Chapter V: Part 5

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,
And right many a lord of Breagh;
Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,
Kind in hall and fierce in fray.

Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter
In the red earth lies at rest;
Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,
Many a swan-white breast.

Unknown Ideal.

[Sidenote: DORA SIGERSON]

Whose is the voice that will not let me rest?
I hear it speak.
Where is the shore will gratify my quest,
Show what I seek?
Not yours, weak Muse, to mimic that far voice,
With halting tongue;
No peace, sweet land, to bid my heart rejoice
Your groves among.

Whose is the loveliness I know is by,
Yet cannot place?
Is it perfection of the sea or sky,
Or human face?
Not yours, my pencil, to delineate
The splendid smile!
Blind in the sun, we struggle on with Fate
That glows the while.

Whose are the feet that pass me, echoing
On unknown ways?
Whose are the lips that only part to sing
Through all my days?
Not yours, fond youth, to fill mine eager eyes
That still adore
Beauty that tarries not, nor satisfies
For evermore.

Mo Cáilin Donn.

[Sidenote: GEORGE SIGERSON]

The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree,
And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are carolling their glee;
And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun,
All to deck a path of glory for my own =Cáilin Donn=![23]

O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!
More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree,
More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,
Is the coming of my true love--my own =Cáilin Donn=!

O Sycamore! O Sycamore! wave, wave your banners green--
Let all your pennons flutter, O Beech! before my queen!
Ye fleet and honied breezes, to kiss her hand ye run;
But my heart has passed before ye to my own =Cáilin Donn=!

O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!

Ring out, ring out, O Linden! your merry leafy bells!
Unveil your brilliant torches, O Chestnut! to the dells;
Strew, strew the glade with splendour, for morn it cometh on!
Oh, the morn of all delight to me--my own =Cáilin Donn=!

O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!

[Sidenote: GEORGE SIGERSON]

She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day;
There’s a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away;
O, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of Freedom’s won,
Is the joy around your footsteps, my own =Cáilin Donn=!

O, fair she is! O, rare she is! O, dearer still to me!
More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree,
More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,
Is your coming, O my true love--my own =Cáilin Donn=!

An Irish Love Song.

[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER]

O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,
Girl of my choice, Maureen!
Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy sweet mouth denies,
Maureen!

Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,
White rose of the West, Maureen;
For it’s pale you are, and the fear that’s on you is over me too,
Maureen!

Sure it’s our complaint that’s on us, =asthore=, this day,
Bride of my dreams, Maureen;
The smart of the bee that stung us, his honey must cure, they say,
Maureen!

I’ll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,
=Mavourneen=, my own Maureen,
When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arms’ embrace,
Maureen!

O where was the King o’ the World that day--only me,
My one true love, Maureen,
And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, =machree=,
Maureen!

The Sunburst.

[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER]

Through the midnight of despair, I heard one making moan
For her dead, her victors fall’n to gain all battles but her own;
I heard the voice of Ireland, wailing for her dead
With wailing unavailing, and sobbing as she said:
“In vain in many a battle have my heroes fought and bled,
Like water, in vain slaughter, my sons’ best blood been shed,
For my house is desolate, discrowned my head!

“In vain my daughters bear their babes--babes with the mournful eyes
Of children without father that hear strange lullabies,
Rocked in their lonely cradles by mothers crooning low,
And weeping o’er their sleeping, sad songs of long ago;
Whose eyes, as they remember, while the wailing night-winds blow,
Their nation’s desolation, in their singing overflow
With the overflowing of an ancient woe!”

O Mother, mournful Mother, turn from wailing for thy dead,
Grey Sibyl, still unvanquished, lift up thy dauntless head,
O thou Swan among the nations, enchanted long, so long
That the story of thy glory is a half-forgotten song,
Lift thy voice and bless the living, thy sons who round thee throng!
In the hour of their power they shall right thine ancient wrong;
In thyself is thy salvation, let thy heart be strong!

The Leaf of many Sorrows, wet with thy tears for dew,
Emblem of thy long patience; that hearts, as brave and true
As those united hearts of green, through infamy and scorn,
Through the nation’s tribulations, like Saints the cross, have worn,
We’ll blazon with the Sunburst, star of thy destined morn,
Set in hope’s hue, our ancient blue on royal banners borne;
And green the Shamrock long shall shine, no more forlorn!

Song.

[Sidenote: JOHN TODHUNTER]

Bring from the craggy haunts of birch and pine.
Thou wild wind, bring
Keen forest odours from that realm of thine,
Upon thy wing!

O wind, O mighty, melancholy wind,
Blow through me, blow!
Thou blowest forgotten things into my mind,
From long ago.

Winter Sunset.

[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]

Roses in the sky,
Roses in the sea;
Bowers of scarlet sky-roses;
Take my heart and me.

God was good to make,
This December weather,
All this sky a rose-garden,
Rose and fire together.

To the East are burning
Roses in a garden,
Roses in a rosy field,
Hesper for their warden.

Yonder to the West
Roses all afire,
Mirror now some rare splendid
Rose of their desire.

Pulsing deeper, deeper,
Waves of fire throb on,
Never were such red roses
At sunset or dawn.

Roses on the hills,
Roses in the hollow,
Roses on the wet hedges,
In the shining fallow.

West wind, blow and blow!
That has blown ajar
Gates of God’s great rose-garden,
Where His Angels are,

Gathering up the rose-leaves
For a shower of roses
On the night the Lord Babe
His sweet eye uncloses.

