I stood at Cavan o'er thy tomb, Thou spok'st no word through all thy gloom; O great, lost heir of the house of Niall ! I care not now whom Death may borrow, O child of heroes, heroic child! In place of feasts, alas! there's crying, My woe, was ever so cruel woe ? Thou wast skilled all straits to ravel, And thousands broughtst from death and cavil, -And thou with thy God! George Sigerson. CLXXXIV THE OLD COUNTRY NoT tasselled palm or bended cypress wooing Thine the weird splendour of the restless billow Spreads his grey wings upon the breezes cold, And we who draw our being from thy being, Droop with thy sorrows, brighten with thy mirth; O, from afar, with sad and straining eyes, Tired arms across the darkness and the foam The nurselings of thy moorlands and thy mountains, George Francis Savage-Armstrong. CLXXXV THE SONGS OF ERIN ('Music shall outlive all the songs of the birds.' -Old Irish) I'VE heard the lark's cry thrill the sky o'er the meadows of Lusk, And the first joyous gush of the thrush from Adare's April Wood; At thy lone music's spell, Philomel, magic-stricken I've stood, When, in Espan afar, star on star trembled out of the dusk. While Dunkerron's blue dove murmured love, 'neath her nest I have sighed, And by mazy Culdaff with a laugh mocked the cuckoo's refrain; Derrycarn's dusky bird I have heard piping joy hard by pain, And the swan's last lament sobbing sent over Moyle's mystic tide. Yet as bright shadows pass from the glass of the darkening lake, As the rose's rapt sigh will soon die, when the zephyr is stilled; In oblivion grey sleeps each lay that those birds ever trilled, But the songs Erin sings from her strings shall immortally wake. Alfred Perceval Graves. CLXXXVI THE RISING OF THE MOON (1798) 'O, THEN, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, tell me why you hurry so?' 'Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen ;' and his cheeks were all aglow: I bear orders from the Captain-get you ready quick and soon; For the pikes must be together at the risin' o' the moon.' 'O, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, where the gath'rin' is to be?" 'At the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me; One word more for signal token, whistle up the marchin' tune, With your pike upon your shoulder, by the risin' o' the moon.' Out from many a mud-wall cabin eyes were watching through that night, Many a manly heart was throbbing for the blessed warning light. Murmurs passed along the valleys, like the banshee's lonely croon, And a thousand blades were flashing at the rising of the moon. There, beside the singing river, that dark mass of men was seen Far above the shining weapons hung their own beloved Green. 'Death to every foe and traitor! Forward! strike the marchin' tune, And hurrah, my boys, for Freedom! 'tis the risin' o' the moon!' Well they fought for poor old Ireland, and full bitter was their fate; (0, what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of Ninety-Eight!) Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating hearts in manhood's burning noon, Who would follow in their footsteps at the rising of the moon! John Keegan Casey. CLXXXVII THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS (From the Irish of Angus O'Gillan) IN a quiet-water'd land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran's city fair; And the warriors of Erinn in their famous generations Slumber there There below the dewy hillside sleep the noblest Of the Clan of Conn, Each beneath his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon. There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses Now their final hosting keep. And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill, Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Thomas William Rolleston. CLXXXVIII SHAMROCK SONG O THE red rose may be fair, But my shamrock, one in three, 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, Like a fair saint virginal |