentation be there end :
If I might come on thee, O howling friend !
Knowing that sails were drumming on the sea
Westward to Eiré, and that help would be
Trampling for her upon a Spanish deck,
I'd ram thy lamentation down thy neck.

Honoro Butler And Lord Kenmare (1720)

IN bloom and bud the bees are busily
Storing against the winter their sweet hoard
That shall be rifled ere the autumn be
Past, or the winter comes with silver sword
To fright the bees, until the merry round
Tells them that sweets again are to be found.

The lusty tide is flowing by in ease,
Telling of joy along its brimming way ;
Far in its waters is an isle of trees
Whereto the sun will go at end of day,
As who in secret place and dear is hid,
And scarce can rouse him thence tho' he be chid.

Now justice comes all trouble to repair,
And cheeks that had been wan are coloured well,
The untilled moor is comely, and the air
Hath a great round of song from bird in dell,
And bird on wing and bird on forest tree,
And from each place and square where bird may be.

The languid are made strong, the strong grow stronger,
There is no grievance here, and no distress,
The woeful are not woeful any longer,
The rose hath put on her a finer dress,
And every girl in bloom adds bloom again,
And every man hath heart beyond all men.

For the Star of Munster, Pearl of the Golden Bough,
Comes joyfully this day of days to wed
Her choice of all whom fame hath loved till now,
And who chose her from all that love instead :
The Joy of Flock, the Bud of Branch is she,
Crown of the Irish Pride and Chivalry.

He is chief and prince, well famed is he,
The love of thousands unto him does run ;
And all days were before and all will be,
He was and will be loved by every one ;
And she and he be loved by all no less
Who courage love, and love, and loveliness.

The nobles of the province take their wine,
And drink a merry health to groom and bride ;
They shall be drunken ere the sun decline,
And all their merrymaking lay aside
In deep, sweet sleep that seals a merry day
Until the dawn, when they shall ride away,
Leaving those two who now are one behind.
O Moon ! pour on the silence all they beams,
And for this night be beautiful and kind ;
Weave in their sleep thy best and dearest dreams ;
And fortune them in their own land to be
Safe from all evil chance, and from all enmity.

Eileen, Diarmuid And Teig

BE kind unto these three, O King !
For they were fragrant-skinned, cheerful and giving ;
Three stainless pearls, three of mild, winning ways,
Three candles sending forth three pleasant rays,
Three vines, three doves, three apples from a bough,
Three graces in a house, three who refused nohow
Help to the needy, three of slenderness,
Three memories for the compainionless,
Three strings of music, three deep holes in clay,
Three lovely children who loved Christ alway,
Three mouths, three hearts, three minds beneath a stone ;
Ruin it is ! three causes for the moan
That rises everywhere now they are gone :
Be kind, O King, unto this two and one !

The County Mayo

NOW with the coming in of the spring the days will stretch a bit,
And after the Feast of Brigid I shall hoist my flag and go,
For since the thought got into my head I can neither stand nor sit
Until I find myself in the middle of the County of Mayo.

In Claremorris I would stop a night sleep with decent men,
And then go on to Balla just beyond and drink galore,
And next Kiltimagh for a visit of about a month, and then
I would only be a couple of miles away from Ballymore.

I say and swear my heart lifts up like the lifting of a tide,
Rising up like the rising wind till fog or mist must go,
When I remember Carra, and Gallen close beside,
And the Gap of the Two Bushes, and the wide plains of Mayo.

To Killaden the, to the place where everything grows that is best,
There are raspberries there and strawberries there and all that is good for men ;
And if I were only there in the middle of my folk my heart could rest,
For age itself would leave me there and I'd be young again.

Sean O'Cosgair

PITY it was that you should ever stand
In ship or boat,
Or that you went afloat
Inside that ship !

That lusty steps you took !
The ways and journeys you knew and how to wend
From London back to Beltra,
And this end !

You who could swim so well !
What times you sported in the lifting tides
The girl swam out to you, and held your sides
When they were weary, for they knew they were
Safe, because you where there.

Your little-mother thought that this was true
(And so she made no stir
Til you were found),
Although an hundred might be drownéd, you
Would come back safe to her,
And not be drowned !

William O'Kelly

THE Protecting Tree
Of the men of the land of Fál !
What aileth thee,
And why is it that all
About thee grieves ?

Alas, O Tree of the Leaves !
Here is thy rhyme :
Thy bloom is lightened ;
And if thy fruit be withered
Thy root hath not tightened
At the same time.

Not since the Gael was sold
At Aughrim. Not since to cold,
Dull death went Owen Roe ;
Not since the drowning of Clann Adam in the days of Noe
Brought men to hush,
Has sucha tale of woe come to us
In such a rush.

The true flower of the blood of the place is fallen :
The tree clean-wheat of the Gael is reaped.

Destruction be upon Death,
For he has come and taken from our tree
The topmost blackberry !

Mary Ruane

THE sky-like girl whom we knew !
She dresses herself to go to the fair
In a dress of white and blue ;
A white lace cap, and ribbons white
She wore in her hair ;
She does not hear in the night
Her mother crying for her,
Deep down in the sea,
She rolls and lingers to and fro

Anthony O'Daly

SINCE your limbs were laid out
The stars do not shine,
The fish leap not out
In the waves.
On our meadows the dew
Does not fall in the morn,
For O'Daly is dead :
Not a flower can be born,
Not a word can be said,
Not a tree had a leaf ;
Anothony, after you
There is nothing to do,
There is nothing but grief.

Nancy Walsh

IT is not on her gown
She fears no tread ;
It is her hair
Which tumbles down
And strays
About her ways
That she must care.

And she lives nigh this place :
The dead would rise
If they could see her face ;
The dead would rise
Only to hear her sing :
But death is blind, and gives not ear nor eye
To anything.

We would leave behind
Both wife and child,
And house and home ;
And wander blind,
And wander thus,
And ever roam,
If she would come to us
In Erris.

Softly she said to me —
Be patient will the night comes,
And I will go with thee.