[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]

All the sky is scarlet
Flaming on the azure.
O, there’s fire in Heaven!
My heart aches with pleasure.

Leagues of rose and scarlet,
Roses red as blood:
All the world’s a rose-garden.
God is good, is good.

Shamrock Song.

O, the red rose may be fair,
And the lily statelier;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the very heart of me!

Many a lover hath the rose
When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows:
And in many a bower is heard
Her sweet praise from bee and bird.

Through the gold hours dreameth she,
In her warm heart passionately,
Her fair face hung languid-wise:
O, her breath of honey and spice!

Like a fair saint virginal
Stands your lily, silver and tall;
Over all the flowers that be
Is my shamrock dear to me.

Shines the lily like the sun,
Crystal-pure, a cold, sweet nun;
With her austere lip she sings
To her heart of heavenly things.

Gazeth through a night of June
To her sister-saint, the moon;
With the stars communeth long
Of the angels and their song.

But when summer died last year
Rose and lily died with her;
Shamrock stayeth every day,
Be the winds or gold or grey.

Irish hills, as grey as the dove,
Know the little plant I love;
Warm and fair it mantles them
Stretching down from throat to hem.

[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]

And it laughs o’er many a vale,
Sheltered safe from storm and gale;
Sky and sun and stars thereof
Love the gentle plant I love.

Soft it clothes the ruined floor
Of many an abbey, grey and hoar,
And the still home of the dead
With its green is carpeted.

Roses for an hour of love,
With the joy and pain thereof:
Stand my lilies white to see
All for prayer and purity.

These are white as the harvest moon,
Roses flush like the heart of June;
But my shamrock, brave and gay,
Glads the tired eyes every day.

O, the red rose shineth rare,
And the lily saintly fair;
But my shamrock, one in three,
Takes the inmost heart of me!

Wild Geese.

(A Lament for the Irish Jacobites.)

[Sidenote: KATHERINE TYNAN]

I have heard the curlew crying
On a lonely moor and mere;
And the sea-gull’s shriek in the gloaming
Is a lonely sound in the ear:
And I’ve heard the brown thrush mourning
For her children stolen away;--
But it’s O for the homeless Wild Geese
That sailed ere the dawn of day!

For the curlew out on the moorland
Hath five fine eggs in the nest;
And the thrush will get her a new love
And sing her song with the best.
As the swallow flies to the Summer
Will the gull return to the sea:
But never the wings of the Wild Geese
Will flash over seas to me.

And ’tis ill to be roaming, roaming
With homesick heart in the breast!
And how long I’ve looked for your coming,
And my heart is the empty nest!
O sore in the land of the stranger
They’ll pine for the land far away!
But day of Aughrim, my sorrow,
It was you was the bitter day!

Dreams.

[Sidenote: CHARLES WEEKES]

I troubled in my dream. I knew
The silent gates and walls.
Around me out of shadow grew
The steady waterfalls.
Afar the raven spot-like flew
Where nothing wakes or calls.

I fell on deeper trance. I was
Where all the dead are hid.
They dreamed. They did not sleep, because
They saw with lifted lid.
They worked with neither word nor pause:
I knew not what they did.

I stood there with the dead in hell
Dreaming, and heard no moan.
The light died, and the darkness fell
About me like a stone.
I woke upon the midnight bell
In God’s dream here alone.

Poppies.

[Sidenote: CHARLES WEEKES]

The sudden night is here at once:
The lost lamb cries and runs and stands,
For all the poppy cups are hands
To seize and take him when he runs.

The dusky cups are blood colour;
And like a cup of blood this one
To drink, and be with Babylon,
And love and kiss the lips of her.--

=Thy sins as snow!=--just then it burned
The dark--a flaming face and bust;
And just beneath here in the dust
The Scarlet Woman laughed and turned.

They went forth to the Battle, but they always fell.

[Sidenote: W. B. YEATS]

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World,
The tall thought-woven sails that flap unfurled
Above the tide of hours, rise on the air,
And God’s bell buoyed to be the waters’ care,
And pressing on, or lingering slow with fear,
The throngs with blown wet hair are gathering near
“Turn if ye may,” I call out to each one,
“From the grey ships and battles never won.
Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace,
For him who hears Love sing and never cease
Beside her clean swept hearth, her quiet shade;
But gather all for whom no Love hath made
A woven silence, or but came to cast
A song into the air, and singing past
To smile upon her stars; and gather you,
Who have sought more than is in rain or dew,
Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,
Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,
Or comes in laughter from the sea’s sad lips,
And wage God’s battles in the long grey ships.
The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,
To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell,
God’s bell has claimed them by the little cry
Of their sad hearts that may not live nor die.”

Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World,
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring
The bell that calls us on--the sweet far thing.
Beauty grown sad with its eternity,
Made you of us and of the dim grey sea.
Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,
For God has bid them share an equal fate;
And when at last defeated in His wars,
They have gone down under the same white stars,
We shall no longer hear the little cry
Of our sad hearts that may not live nor die.

The White Birds.

[Sidenote: W. B. YEATS]

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea,
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can pass by and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the
rim of the sky,
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that never may die.

A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew dabbled, the lily and rose,
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall
of the dew:
For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering
foam--I and you.

I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more,
Soon far from the rose and the lily, and the fret of the
flames would we be,
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea.

The Lake of Innisfree.

[Sidenote: W. B. YEATS]

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

II

SCOTO-CELTIC

(Middle Period)

From the “Sean Dana.”

Prologue to Gaul.

[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC]

How mournful is the silence of Night
When she pours her dark clouds over the valleys!
Sleep has overcome the youth of the chase:
He slumbers on the heath, and his dog at his knee.
The children of the mountain he pursues
In his dream, while sleep forsakes him.

Slumber, ye children of fatigue;
Star after star is now ascending the height.
Slumber! thou swift dog and nimble,--
Ossian will arouse thee not from thy repose.
Lonely I keep watch,--
And dear to me is the gloom of night
When I travel from glen to glen,
With no hope to behold a morning or brightness.

Spare thy light, O Sun!
Waste not thy lamps so fast.
Generous is thy soul, as the King of Morven’s:
But thy renown shall yet fade;--
Spare thy lamps of a thousand flames
In thy blue hall, when thou retirest
Under thy dark-blue gates to sleep,
Beneath the dark embraces of the storm.
Spare them, ere thou art forsaken for ever,
As I am, without one whom I may love!
Spare them,--for there is not a hero now
To behold the blue flame of the beautiful lamps!

Ah, Cona of the precious lights,
Thy lamps burn dimly now:
Thou art like a blasted oak:
Thy dwellings and thy people are gone
East or west, on the face of thy mountain,
There shall no more be found of them but the trace!
In Selma, Tara, or Temora
There is not a song, a shell, or a harp;
They have all become green mounds;
Their stones have fallen into their own meadows;
The stranger from the deep or the desert
Will never behold them rise above the clouds.

And, O Selma! home of my delight,
Is this heap my ruin,
Where grows the thistle, the heather, and the wild grass?

In Hebrid Seas.

[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC]

We turned her prow into the sea,
Her stern into the shore,
And first we raised the tall tough masts,
And then the canvas hoar;

Fast filled our towering cloud-like sails,
For the wind came from the land,
And such a wind as we might choose
Were the winds at our command:

A breeze that rushing down the hill
Would strip the blooming heather,
Or, rustling through the green-clad grove,
Would whirl its leaves together.

But when it seized the aged saugh,
With the light locks of grey,
It tore away its ancient root,
And there the old trunk lay!

It raised the thatch too from the roof,
And scattered it along;
Then tossed and whirled it through the air,
Singing a pleasant song.

It heaped the ruins on the land:
Though sire and son stood by
They could no help afford, but gaze
With wan and troubled eye!

A flap, a flash, the green roll dashed,
And laughed against the red;
Upon our boards, now here, now there,
It knocked its foamy head.

The dun bowed whelk in the abyss,
As on the galley bore,
Gave a tap upon her gunwale
And a slap upon her floor.

She could have split a slender straw--
So clean and well she went--
As still obedient to the helm
Her stately course she bent.

We watched the big beast eat the small--
The small beast nimbly fly,
And listened to the plunging eels--
The sea-gull’s clang on high.

We had no other music
To cheer us on our way:
Till round those sheltering hills we passed
And anchored in this bay.

Cumha Ghriogair Mhic Griogair.

(The Lament of Gregor MacGregor.)

[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC]

Early on a Lammas morning,
With my husband was I gay;
But my heart got sorely wounded
Ere the middle of the day.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri
Though I cry, my child, with thee--
Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,
Now he hears not thee nor me!

Malison on judge and kindred,
They have wrought me mickle woe;
With deceit they came about us,--
Through deceit they laid him low.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

Had they met but twelve MacGregors,
With my Gregor at their head;
Now my child had not been orphaned,
Nor these bitter tears been shed.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

On an oaken block they laid him,
And they spilt his blood around;
I’d have drunk it in a goblet
Largely, ere it reached the ground.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

Would my father then had sickened--
Colin, with the plague been ill;
Though Rory’s daughter, in her anguish,
Smote her palms, and cried her fill.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

I could Colin shut in prison,
And black Duncan put in ward,--
Every Campbell now in Bealach,
Bind with handcuffs, close and hard.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

When I reached the plain of Bealach,
I got there no rest, nor calm;
But my hair I tore in pieces,--
Wore the skin from off each palm!

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

Oh! could I fly up with the skylark--
Had I Gregor’s strength in hand;
The highest stone that’s in yon castle
Should lie lowest on the land.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

Would I saw Finlarig blazing,
And the smoke of Bealach smelled,
So that fair, soft-handed Gregor
In these arms once more I held.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

While the rest have all got lovers
Now a lover have I none;
My fair blossom, fresh and fragrant,
Withers on the ground alone.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

While all other wives the night-time
Pass in slumber’s balmy bands,
I upon my bedside weary,
Never cease to wring my hands.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC]

For, far better be with Gregor
Where the heather’s in its prime,
Than with mean and Lowland barons
In a house of stone and lime.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

Greatly better be with Gregor
In a mantle rude and torn,
Than with little Lowland barons
Where fine silk and lace are worn.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

Though it rained and roared together,
All throughout the stormy day,
Gregor, in a crag, could find me
A kind shelter where to stay.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri, etc.

Bahu, bahu, little nursling--
Oh! so tender now and weak;
I fear the day will never brighten
When revenge for him you’ll seek.

Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,
Though I cry, my child, with thee--
Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,
Yet he hears not thee nor me!

Drowned.

[Sidenote: LATER GAELIC]

No wonder my heart it is sore,
No wonder the tears that I weep;
My true love I’ll see him no more,
He lies fathoms down in the deep.

He lies fathoms down in the deep,
Where the cold clammy seaweeds abound.
How cruel thy wild waves to me,
O sea that my true love hast drowned!

O sea that my true love hast drowned,
Thou hast reft me of joy evermore;
Thy waves make me shudder with fear
As I listen and hear their wild roar.

My true love and I, hand in hand,
Often wandered the uplands among,
Where the wild flowers are freshest to see,
And the wild birds are freest of song;

But alas for the days that are gone,
Alas for my sorrow and me!
Alas that my true love is drowned
Fathoms down in the depths of the sea!

The Manning of the Birlinn.

The Sailing.

[Sidenote: ALEXANDER MACDONALD]

The sun had opened golden yellow,
From his case,
Though still the sky wore dark and drumly
A scarr’d and frowning face:
Then troubled, tawny, dense, dun-bellied,
Scowling and sea-blue,
Every dye that’s in the tartan
O’er it grew.
Far away to the wild westward
Grim it lowered,
Where rain-charged clouds on thick squalls wandering
Loomed and towered.
Up they raised the speckled sails through
Cloud-like light,
And stretched them on the mighty halyards,
Tense and tight.
High on the mast so tall and stately--
Dark-red in hue--
They set them firmly, set them surely,
Set them true.
Round the iron pegs the ropes ran,
Each its right ring through;
Thus having ranged the tackle rarely,
Well and carefully,
Every man sat waiting bravely,
Where he ought to be.
For now the airy windows opened,
And from spots of bluish grey
Let loose the keen and crabbed wild winds--
A fierce band were they--
’Twas then his dark cloak the ocean
Round him drew.
Dusky, livid, ruffling, whirling,
Round at first it flew,
Till up he swell’d to mountains, or to glens,
Dishevelled, rough, sank down--
While the kicking, tossing waters
All in hills had grown.
Its blue depth opened in huge maws,
Wild and devouring,
Down which, clasped in deadly struggles,
Fierce strong waves were pouring.
It took a man to look the storm-winds
Right in the face--
As they lit up the sparkling spray on every surge-hill,
In their fiery race.
The waves before us, shrilly yelling,
Raised their high heads hoar,
While those behind, with moaning trumpets,
Gave a bellowing roar.
When we rose up aloft, majestic,
On the heaving swell,
Need was to pull in our canvas
Smart and well:
When she sank down with one huge swallow
In the hollow glen,
Every sail she bore aloft
Was given to her then.
The drizzling surges high and roaring
Rush’d on us louting,
Long ere they were near us come,
We heard their shouting:--
They roll’d sweeping up the little waves
Scourging them bare,
Till all became one threatening swell,
Our steersman’s care.
When down we fell from off the billows’
Towering shaggy edge,
Our keel was well-nigh hurled against
The shells and sedge;
The whole sea was lashing, dashing,
All through other:
It kept the seals and mightiest monsters
In a pother!
The fury and the surging of the water,
And our good ship’s swift way
Spatter’d their white brains on each billow,
Livid and grey.
With piteous wailing and complaining
All the storm-tossed horde,
Shouted out “We’re now your subjects;
Drag us on board.”
And the small fish of the ocean
Turn’d over their white breast--
Dead, innumerable, with the raging
Of the furious sea’s unrest.
The stones and shells of the deep channel
Were in motion;
Swept from out their lowly bed
By the tumult of the ocean;
Till the sea, like a great mess of pottage,
Troubled, muddy grew
With the blood of many mangled creatures,
Dirty red in hue--
When the horn’d and clawy wild beasts,
Short-footed, splay,
With great wailing gumless mouths
Huge and wide open lay.
But the whole deep was full of spectres,
Loose and sprawling
With the claws and with the tails of monsters,
Pawing, squalling.
It was frightful even to hear them
Screech so loudly;
The sound might move full fifty heroes
Stepping proudly.
Our whole crew grew dull of hearing
In the tempest’s scowl,
So sharp the quavering cries of demons
And the wild beasts’ howl.
With the oaken planks the weltering waves were wrestling
In their noisy splashing;
While the sharp beak of our swift ship
On the sea-pigs came dashing.
The wind kept still renewing all its wildness
In the far West,
Till with every kind of strain and trouble
We were sore distress’d.
We were blinded with the water
Showering o’er us ever;
And the awful night like thunder,
And the lightning ceasing never.
The bright fireballs in our tackling
Flamed and smoked;
With the smell of burning brimstone
We were well-nigh choked.
All the elements above, below,
Against us wrought;
Earth and wind and fire and water,
With us fought.
But when the evil one defied the sea
To make us yield,
At last, with one bright smile of pity,
Peace with us she seal’d:
Yet not before our yards were injured,
And our sails were rent,
Our poops were strained, our oars were weaken’d,
All our masts were bent.
Not a stay but we had started,
Our tackling all was wet and splashy,
Nails and couplings, twisted, broken.
Feeshie, fashie,
All the thwarts and all the gunwale
Everywhere confess’d,
And all above and all below,
How sore they had been press’d.
Not a bracket, not a rib,
But the storm had loosed;
Fore and aft from stem to stern,
All had got confused.
Not a tiller but was split,
And the helm was wounded;
Every board its own complaint
Sadly sounded.
Every trennel, every fastening
Had been giving way;
Not a board remain’d as firm
As at the break of day.
Not a bolt in her but started,
Not a rope the wind that bore,
Not a part of the whole vessel
But was weaker than before.
The sea spoke to us its peace prattle
At the cross of Islay’s Kyle,
And the rough wind, bitter boaster!
Was restrained for one good while.
The tempest rose from off us into places
Lofty in the upper air,
And after all its noisy barking
Ruffled round us fair.
Then we gave thanks to the High King,
Who rein’d the wind’s rude breath,
And saved our good Clan Ranald
From a bad and brutal death.
Then we furl’d up the fine and speckled sails
Of linen wide,
And we took down the smooth red dainty masts,
And laid them by the side--
On our long and slender polish’d oars
Together leaning--
They were all made of the fir cut by Mac Barais
In Eilean Fionain--
We went with our smooth, dashing rowing,
And steady shock,
Till we reach’d the good port round the point
Of Fergus’ Rock.
There casting anchor peacefully
We calmly rode;
We got meat and drink in plenty,
And there we abode.

The Lament of the Deer.

(Cumha nam Fiadh.)

[Sidenote: ANGUS MACKENZIE]

O for my strength! once more to see the hills!
The wilds of Strath-Farar of stags,
The blue streams, and winding vales,
Where the flowering tree sends forth its sweet perfume.

My thoughts are sad and dark!--
I lament the forest where I loved to roam,
The secret corries, the haunt of hinds,
Where often I watched them on the hill!

Corrie-Garave! O that I was within thy bosom
Scuir-na-Làpaich of steeps, with thy shelter,
Where feed the herds which never seek for stalls,
But whose skin gleams red in the sunshine of the hills.

Great was my love in youth, and strong my desire,
Towards the bounding herds;
But now, broken, and weak, and hopeless,
Their remembrance wounds my heart.

To linger in the laich[24] I mourn,
My thoughts are ever in the hills;
For there my childhood and my youth was nursed--
The moss and the craig in the morning breeze was my delight.

Then was I happy in my life,
When the voices of the hill sung sweetly;
More sweet to me, than any string,
It soothed my sorrow or rejoiced my heart.

My thoughts wandered to no other land
Beyond the hill of the forest, the shealings of the deer,
Where the nimble herds ascended the hill,--
As I lay in my plaid on the dewy bed.

The sheltering hollows, where I crept towards the hart,
On the pastures of the glen, or in the forest wilds--
And if once more I may see them as of old,
How will my heart bound to watch again the pass!

Great was my joy to ascend the hills
In the cause of the noble chief,
Mac Shimé of the piercing eye--never to fail at need,
With all his brave Frasers, gathered beneath his banner.

When they told of his approach, with all his ready arms,
My heart bounded for the chase--
On the rugged steep, on the broken hill,
By hollow, and ridge, many were the red stags which he laid low.

He is the pride of hunters; my trust was in his gun,
When the sound of its shot rung in my ear,
The grey ball launched in flashing fire,
And the dun stag fell in the rushing speed of his course.

When evening came down on the hill,
The time for return to the star of the glen,
The kindly lodge where the noble gathered,
The sons of the tartan and the plaid,

With joy and triumph they returned
To the dwelling of plenty and repose;
The bright blazing hearth--the circling wine--
The welcome of the noble chief!

Ben Dorain.

[Sidenote: DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE]

The honour o’er each hill
Hath Ben Dorain;
Scene, to me, the sweetest still
That day dawns upon:
Its long moor’s level way,
And its nooks whence wild deer stray,
To the lustre on the brae
Oft I’ve lauded them.

Dear to me its dusky boughs,
In the wood where green grass grows,
And the stately herd repose,
Or there wander slow;
But the troops with bellies white,
When the chase comes into sight,
Then I love to watch their flight,
Going nosily.

The stag is airy, brisk, and light,
And no pomp has he;
Though his garb’s the fashion quite,
Never haughty he:
Yet a mantle’s round him spread,
Not soon threadbare, then shed,
And its hue as wax is red--
Fairly clothing him.

The delight I felt to rise
At the morning’s call!
And to see the troops I prize
The hills thronging all:
Ten score with stately tread,
And with light uplifted head,
Quite unpampered there that fed,
Fond and fawning all.

Lightsomely there came
From each clean and shapely frame,
Through their murmuring lips, a tame
Chant, with drawling fall.
In the pool one rolled a low--
With the hind one played the beau,
As she trotted to and fro,
Looking saucily.

I would rather have the deer
Gasping moaningly,
Than all Erin’s songs to hear
Sung melodiously;
For above the finest bass
Hath the stag’s sweet voice a grace,
As he bellows on the face
Of Ben Dorain.

Loud and long he gives a roar
From his very inmost core,
Which is heard behind, before,
Far and fallingly;
But the hind of softer notes,
With her calf that near her trots,
Match each other’s tuneful throats,
Crying longingly.

Her eye’s soft and tender ray
With no flaw in it,
O’er whose lid the brow is gray,
Guides her wandering feet:
Very well she walks, and bold,
Lively o’er the russet wold,
Tripping from her desert hold
Most undauntingly.

Faultless is her pace,
And her leap is full of grace--
Ha! the last when in the race
Never saw I her:

When she takes yon startled stride,
Nor once turns her head aside,
Aught to match her hasty pride
Is not known to me.

But now she’s on the heath,
As she ought to be,
Where the tender grass she seeth,
Growing dawtily;
The dry bent, the moor grass bare,
With the sappy herbs are there,
That make fat, and full, and fair,
Her plump quarters all.

And those little wells are nigh,
Where the water-cresses lie,
Above wine she likes to try
Their waves’ solacing;
Of the rye-grass, twisted rows,
On the rude hill side it grows,
Than of rarest festal shows,
Is she fonder far.

The choice increase of the earth
Forms her joyous treat;
The primrose, St John’s wort,
Tops of gowans sweet,
The new buds of the groves,
The soft heath o’er which she roves,
Are the tit-bits that she loves,
With good cause too.

For speckled, spotted, rare,
Tall, and fine, and fair,
From such food before her there
She grows sonsily;
And it is still the surest mean
To cure the weak ones and the lean,
Who for any time have been
Wasted, wan, and low.

Soon it would clothe their back
With the garb which most they lack--
That rich fat, which they can pack
Most commodiously.

She’s a flighty young hind
When leaves ward her,
Nearer her haunts where they bind
The brae border:
Lightsome and urbane
Is her gay heart, free of stain,
Tho’ rash head and somewhat vain--
Somewhat thoughtless.

Yet her form, so full of grace,
She keeps hiding in a place,
Where the green glen shows no trace
Of a falling off;
But she’s so healthy, and so clean--
So chaste where’er she’s seen--
Should you kiss her lips, I ween
’Twould not cause you shame.

Greatly prized is she, I know,
By the stag with crested brow,
Whose thundering hoofs around him throw
Such a saucy sound;
When with him she meets the view
Red and yellow in her hue,
And of virtues not a few
That belong to her,
Then too is she free of fear,
And in speed without a peer,
And the primest ear to hear
In all Europe’s hers.

Oh! how sweetly they embrace,
Young and fawning,
When they gather to their place
In the gloaming;

There, till silent night is by,
Never terror comes them nigh,
While beneath the bush they lie--
Their known haunt of old.

Let the wild herd seek their bed,
Let them slumber, free of dread,
Where yon mighty moor is spread,
Broad and brawly;
Where, with joy, I’ve often spied
The sun colour their red hide,
As they wandered in their pride
O’er Ben Dorain.

The Hill-Water.

From the rim it trickles down
Of the mountain’s granite crown
Clear and cool;
Keen and eager though it go
Through your veins with lively flow,
Yet it knoweth not to reign
In the chambers of the brain
With misrule;

Where dark water-cresses grow
You will trace its quiet flow,
With mossy border yellow,
So mild, and soft, and mellow,
In its pouring.
With no shiny dregs to trouble
The brightness of its bubble
As it threads its silver way
From the granite shoulders grey
Of Ben Dorain.

Then down the sloping side
It will slip with glassy slide
Gently welling,
Till it gather strength to leap,
With a light and foamy sweep,
To the corrie broad and deep
Proudly swelling;

Then bends amid the boulders,
’Neath the shadow of the shoulders
Of the Ben,
Through a country rough and shaggy,
So jaggy and so knaggy,
Full of hummocks and of hunches,
Full of stumps and tufts and bunches,
Full of bushes and of rushes,
In the glen,

Through rich green solitudes,
And wildly hanging woods
With blossom and with bell,
In rich redundant swell,
And the pride
Of the mountain daisy there,
And the forest everywhere,
With the dress and with the air
Of a bride.

Song for Macleod of Macleod.

[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]

Alone on the hill-top,
Sadly and silently,
Downward on Islay
And over the sea--
I look and I wonder
How time hath deceived me:
A stranger in Muile[25]
Who ne’er thought to be.

Ne’er thought it, my island!
Where rests the deep dark shade
Thy grand mossy mountains
For ages have made--
God bless thee, and prosper!
Thy chief of the sharp blade,
All over these islands,
His fame never fade!

Never fade it, Sir Norman!
For well ’tis the right
Of thy name to win credit
In council or fight;
By wisdom, by shrewdness,
By spirit, by might,
By manliness, courage,
By daring, by sleight.

In council or fight, thy kindred
Know these should be thine--
Branch of Lochlin’s wide-ruling
And king-bearing line!
And in Erin they know it--
Far over the brine:
No Earl would in Albin
Thy friendship decline.

[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]

Yes! the nobles of Erin
Thy titles well know,
To the honour and friendship
Of high and of low.
Born the deed-marks to follow,
Thy father did show,--
That friend of the noble--
That manliest foe.

That friend of the noble--
From him art thou heir
To virtues which Albin
Was proud to declare:
Crown’d the best of her chieftains
Long, long may’st thou wear
The blossoms paternal
His broad branches bare!

O banner’d Clan Ruari!
Whose loss is my woe,
Of this chief who survives
May I ne’er hear he’s low;
But, darling of mortals!
From him though I go,
Long the shapeliest, comeliest
Form may he show!

The shapeliest, comeliest,
Faultless in bearing--
Cheerful, cordial, and kind,
The red and white wearing,
Well looks the blue-eyed chief;
Blue, bright, and daring,
His eye o’er his red cheek shines,
Blue, bright, calmly daring.

His red cheek shines,
Like hip on the brier-tree,
’Neath the choicest of curly hair
Waving and free.
A warm hearth, a drinking cup,
Meet shall he see,
And a choice of good armour
Whoe’er visits thee.

Drinking-horns, trenchers bright,
And arms old and new;
Long, narrow-bladed swords,
Cold, clear, and blue--
These are seen in thy mansion,
With rifles and carbines, too;
And hempen-strung long-bows,
Of hard, healthy yew.

Long-bows and cross-bows,
With strings that well wear;
Arrows, with polish’d heads,
In quivers full and fair,
From the eagle’s wing feather’d,
With silk fine and rare;
And guns dear to purchase--
Long slender--are there.

My heart’s with thee, hero!
May Mary’s son keep
My stripling who loves
The lone forest to sweep;
Rejoicing to feel there
The solitude deep
Of the long moor and valley,
And rough mountain steep.

The mountain steep searching
And rough rocky chains;
The old dogs he caresses,
The young dogs he restrains:
Then, soon from my chieftain’s spear
The life-blood rains
Of the red-hided deer or doe
And the green heather stains.

[Sidenote: MARY MACLEOD]

Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe;
Then stand on the heather,
Thy gentle companions,
Well arm’d altogether,
Well taught on the hunter’s craft,
Well skill’d in the weather;
They know the rough sea as well
As the green heather!

III

MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY SCOTO-CELTIC

Monaltri.

[Sidenote: ANON.]

There’s a sound on the hill,
Not of joy but of ailing;
Dark-hair’d women mourn--
Beat their hands, with loud wailing.

They cry out, Ochon!
For the young Monaltri,
Who went to the hill;
But home came not he.

Without snood, without plaid
Katrina’s gone roaming.
O Katrina, my dear!
Homeward be coming.

Och! hear, on the castle
Yon pretty bird singing,
“Snoodless and plaidless,
Her hands she is ringing.”

An Coineachan--A Highland Lullaby.

Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,
Goiridh òg O, Goiridh òg O;
Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,
I’ve lost my darling baby O!

I left my darling lying here,
A-lying here, a-lying here;
I left my darling lying here,
To go and gather blaeberries.

I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,
The otter’s track, the otter’s track;
I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,
But ne’er a trace of baby O!

I found the track of the swan on the lake,
The swan on the lake, the swan on the lake;
I found the track of the swan on the lake,
But not the track of baby O!

I found the track of the yellow fawn,
The yellow fawn, the yellow fawn;
I found the track of the yellow fawn,
But could not trace my baby O!

I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,
The mountain mist, the mountain mist;
I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,
But ne’er a trace of baby O!

A Boat Song.

[Sidenote: ANON.]

Ho, my bonnie boatie,
Thou bonnie boatie mine!
So trim and tight a boatie
Was never launched on brine.
Ho, my bonnie boatie,
My praise is justly thine
Above all bonnie boaties
Were builded on Loch Fyne!
_Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn;
Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn.
Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn:
Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,
Thogadh taobh Loch Fin._

To build thee up so firmly,
I knew the stuff was good;
Thy keel of stoutest elm-tree,
Well fixed in oaken wood;
Thy timbers ripely seasoned
Of cleanest Norway pine
Well cased in ruddy copper,
To plough the deep were thine!
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._

How lovely was my boatie
At rest upon the shore,
Before my bonnie boatie
Had known wild ocean’s roar.
Thy deck so smooth and stainless,
With such fine bend thy rim,
Thy seams that know no gaping,
Thy masts so tall and trim.
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._

And bonnie was my boatie
Afloat upon the bay,
When smooth as mirror round her
The heaving ocean lay;
While round the cradled boatie
Light troops of plumy things
To praise the bonnie boatie
Made music with their wings.
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._

How eager was my boatie
To plough the swelling seas,
When o’er the curling waters
Full sharply blew the breeze!
O, ’twas she that stood to windward,
The first among her peers,
When shrill the blasty music
Came piping round her ears!
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._

And where the sea came surging
In mountains from the west,
And reared the racing billow
Its high and hissing crest;
She turned her head so deftly,
With skill so firmly shown,
The billows they went their way
The boatie went her own.
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._

And when the sudden squall came
Black swooping from the Ben,
And white the foam was spinning
Around thy topmast then,
O never knew my boatie
A thought of ugly dread,
But dashed right through the billow,
With the spray-shower round her head!
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._

[Sidenote: ANON.]

Yet wert thou never headstrong
To stand with forward will,
When yielding was thy wisdom
And caution was my skill.
How neatly and how nimbly
Thou turned thee to the wind,
With thy leeside in the water
And a swirling trail behind!
_Hò mo bhàta, etc._

What though a lonely dwelling
On barren shore I own,
My kingdom is the blue wave,
My boatie is my throne!
I’ll never want a dainty dish
To breakfast or to dine,
While men may man my boatie
And fish swim in Loch Fyne!
_Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn.
Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn.
Hò mo bhàta laghach,
’S tu mo bhàta grinn:
Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,
Thogadh taobh Loch Fin._

The Old Soldier of the Gareloch Head.

[Sidenote: JOHN STUART BLACKIE]

I’ve wander’d east and west,
And a soldier I hae been;
The scars upon my breast
Tell the wars that I have seen.
But now I’m old and worn,
And my locks are thinly spread,
And I’m come to die in peace,
By the Gareloch Head.

When I was young and strong,
Oft a wandering I would go,
By the rough shores of Loch Long,
Up to lone Glencroe.
But now I’m fain to rest,
And my resting-place I’ve made,
On the green and gentle bosom
Of the Gareloch Head.

’Twas here my Jeanie grew,
Like a lamb amid the flocks,
With her eyes of bonnie blue,
And her gowden locks.
And here we often met,
When with lightsome foot we sped,
O’er the green and grassy knolls
At the Gareloch Head.

’Twas here she pined and died--
O! the salt tear in my e’e
Forbids my heart to hide
What Jeanie was to me!
’Twas here my Jeanie died,
And they scoop’d her lowly bed,
’Neath the green and grassy turf
At the Gareloch Head.

[Sidenote: JOHN STUART BLACKIE]

Like a leaf in leafy June,
From the leafy forest torn,
She fell, and I’ll fall soon
Like a sheaf of yellow corn.
For I’m sere and weary now,
And I soon shall make my bed
With my Jeanie ’neath the turf
At the Gareloch Head.

Flower of the World.

[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]

Wherever men sinned and wept,
I wandered in my quest;
At last in a Garden of God
I saw the Flower of the World.

This Flower had human eyes,
Its breath was the breath of the mouth;
Sunlight and starlight came,
And the Flower drank bliss from both.

Whatever was base and unclean,
Whatever was sad and strange,
Was piled around its roots;
It drew its strength from the same.

Whatever was formless and base
Pass’d into fineness and form;
Whatever was lifeless and mean
Grew into beautiful bloom.

Then I thought “O Flower of the World,
Miraculous Blossom of things,
Light as a faint wreath of snow
Thou tremblest to fall in the wind:

“O beautiful Flower of the World,
Fall not nor wither away;
He is coming--He cannot be far--
The Lord of the Flow’rs and the Stars.”

And I cried, “O Spirit divine!
That walkest the Garden unseen,
Come hither, and bless, ere it dies,
The beautiful Flower of the World.”

The Strange Country.

[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]

I have come from a mystical Land of Light
To a Strange Country;
The Land I have left is forgotten quite
In the Land I see.

The round Earth rolls beneath my feet,
And the still Stars glow,
The murmuring Waters rise and retreat,
The Winds come and go.

Sure as a heart-beat all things seem
In this Strange Country;
So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream,
All things flow free.

’Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain,
In the Field and the Flood,
In the beating Heart, in the burning Brain,
In the Flesh and the Blood.

Deep as Death is the daily strife
Of this Strange Country:
All things thrill up till they blossom in Life,
And flutter and flee.

Nothing is stranger than the rest,
From the pole to the pole,
The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest,
The Flesh and the Soul.

Look in mine eyes, O Man I meet
In this Strange Country!
Lie in my arms, O Maiden sweet,
With thy mouth kiss me!

Go by, O King, with thy crownèd brow
And thy sceptred hand--
Thou art a straggler too, I vow,
From the same strange Land.

O wondrous Faces that upstart
In this Strange Country!
O Souls, O Shades, that become a part
Of my Soul and me!

What are ye working so fast and fleet,
O Humankind?
“We are building Cities for those whose feet
Are coming behind;

“Our stay is short, we must fly again
From this Strange Country;
But others are growing, women and men,
Eternally!”

Child, what art thou? and what am _I_?
But a breaking wave!
Rising and rolling on, we hie
To the shore of the grave.

I have come from a mystical Land of Light
To this Strange Country;
This dawn I came, I shall go to-night,
Ay me! ay me!

I hold my hand to my head and stand
’Neath the air’s blue arc,
I try to remember the mystical Land,
But all is dark.

And all around me swim Shapes like mine
In this Strange Country;--
They break in the glamour of gleams divine,
And they moan “Ay me!”

[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]

Like waves in the cold Moon’s silvern breath
They gather and roll,
Each crest of white is a birth or a death,
Each sound is a Soul.

Oh, whose is the Eye that gleams so bright
O’er this Strange Country?
It draws us along with a chain of light,
As the Moon the Sea!

The Dream of the World without Death.

Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping,
Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,
Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:

Crying aloud, “The Master on His throne
Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder,
And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.

And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth,
Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him,
Saying, ’Thy wanderings on earth are ended.’”

And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle
Even at the silver gates of heaven,
Drowsily looking in on quiet waters,
And puts his silence among men no longer.

* * * * *

The world was very quiet. Men in traffic
Cast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamen
Shivered to walk upon the decks alone;

And women barred their doors with bars of iron,
In the silence of the night; and at the sunrise
Trembled behind the husbandmen afield.

I could not see a kirkyard near or far;
I thirsted for a green grave, and my vision
Was weary for the white gleam of a tombstone.

But hearkening dumbly, ever and anon
I heard a cry out of a human dwelling,
And felt the cold wind of a lost one’s going.

One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell,
And faded in a darkness; and that other
Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish.

[Sidenote: ROBERT BUCHANAN]

One struck his aged mother on the mouth,
And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearthstone.
One melted from her bairn, and on the ground

With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling.
And many made a weeping among mountains,
And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken.

I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth,
Whose side rolled up from winter into summer,
Crying, “I am grievous for my children.”

I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean,
Crying, “Burial in the breast of me were better,--
Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.”

I heard a voice from out the hollow ether,
Saying, “The thing ye cursed hath been abolished--
Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!”

And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter,
And men and women feared the air behind them;
And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful.

* * * * *

Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain
I came upon a woman thin with sorrow,
Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull:

Saying, “O Angel of the Lord, come hither,
And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,
That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.

“I curse thee that I cannot look upon him!
I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!
Yet know that he has vanished upon God!

“I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier,
And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me;
And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.

“I put my silver mother in the darkness,
And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses,
And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.

“And green, green were their quiet sleeping places,
So green that it was pleasant to remember
That I and my tall man would sleep beside them.

“The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful,
For comfort comes upon us when we close them,
And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;

“And we can sit above them where they slumber,
And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,
And know indeed that we are very near them.

“But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful,
And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,
And bitter grow the silence and the distance.

“There is no space for grieving or for weeping;
No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,
And nothing but a horror and a blankness!”

* * * * *

Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hut
Raking the white spent embers with her fingers,
And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes.