*O.5
0
rHM.ID
AR




oilOK












Attention Patron:
This volume is too fragile for any future repair.
Please handle with great care.
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN LIBRARY - CONSERVATION & BOOK REPAIR








LAYS AND LEGENDS, p t

OF


THOMON P.
WITH HISTORICAL AND TRADITIONAL NOTES.
BY
MICHAEL HOGAN,
"BARD OF TIIOMOND."


gRtn, Selfrt, anb (ampet (hbiftion.  1
D UBLIN:
M. H. GILL AND SON, 50 UPPER SACKVILLE-ST.
-   -    880.


[All rights reserevd.]




/ 1! 5'
II
H A


PRINTED BY M. H. GIT,! AND SON, 50 UPPEtR SACKVILLE-ST. DUBLIN.




IS
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR,
TO THE MOST NOBLE
(Mariline, lautinosse of INenwushrq,
IN GRATITUDE FOR HER LARGE-HEARTED
AND PRACTICAL SYMPATHY WITH
IRELAND'S
NATIONAL CAUSE.








INTRODUCTION.
-4--
IN submitting this new edition of native Songs,
Ballads, and Legends to the public, I merely wish
to introduce them as the offspring of national poetic
ardour.
In the succeeding pages the reader will find many
war-poems on the chivalrous valour of the noble Gael,
in the grand and proud old days of Royal Eire, when
the bard was the companion of the King, and gold
was less prized than song. I have also varied the
volume with some romantic Legends, founded on the
Fairy superstitions which our noble peasantry so
dearly love, and which have never failed to lend an
airy charm to Irish poetry. These Fairy pieces have
some slight traditional ground-work, but the superstructure belongs to the ideal region of Fancy, in
which I have dreamt and revelled whilst alone on
the bright green banks of the kingly Shannon, when
summer sunset was stealing away from the sleeping
flowers, and the dewy curtain of night lay on the
silent meadows.
Though a new book of Irish poetry, like all native
manufacture, may deserve patronage and support, yet
it too often receives neither, and therefore our fine
literature has almost become extinct, like our noble
language.
Many of the learned tribunals of my native land
1l




vi


INTRODUCTION.


have awarded the palm of merit to the produce of
my Parnassian farm; andtAhough I have had a late
and bad harvest, yet I fear I shall be early enough
for a worse market.
Twelve years ago I made my first advance in the
market of letters, and was remorselessly fleeced by a
Printer's devil, who stormed my air-castles, broke
through the entrenchments of Mount Helicon, sacrilegiously seized on the chattels of the sacred Nine,
and drove me from the ramparts without the honours
of war. I was not much disspirited at such an unexpected repulse, for poetry lost nothing of its enjoyment, and the Muse waved a bolder wing than ever,
and now I again enter the poetical arena to fight for
fresh laurel boughs. I know my rhyming tilts will
not please everyone-some may condemn and some
may applaud, but every honest lover of poor old Ireland will believe that I meant well for her sake.
To the lovers of Ireland's splendid traditions and
olden glories, I present this volume of " Lays and
Legends." They are not clothed with classic mantles,
neither do they shine with the gaudy tinsel of Art. I
offer them as the simple creations of a natural poetic
imagination; the outpourings of a heart glowing
with love for the noble sons and daughters of the
Emerald Isle. My proudest and best reward shall be
a place in my country's memory, when the Redeemer
will call her from the tomb of alien bondage.
The first edition of these Poems, which appeared in
1867, would have been a great success were it not for
the shameless and faithless conduct of the publisher,
who promised to have the book ready in three months,
but it was two years before I could get it out of his




INTRODUCTION.               vii
hands, and then only in unbound sheets. Consequently, the public grew tired of waiting, and the
subscribers angry and disgusted.
Some time previous I made another venture in
Dublin, and fared worse, for although I have the
publisher's memoranda for 7,000 copies printed and
published, yet I never received anything more substantial than the memoranda. If this is not profitable
business with a vengeance, I challenge all the enterprise on earth for success. I often think that I was
born to live on cobwebs and rainbows, and to have accounts nowhere only in JACK DELAY'S Bank, where I
never get principal or interest; but there's good times
coming, as the sailor said when he was drowning,
"I might catch a spar of the wreck yet."
THOMOND.








CONTENTS.
-4-e
LEGENDARY POEMS AND ROMANCES.
PAGE
The Fairy Maid of Garna, (O'Cearneigh).  62
Mary of the Mountain; or, Patt O'Leary and. the Go-l, C Castle of
Cullane Lake. Parts.,II., III., IV......  9
The Fairy Bridal. A Legend of Killeely........  24
King Donald's Daughter. A Legend of the Shannon......  45
Drunken Thady. A Legend of Limerick.........  74
Oebhinn, the Banshee, and the Great Earl of Thomond....... 103
The Spirit of Morogh, Son of Brian........ 108
The Bride of Clancuilen. A Fairy Romance of Cagigogunnell. CantosI., II., III., IV........  139
King Mahon and Oebhinn, the Banshee. A Legend of Craiglea... 207
The Living Skeleton. A Vision of the Famine Year, 1847... 215
The Rose of the Glen. A Legend of Cratloe......... 221
Garadh Earla and the two Coopers. A Legend of Loch Gur.. 245
The Fairy Hurling Match. A Legend of Mungret... 266
The Doom of Brian Roe. A Legend of Bunratty...... 22
The Warrior-Exiles. A Legend of the Clan Maclnnerney...... 289
The Spectre Bride. A Legend of Kinkora....... 302
The Pirate of Dunlica. A Legend of Corcovaskin...... 310
The Fate of Mahon and Eileen. A Legend of the O'Cearneigh... 316
The Fatal Ensign. A Legend of the Battle of Clontarf. Parts I., II.,
III....  328
The Water Spirit. A Legend of Castle Connell......... 333
Eithne's Vision as Queen of Tara............ 335
The Murdered Prince. A Legend of the House of Thomond... 337
Torlogh and Mary. A Legend of Quin Abbey........ 344
The Bride of the Suir. A Fairy Legend of,Cahir.... 358
The Last of the Royal O'Briens............ 389
The Silver Bells. A Legend ef St. Mary's Cathedral......
WAR-POEMS AND CHIVALROUS ROMANCES.
The Death of Morogh, at Clontarf.......            34
The Battle of Limerick. Achievements of the Women...           52
The Sarsfield Testimonial.........55
O'Neill's War-song......,....
The Battle of the Yellow Ford (Bealta-atha-buidh)...
O'Neill's Gathering.........         s.... -
The Battle of Clontibret...............
Cathol Mac Carrach........'.. 118
The Battle of Mommor....... '..




X                            CONTENTS.
P3A6L
Morogh, the Burner,... 120
The Battle of Fredlerieksburgh.....  12)4
The Fate of De Quiney..........*.  127
The Battle of Faneonrad.........              128
Bardie Meditations..l.....i0
The Battle of the Coroliabh (Curlew) Mountains                   13.
The Fairy B3attle of Knoc Feirin......               160
John 'Mitchell in Exile...........  166)
The Decath of King Crimthan........        17 2
The Battle of Crosm............ 171
Tise Heroine of the Breach of Limerick     -.176i
The City of the King-s (CaLshol)...*                           190)
Death Sung of the Hliards of Tyrone and Tyrconnell               19i1
The Battle of Snlchoid..209
The Battle of Coeorcsroe..........228
The War-song: of Clan Cuilen......      1.22) 0
Fireball M.acNasnara's Address to his Pistols.......2.37
The B~ards of Aincient Erin..... 270
The Battle of M~onabraher...........          271
Sarefield's Farewell to Limerick..*...        288
The Death of King Brian.........                   2 93'
The Bestruction of Kiukora,......                    307
The Battle of Tor- Conaima.....           322
The Battle of Thurles...      o. ).                            3
The Battle of Mlagressin, and the Murder of Brian Roe, at Bunratty.  3361
The Chief s of Lamb Laidir......  3U7
The Battie of Kilbarron,...     401.
The Battle of Bunratty......37
The Battle of Dyoert, and the total destruction of the Do Clares..441
The Battle of Cadmus                                *.417
POEMT-PICTURES AND SONGS OF THlE AFFECTIONS.
The Angel's Visit..............  22
The Shades of Monabraher......       *.       **   30
Come to the Motuntains.........                39
Shannon's Spangled Banks and Bowers.....  38
Gentle Nannie........                61
The Fenian Bride.........      *...  67
Come,. Gentle Spring........       *..  86
The Dark-haired Boy.............         89
The Woods and Waterfalls of Doona~ss.......   9
Rosree and its Traditions..........  105
Maggie Bhan.............       97
The Evicted Peasant.........           98
Irish Beauty and Eastern Penis..........  28
Young Ellen of the Grove............  29
The Peasant's Bridal   *...........  32
Brown-haired Jane      *...........               33
The Flower of Limerick...........44
Mary of Loch Reca..... 50
Song. of the Irish Emigrants...........  72
Maryanne's Charms...........                        73
The Nameless Patriot............ 116
Lovely Maryanug         *.......          11.  2
-Love.and Nationality.........       *  117
Mac Gennie's Djaughter........... 136
R. B.. Joyce's Poems............. 168
The Woodman's,.)aughter........ 169
The Bard ofihqllarrow.......I...    *.....% 185
Young Love............... 185




CONTENTS                              Xi
PAGE
The Beauties of Qnitsburgh......186
The Hills of Ballycar.......      189
1)rahatreen O'M1Nachree......  31
AddIress to the Shannon...........       413
Kathleen..*....        192
Soul-aspirations.........193
E'ileen's D)rears............ 205
The 13mnks of Avondoun.....  214
Thce Pawn of Ardere-an....231
The J3,ims of Blacc wsater..........233
The Cottan' Maid.........236
The E'migrant's Story.....                                     238
'lie I rsiceess F'inola.......       243
Niolt Th o m-hlt        * -       **....  248
Pa,ddy Matciarthy's address to his Sweetheart......253
The loes of Arderegaii..       *....               256
Mol Leehanlhin Bounn......  259
Caiptain Brennan, the Outlaw of the Hill......      260O
The luists 'u~dcn. to her Lover, ilecoe Bheuu Opae....261
Eileen Oge Maehree.....         *....         2t62
The Bteauties of Plassy, and Romance of Castle Troy..264
The Dark Summer of 179............ 276
The Patriot MIaideni......  286
Tipperary, my home.............. 287
The Peni of Parteesi......                 *.299
The Maiden's D)ream........... 298
A Visit to Cork,.........        309
A Midsummier Evening......           371
A Sunmner Love Dream.....*...                376
Youth's Green Spring.......*...   1
The Mountains...............37
Address to Aubrey do Vers.......... 338
The Peasaint to his Emigrant Daughter......... 393
The Oucitast................. 396
Mary O'Neill's Elopement............         398
The Bard's Protest......       *..  *.... 406
Tics Swavn of the Ayr.....6........ 123
Toie Exile's Eeturn............... 410
The ileauties of Dromohand...               *...... 423
Ycouing Anncie.................. 426
lice Butterfly.............. 427
Mannix the Coiner............. 434
The Bard and the Shannon............ 435
The Bard's Farewvell to the Shannon............ 438
REQUIE MS AND WREATHS FOR T11E DEAD.
King Brian's Lament for King Mahon.........  40
Ileqiciem1 for King Mahon, A Bardic Dirge......
The Death of Doiiovan, Son of Cabial, Slain in Single Combat by Morogh1, Son of Brian. A Bardie Dirge.........  49
Reqluiem for John Mlitchell............  84
A Mlother's Lamenct for her Insane D~aughter......  84
'The Widow's Lament..............  87
To thce Memory of "Una!I"............  98
The Grave of Seaan Dwee MaeNamara........ 118
A Dirge for the Dalcassians......... 121
Death-song of Eveleen MaeNamara.........      1.54
Lament for Edward Walsh........... 182,,
To the Memory of an Engghsh Friend....183'
To the Lily of Sunville..........                171
The Miser's Grave..........




Xii                        CONTENTS.
PAGE
A Mother at the Grave of her only Son....... 232
To the Memory of Caroline Mary Nixon......... 277
Lament for the Venerable Archdeacon Goold........ 278
The anniversary of his death............ 280
Lament of the Shannon.......... 291
Requiem for Torlogh O'Brien, King of Thomond...... 234
The Father's Lament for his Children............ 394
The Wail of Erin for William S. O'Brien........ 164
Lament for Thomas Francis Meagher....... 414
The Clan's Dirge around the Bier of Tiege O'Brien.... 419




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
MARY OF THE MOUNTAIN; OR, PATT O'LEARY,
AND THE GOLDEN CASTLE.
A LEGEND OF CULLANE LAKE* (CLARE).
PART I.
HIGH sung the lark-soft blew the gale,
Slow waved the birch wood's vernal shadows;
The honey dew lay on the vale,
The bee humm'd o'er the golden meadows;
Bright ran the stream, light danced the beam
Of morning on its purling splendour;
From hill and mound, gay nature pour'd
Her song of beauty sweet and tender.
Within the green heart of a wood,
Where gush'd a wildly-singing fountain,
Amid the flowery solitude
Lived dark-hair'd Mary of the Mountain!
And summer's leaves or winter's snows,
With sunny smiles had ever found her;
For Mary's heart was like the rose
That fill'd the woods with odour round her.
Love pencill'd beauty on her mien,
Her foot had all the spring-wind's fleetnet~
And Carrigcleena's serial Queen
Hath not such smiles of modest sweetness!
* There are many curious stories related by the local peasantry about
this wild and romantic Lake. As for myself, I was nearly deprived of tho
luxury of telling anything about it, as I narrowly escaped being drowned
there one fine morning while on a fishing excursion. Its depth is very
immense..         i
2




10           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
She look'd, as if the Fairy powers
Had lent her eyes their thrilling charm;
She blush'd, as if the young May flowers
Were glowing in her face and form.
But why, this morn, has Mary's face
Lost all its rose-bright smiles of grace?
Why droops she paler than the lily,
When biting north-winds chill the valley?
She sits upon a heathery mound,
Beside the streamlet's dreamy sound;
And like the gentle stars that keep
Their dewy watch o'er Nature's sleep,
Her large, blue, pensive eyes express'd
The tearful anguish of her breast.
For two long years, from day to day,
A Saxon Captain courted Mary;
But her young heart was given away,
With all its truth, to Patt O'Leary.
And Patt was Nature's Irish child,
With heart and spirit warm and grateful;
In sport the wildest of the wild,
In love and friendship, fond and faithful.
His step was proud-his form was high,His brow with manhood's glory bright'ning,
And from his wild, impassion'd eye,
Youth, fire, and vigour flung their lightning.
When Clare's swift hurlers swept the ball
Along the meadows, green and airy,
Your eye could mark, above them all,
The comely port of Patt O'Leary.
Impetuous, 'mid the rushing throng,
His blows, with sweeping might, resounded,
As from his hurley, tough and strong,
The ball, with hissing swiftness, bounded!
When, to the bagpipes' merry sound,
He danced the reel with Mountain Mary,
The peasant-girls all sigh'd around,
And flung their hearts at Patt O'Leary.
He thrash'd Red Cormac, from the glen;
He beat Con Clanchy in a wrestle,
And, for a wager of'Potheen,
He flung a sledge o'er Moneen Castle!
Down, in the ravine's bed of stone,
He pitched a Gauger, from the hill,
And broke the hero's collar-bone,
For seizing on Bill Daly's still;
And when Lord Saxon's agent came
Toýjisossess his cousin, Sally,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


11


Patt left a landmark on his frame,
As he descended to the valley.
In vain the Vultures of the Law
Pursued his steps thro' glen and meadow;
Soon as their scarlet coats he saw,
He vanish'd like a fairy shadow.
And often, in his spirit's play,
He lured them to the mountains, dreary;
And there, 'mid briers and rocks, all day,
They chased and curst wild Patt O'Leary.
At times he melted from their view;
Then, sudden, reappear'd before them;
And then, again, with wild halloo,
Danced proudly on the tall rocks, o'er them!
With straining arm, and sweating brow,
They climbed the cliffs brown forehead, airy;
Then from the glen's deep bed below,
Look'd up, and shouted, Patt O'Leary!
Thus fared the chase, 'till closed the day,
And Heaven's high star lamps all were lighted,
Then homeward Patt pursued his way,
And left them in the glens, benighted!
The loveliest maids of Emerald Clare
Put on their sunniest smiles to win him;
Where'er he moved, at dance or fair,
A host of beaming eyes were on him;
But, with affection's golden chain,
His heart was link'd to Mountain Mary,
And she paid back his love again,
And wildly worshipp'd Patt O'Leary!
But Mary's father liked him not;
He said some gloomy fate was o'er him;
And when he sought her mountain cot,
She mark'd ier sire grow dark before him.
Yet, when the Captain came the way,
How courteous was the old man's greeting;
A cloud lay on her heart all day;
She wept and trembled at their meeting.
This morn he sought their mountain home,
With harness d steeds and glittering carriage;
And Mary's brow was wrapt in gloom,
When he declared the day of marriage.
Wild, frenzied, from the cot she flew,
While gushing tears, in hot showers, d4own'd her!
Her hair, on every wind that blew,
Stream'd, like a midnight cloud, around her!
Far, in the forest's dark green vest,
She vanish'd like a thing of brightness!




12


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The dewy, spangled grass, scarce prest,
Danced playful in her track of lightness,
'Till fainting, from her tiresome flight,
She sunk beside the amber fountain;
There, lonely, as a bird of night,
Wept dark-hair'd Mary of the Mountain.
PART II.
The red-wing'd clouds of Summer eve
Slept on the sun's departing brightness,
And flung upon the Lake's pale wave
Their dreamy shades of aerial whiteness!
In pearly wreaths the dew-mists rose
On shadowy hill and vernal plain,
White as if Winter's vanish'd snows
Appear'd on Summer's robe of green!
The lark, with weary wings, descended
To nestle in the shamrock-sod;
His sweet day-hymn of praise is ended
In the blue hall of Nature's God!
The dim, white stars peep'd out above,
In growing beauty, one by one,
Winking their radiant eyes of love,
With joy, behind the dying sun!
The woods, round Cullane's fairy shore,
In their own shadows seem'd reposing;
On Nature's bosom every flower
Its eye, in dewy dreams, was closing;
All lay in sleepy loveliness;
No zephyr to the leaves was speaking,
As if the Night, in holiest dress,
An audience of her God was seeking!
Upon a flowery heather mound,
At twilight's close, sat Patt O'Leary,
His manly arm encircling, round,
The swan-like neck of Mountain Mary.
With pouting lip she told her tale,
And Patt vowed vengeance on the stranger;
And Mary strove, without avail,
To turn him from the deed of danger.
"Mary!" he said, "there's yet a hope,
" That wings my spirit with emotion;
"If you be true, let us elope
" Together o'er the Western Ocean.
"I'll drive the cow to Tulla fair,"Go cheap or dear, I care not whether;"And if you wish to meet me there,
"We'll quickly take the road together.
"If you refuse me to proceed,
" You'll be the bride of Captain Frontry;



LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
"Bad luck to all his foreign breed,
" They've brought misfortune on the country.
"Say will you wed that blood-stain'd brute,
" Or fly from him with Patt O'Leary?
"Decide at once, and tell the truth,
"Will you be mine? oh! faithful Mary!"
Then Mary paused, and wept awhile,
Her fears in one tear-gush were vented;
And, with a mingling blush and smile,
Gazed on her lover, and-consented!
With mutual vows and mix'd delight,
Chasten'd and purified by sorrow,
They fondly parted for the night,
To meet more happy on the morrow.
Patt drove the cow, at twelve o'clock,
To meet the fair by morning early;
Wrapt in his shapely home-made frock,
He trudged behind her, whistling cheer'ly.
Thro' wild Cullane's embowering shadesBeneath the silver starlight, sleeping,
He pass'd-the trees, with silent heads,
Upon his darken'd path hung weeping.
He turn'd to see the Lake's blue plain,
With all its emerald glories round it;
But there appear'd a grand demesne,
By towering elms and poplars bounded.
Majestic, in the star-gemm'd sky,
The ash and pine their green crowns blended,
And from the mantling bushes nigh,
The nightingale's wild song ascended!
The breathings of the moorland thyme
Stole on his senses, sweet as honey;
All look'd so radiant and sublime,
He thought the face of night grew sunny.
The silvery tone of streams he heard
Resounding in the arbours, splendid,
And when a breath the tree-tops stirr'd,
A shower of honey-drops descended.
He look'd at every stately tree,
He peep'd thro' every shaded alley;
And far around, as eye could see,
The place seem'd one enchanted valley!
He check'd poor careless drimin's speed,
And promised her a hearty flaking,
Because she did not stop to heed
The observations he was making!
Enraged, he aim'd and flung his stick,
It flew-with whizzing force resounding

13




14


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And struck her heels-she gave a kick,
And thro' the tangled fence went bounding!
"Oh! holy Saints!" in mad despair,
He mutter'd, as the beast deserted;
" Sure, if the owner finds her there,
" 'Tis to the Pound she'll be transported!"
With one quick, active, manly bound,
He clear'd the thorny hedge behind her,
And swiftly ran, and searched around
The spacious grassy lawn, to find her.
But as he stray'd the glades among,
New scenes of startling wonder found him;
And heavenly sights and sounds of song,
As born of magic, rose around him.
His way was lost-his cow was goneA strange sky seem'd to glitter o'er him;
Where'er he turn'd, or wander'd on,
A splendid desert spread before him.
He paused-and to retrace his track
Commenced, then stood again astounded;
For as he sought the pathway back,
He went astray, yet more confounded.
He leant against a giant tree,
And gazed around, confused and weary;
Oh! bitter was his agony,
To think of disappointing Mary!
Again he tried to wander back,
And lo! among the sylvans, gliding,
He saw a horseman, dress'd in black,
At headlong speed, against him riding!
" Oh! Virgin! am I dreaming now?"
He murmur'd, staring at the stranger;
"My curse upon that thieving cow
" That led me to this place of danger!"
But as he wail'd his luckless lot,
And all his sad mishaps recounted;
The horseman gallop'd to the spot,
And from his mighty steed dismounted.
The horse ran free-Patt kept his ground,
As if chain'd down by spell of Fairy;
The rider, courteous, turn'd around,
And said-" Good-morrow, Patt O'Leary!"
"Good-morrow kindly, sir!" said Patt,
Who felt new courage kindling o'er him;
And pulling off his tight straw hat,
Made a respectful bow before him.
"Who owns this place, sir?" Patt went on,
" I did not think the whole creation"Earth, Ocean, Heaven, Stars, Moon, or Sun,"Could show me such a fine plantation.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
"I've seen resplendent Eden Vale,-*
" Of Thomond-vales the loveliest one;"I've seen Adare and Innisfail,t
"Ballingar and Cahircon!
" Yet all their charms in one united,
"Were but a desert waste to this;
"Never was human eye delighted
"By such surpassing loveliness!"
The dark man answered, with a nod,
" Friend, there is truth in thy opinion;
"No mortal foot, save thine, e'er trod
" The splendid soil of my dominion!
"I am the lord of all you see,
"And here are scenes still more exquisite;
"I'll show thee all-now follow me"And thou shalt ne'er regret thy visit!"
PART III.
Along a green path, side by side,
Thro' mazy shades, they went together,
While to his questions, Patt replied,
'Bout Ireland's state,-the crops and weather;
And as they farther on advanced
O'er lawn and woodland's rich expansion,
A thousand sparkling glories danced
Around them, as they near'd the mansion.
Patt stopp'd--then moved, with easy stride,
His eye in wild amazement ranging;
And as he gazed, on every side,
With brighter charms the scene was changing.
At last the splendid fabric shone
Full on his sight, so brightly beaming;
It seem'd one solid diamond-stone,
With varied hues of radiance gleaming.
Such grandeur and magnificence
Was never seen by eye of mortal;
Patt almost lost his sight and sense
Before the dome's resplendent portal!
High rose to Heaven the glittering towers,
Their radiant windows all seem'd blazing
Bright, as when May day's bridal flowers
Upon their bridegroom Sun are gazing.
But yet the wonder greater grew,
For, looking towards the roof that crown'd it
He saw, 'mid wavy shadows blue,
Unnumber'd fishes darting round it:
* Eden Vale, near Ennis, in the county of Clare. 't The Island of Innisfallen, in the Lake of Killarbxey.


15




16           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And, high above his head, a boat
(He plainly heard the oar-strokes splashing),
In the clear star-light seem'd to float
Thro' the calm night-sky swiftly dashing.
He saw the limpid azure riven
At every dip the oars were taking;
And the whole burning plain of heaven
In rapid fiery rings seem'd breaking!
On the vast jewell'd steps that led
To the majestic Hall of Wonder,
Patt stood half-dazzled and half dead,
Venting his wild surprise in blunder:" 0 Lord! where am I?-what's this here?" Or am I 'witch'd, or am I raving.?
" I wish there were a doctor near
" To tell me if I'm dead or living!"
The dark man waved him to the door,"Come on! why do you thus refuse, sir?"
Said Patt, "Before I soil the floor;
" Allow me to take off my shoes, sir!"
"Come on!" the gloomy stranger roar'd,
And frowning stamp'd with kindling fury;
Patt started like a frighten'd bird,
And enter'd in a reckless hurry.
But here a blinding rush of light,All objects in its splendour bright'ningFlash'd full upon his wounded sight,
Like one fierce burst of midnight lightning.
" Am I in Heaven or Hell?" he scream'd,
With both his hands his eye-balls shading;"Come on!" the mystic host exclaim'd,
" And tread the footsteps of my leading!"
Patt thro' his fingers glanced around,
And saw-with dread refulgence lightingThe Battle of Clontarf, renown'd,
And all the Chieftains fiercely fighting!
Here royal Brian stood to view
The movements of the action, gory,
And there the regal Sunburst flew
Above the field, in flaming glory!
He heard the blows-a thunderous floodHe saw the mighty princes dying;
And thro' the crimson haze of blood
He mark'd a sea of weapons flying.
He saw the helmets burst like glass,
And chasms in the ranks enlarging;
Where Morogh and the troops of Cas
Upon the Danish host were charging.
His bosom kindled at the fight,
He clapp'd his hands in mad distraction;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And, burning with a fierce delight,
He made a rush to join the action;
The dark man laugh'd and held him tight," Friend, tho' that scene, in thy conjecture,
"Seems real and living to thy sight,
"'Tis but a false and airy picture!"
He said, and drew him farther on,
Where-towards the hall's illumined borderThe glorious Siege of Limerick shone,
Towers, walls, and hosts in martial order.
Loud roar'd the red besiegers' guns;
The crashing wall is rent asunder,
And o'er the ruin Limerick's sons
Opposed the flaming metal thunder!
Here Sarsfield-like a god of fire
Amid a conflagration stridingThro' wreck and flame, and havoc dire,
Upon the battle's wave seem'd riding!
The women cheer'd, and charg'd the foe,
With stones and crags, and broken bottles;
While guns and bayonets, to and fro,
Were dash'd about, and smas'd, like wattles.
He saw the ramparts, in a blaz,
All waving as if built on swivels;
While Brandenburghers, in amaze,
Were blown away, like flaming devils.
Patt could contain himself no more:
"Well done! by heavens!" he fiercely shouted;
" Ho! by the thundering god of war!
"The cursed foreign thieves are routed!
"Take off your hold, sir-let me go!
"My madden'd brain on fire is swimming,
"I'll whack a hundred of the foe!
"For God's sake, let me help the women!"
Again the dark man laugh'd aloud"'Bold youth-I never knew a bolder"There's other sights which, if I show'd,
"Would drive to madness the beholder!"
He turn'd from the martial scene,
And walk'd along the hall of brightness;
With walls of dazzling golden sheen,
And marble-floor of glittering whiteness.
On, on they went thro' beaming rooms,
With ceilings, like the Spring sky, glowing,
And scented, as if May's perfumes
Dropp'd there from every sweet flower blowing.
They reach'd a lofty corridor,
So stately, spacious and extended,


17




18


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Patt look'd amazed! behind--beforeBut could not reckon where it ended.
Here at one side, on seats of gold,
All Thomond's minstrel band was shining,
And at the other-proud and boldHer Chiefs and Princes sat reclining.
His cleaving battle-axe and spear,
Stood bright beside each mighty leader;
A Herald cried, " there's no one here,
" But those that scourged the false Invader!"
And as he spoke, a dreadful clang
Of swords and shields, was heard to rattle;
The Bards all struck their harps and sang
The soul-inspiring " Eye of Battle i"
High swell'd the ringing martial sound,
A thousand tones in one uniting;
The Chiefs inflamed, grew furious round,
And shook their arms in act of fighting.
Patt felt the overpowering spell
Drown all his senses in its ocean;
He reel'd around, and down he fell,
And fainted, with his fierce emotion!
PART IV.
When Patt recover'd from his swoon,
Collecting all his rambling senses!
Still on his hearing burst the tune,
And on his sight the dreadful Princes.
The dark man smiled, and raised him up,
Presenting him a jewell'd meader;*
Patt quickly seized the glittering cup,
And toasted every Dalcas Leader.
A cheer, from all the regal throng,
Burst, like the wind in winter dreary,
And rung the shining halls along,
With "Bravo! Bravo! Patt O'Leary!"
The dark man whisper'd in his ear,
" Brave youth, as you're inclined to marry,
'There's idle gold in cart-loads here,
" Now take as much as you can carry!"
Patt look'd around him, with a smile,
And saw an open room revealing
The precious metal, pile on pile,
Bright rising to the painted ceiling.
With one quick, wild, electric leap
He bounded towards the treasure glowing,
* Ancient Irish drinking cup.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


19


And, diving in the dazzling heap,
Fill'd hat and pockets overflowing.
" Make haste! young friend," the dark man cries,
"I mark the golden sun's returning,
"'And in the misty eastern skies
" I see the virgin star of morning.
" Take my best blessing on thy head!
" Go and be happy, Patt O'Leary!
"And don't for once, delay to wed
"My great-granddaughter, Mountain Mary!
" That nobly-born Dalcassian girl" It pierced my anxious heart with sorrow,
"To think she'd wed a Saxon churl,
"And stain the blood of MacNamara.*
"Go, take her to thy manly breast,
" Despite of her degenerate father;
"And long may you and she be blest,
" In wedlock's faithful bonds together.
"My name were clouded with disgrace,
" If she were doomed to wed with any,
"The sordid, treach'rous, perjured race
"That robb'd us of our patrimony!"
He said, and led him from the hall,
Just as the morn began to render
Her first, faint golden tinge to all
The rich surrounding scene of splendour.
An odorous wind the tree-tops stirr'd,
Flinging their honied drops before him;
And in their boughs, each radiant bird,
Appear'd a singing jewel, o'er him.
Patt glanced around, with many a shirk,
And stroked his beard, and rubb'd his throttle;
Drew out his knife and fell to work
At cutting down a hazel wattle.
The dark man spoke, with flashing brow"Hurry, lest danger may come o'er thee!
"Lo! yonder is thy lucky cow,
"Go quick, and drive her on before thee!"
Patt gazed at drimin, with surprise,
As from the mead he ran to charge her,
She look'd so monstrous, in his eyes,
No three fat cows, in Clare, were larger.
* A tradition, current in Clare, relates that Sheeda MacNamara. one of
the Lords of Clancuilen, was carried into Cullane Lake by a lake horse
which he had caught and tamed for his own use. This romantic transaction
occurred when the chieftain was on a hunting excursion in the districts
adjoining the lake. The rock from which the unnatural animal leaped,
oearing his rider to a watery grave, is still pointed out by the peasantry,
having the impression of horse-shoes visible on its surface. It is believed
that he resides in the lake, like O'Donoghue in that of Killarney; and the
legend farther says, that Sheeda will yet appear at the head of a Dalcasian army, to assist in the regeneration of Ireland. There are more delusive
ipropbwis of this sort in circulation.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The silent glory of the dawn
Blush'd thro' the white mist's floating curls,
Covering alley, grove, and lawn,
With molten gold and liquid pearls!
Breathing a melody of joy,
Thro' amber beds the streams were flowing,
Appearing to the wondering eye,
Like silver in a furnace, glowing.
Large, radiant flowers laugh'd off their sweets
To gales, in love around them dying,
And 'mid the sylvan, grand retreats,
Myriads of airy harps were sighing!
Such were the scenes Patt's eye beheld,
The heaven-created valley leaving;
He mark'd, with brimful sorrow fill'd,
The trees a lasting farewell waving!
Now towards the entrance gate he drew,
The dark man flung it wide asunder;
Patt, blind with gushing tears, pass'd thro',
And heard it close in clanging thunder.
He look'd behind-the scene was goneA thrill of wonder gather'd o'er him;
For, nothing save the blue Lake shone,
With all its silver curls, before him.
Was it a splendid dream of youth?
No; let the sneering world doubt him,
For he had tokens of its truth,
In golden evidence, about him!
Was he not independent now?His bosom swell'd with lofty pleasure,
As thinking where, or what, or how,
He might expend his ample treasure.
He twirl'd his hazel in the air,
And felt as playful as a fairy,
As off he tramp'd to Tulla fair,
To meet his darling Mountain Mary.
He wonder'd why his beard had grown,
In one short night, so large and lengthy;
It seem'd as if 'twere never mown
During his days, for summers twenty.
When he arrived at Tulla fair,
He sold his cow, and sought his Mary;
And half the boys and girls of Clare,
Rush'd to shake hands with Patt O'Leary.
" Arrah! where were you, this whole year, Patt?
" Oh I welcome home 1 you darling jewel!
"Twelve months away-by this and that" You've treated your poor Mary cruel!"




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
"Where is my Colleen?" Patt replied,
Wheeling his stick and wildly leaping;
"I'm here!" the joyful maiden cried,
Clasping his outstretch'd hand, and weeping.
"Oh! Patt! mo bochaill, tell me now!
"'Where did you go? why did you leave me?
"I thought you wouldn't break your vow"I thought you never would deceive me!"
He gazed, astonish'd, at the maid,
His sparkling blue eyes stared and started;
"Why, zounds! sure 'twas last night," he said,
"Since, at the heather bank, we parted!"
"'Twas last night twelve months!" Mary cried,
"Ask all your friends, the Macs and Learys;
"And sure 'twas rumour'd, far and wide,
"That you were taken by the fairies!"
"Faith! 'tis a year or more, at least,
" Since you were miss'd!" said Darby Drury:
"By heaven! I wouldn't b'lieve the Priest!"
Roar'd Patt, with one wild burst of fury.
"Mary, my darling Colleen Oge!
"In joy or grief, you're always pleasant;
"When did you see that Saxon rogue?
" Or is he in the fair at present?"
"He's at the fair!" the maid replied,
"I saw him lately, with my father;
"Near yonder meadow's dewy side
" They met and talk'd, an hour, together;
"My father, on my marriage bent,
" Press'd me, with many a soft persuasion;
"But I refused to give consent,
" With many a tear and sly evasion!
"He swore, he'd force his stern command,
"To make me wed a heartless 'ruffian;'
"But, ere I'd give the churl my hand,
"My bridal bed would be the coffin!'
" Mary!" said Patt, before we part,
"This very day we shall be wed;
"And for their plans to break your heart,
"I'll break the Saxon fellow's head!"
Into a tent he shoved the crowd,
A roaring scene of mirth begun;
Tom Ryan tuned his bagpipes loud,
And played the soothing Drinan Donn;
Patt pranced with Mary, up and down,
And startled pipes and piper fairly;
'You squeaking devil, change your tune" Give us ' The Wind that shakes the Barley!'
The Captain furiously rush'd in,
And fiercely swore-"By heavens, Mary!


21




22


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


"I'll shoot you dead, if once again
"I see you with that scamp, O'Leary!"
Roar'd Patt-" You sordid, heartless brute;
" That never had a manly feeling!
"Take a return of your salute!"
He said, and knock'd the Captain reeling.
His servant to the barrack ran,
Proclaiming the eventful story;
Out rush'd the redcoats, every man,
With bayonets fix'd for war and glory.
At once a conflict scour'd the fair!
Sticks flew, as if a sudden storm
Had blown a forest thro' the air;
On every side inflicting harm;
Foreheads were scalp'd, and heads were whack'd,
Eyes bump'd, and arms dislocated;
Faces tattooed, and noses crack'd,
And friends and foes alike prostrated.
Patt, with his wattle of the Lake,
Clear'd the whole fair-green, in a minute;
A foeman fell, at every flake,
As if a ten-horse power was in it.
The Captain's foil'd-the close of night
Beheld the Reverend Father Cleary,
Reading the sacred nuptial rite
For honest Patt and faithful Mary.
THE ANGEL'S VISIT.
IN the calm, still haze of a sweet spring eve,
When the dew-pearls whiten'd the plain;
I sat on the bank, where the fairies weave
The gossamer's spangled chain;
While the stream croon'd a hymn by the shore's green rim
Where virgin spring-buds listen'd
'Mid the vernal blades, and their roseate heads
With crystal circlets glisten'd!
The sun's red ring in the dreamy West,
With a saffron veil was shaded;
And his burning crown, as he sank to rest,
To a glittering ember faded;
While behind me, in the dark North skies,
Was a lovely rainbow glowing;
With cloudlets, steep'd in its triple dyes,
Round its diamond crescent flowing.
And that heavenly crescent grew and glow'd
With a richer and purer ray,
Like a diadem dropp'd from the brow of God,
While watching His angels' play.


i11




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And the saffron veil which the sun had worn,
With a ruddier gold-tinge shone;
Like the crimson glance of a wintry morn,
When the frosty mists are gone;
And the hills-the grand eternal hillsHave their beautiful snow-crowns on.
My spirit was steep'd in the sunset charm,
And I saw, 'mid the yellow gloaming,
A glorious white-robed maiden form
Out of the sun-mist coming!
And she floated along over field and wood,
With her snow-cloud garment splendid;
Till before me in the blue air she stood,
Above the calm meadow, suspended.
The wavy rings of her glistening curls
Fell down, like a star-beam's glow,
On the dazzling cluster of rose-hued pearls
That burn'd on her robe of snow,
Whose billowy folds, like a sunburst grand,
Far under her feet were waving;
Till she seem'd 'mid a sparkling surge to stand,
With its foam-fringe round her heaving.
Long, long ago, in my youth's May hours,
When the dreams of my soul were bright;
I flung her one of my heart's wild flowers
That grew in her beauty's light;
But she died ere this mournful Earth had given
One tear her young eye to gem;
For her beautiful sisters above in heaven,
Ask'd God to call her to them.
With the glow of Paraidise in her eyes,
And its love on her sweet face playing;
She linger'd, above me in the skies,
From the Land of the angels straying.
For she came to show me a glimpse of the joy
Which God gives the virtuous-hearted;
Then she sail'd, like a white star, back to the sky,
And thro' its gray shadows departed.
As o'er a deep lake floats a beauteous swan,
Thro' aerial mist she sped;
And smiling look'd up as she glided on,
Mid the splendour that round her spread;
Along the galaxy's snowy height,
On a silver line she trod,
O'er the rainbow's purple rim of light,
On her way to the Palace of God.


23




24


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


THE FAIRY BRIDAL.
A LEGEND OF KILLEELY.
O'ER thy waves, lordly Shannon, the May moon is high,
And the stars, round her silver throne, dance in the sky
On green Monabraher the cold dew is white,
And Killeely's tombs peep thro' the gray mist of night.
No signs of existence the stillness divide
From the gloomy churchyard to the dark river side;
Save the shriek of the owl or the lone night-winds' sigh,
Or the hoarse, hollow croon of the stream rushing by.
The motionless shadows lie silent and deep,
As the dark "narrow house" where the dead is asleep;
And the ghastly plains, steep'd in the moon's hazy sheen,
Seem changing to pearl their garments of green.
But, who on the silent shore wanders alone,
And wrings his pale hands, with a lo0w pensive groan,
Looking towards the churchyard where the blue meteors shine?
'Tis Cathol MacCurtin,+ the Bard of O'Brien.
Ah! well the beholder might read in his face
The heart-rooted sorrow that banish'd his peace;
Deep sorrow for Ellen, the loveliest maid
That e'er in the dust of Killeely was laid.
When the youths and the maidens, last sunny May morn,
Held their summer sports under the fragrant white thorn;
They crowned gentle Ellen their beauteous May Queen,
And a lovelier or fairer one never was seen.
But a chilly cloud suddenly darken'd the sun,
And a cold, gloomy squall shook the trees, and was gone;
And young Ellen was lifted above the green plain
On the wings of that weird blast, and dash'd down again.
Then motionless on the damp sward she reclined,
With a mist on her eyes, and a cloud on her mind;
And her voice had a dreary sepulchral tone,
As if that wild squall had just left her its own.
Her weeping companions assisted her home,
And laid her to rest in her white cottage-room;
* The fields of Killeely are traditionally celebrated as favourite haunts of
the Fairy tribe.
t Sir Walter Scott, in his notes to Rokeby, speaks of MacCurtin as a
minstrel of high ability. He was Bard to Donough O'Brien of Thomond,
but'on the submission of that chief to the English power, MacCurtin
indignantly satirised his degeneracy of spirit and quitted his house.
O'Brien, wrought to passion by the severity of the satire, vowed vengeance
on the spirited Bard, who flew for protection to MacCarthy, prince of
Desmond, and received honour and support at the hands of that noble and
generous Chieftain. Some time after, O'Brien met the Bard, and a reconciliation was the result of the meeting. He died in.':9 after the "Flight
of the Earls," and at the time of the wholesale Cications of the finest
lands of Ireland.                      -,f   '
Ni  - -


~ /




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


25


But ere the sun sank to his ocean repose,
The caoine, for the lovely departed one, rose.
And the matrons, who scatter'd wild flowers on her bed,
Declared that they knew not the face of the dead.
And, an herb-woman said that in Greenaun's lone dell
The beauteous young Ellen was living and well;
That the power of the Fairies the dear one convey'd
To their monarch, who long was in love with the maid;
That the pale wither'd corpse, which was deck'd with such
care,
Was a fairy, instead of the maiden, left there.
And, whoever would watch for nine nights, on the plain,
By the river, would rescue young Ellen again.
And, each night, since the coffin was laid in the grave,
Her lover has stray'd by the wild river-wave;
With his heart's weary hope in dark war with despair,
Expecting his Ellen would come to him there.
But the dim moonlight fog, and the sad bird of night,
And the cold stars, were all that appear'd to his sight;
The river roll'd on, with its deep sullen tone,
And the landscape slept, 'round it, all lovely and lone.
Now, the ninth weeping night, o'er the broad Shannon, threw
Its mist-skirted shadows of silver and blue;
And the fallen clouds mantled the river and plain,
From lonely Killeely to shady Parteen.
The Aurora Borealis was shooting on high
Its arrows of flame in the North's sullen sky.
And the moonbeam, that on the cold river-haze shone,
Like a broad silver belt, o'er the waters was thrown.
The bell has toll'd twelve, and the world is at rest,
And the white moon has travell'd half-way to the West;
And a tall female figure appears by the tide,
But, her step leaves no track on the bank's dewy side;
And her thin airy robe looks so white and so cold,
The light of the moon seems to freeze in each fold.
Her person speaks beauty, her bearing is proud,
And she moves like the shade of a golden May cloud.
Yet her dim, aerial form no shadow hath cast,
And, the dew lies unstirr'd on the grass where she pass'd.
And, Cathol springs forward the fair one to greet,
But he stands as if magic had fetter'd his feet.
And his hair grows erect, and his blood seems to freeze,
For, it is not his own gentle Ellen he sees;
But, one whose dark'shadowy grandeur of face
Resembled the deep solemn aspect of space,
Thro' the parted clouds seen, on a cold night of snow,
When Earth lies in silence and whiteness below.
And her voice-like the wind on a blue autumn-hill,
Sighing o'er the brown fern-was dismal and shrill.




26            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
" Young Minstrel of Thomond's green valleys! by me,
i  Thy Ellen commissions a message to thee;
She bids thee, conducted by me, to repair
To the grand Fairy hall of the Palace of Air;
And bear her away from the spells of the King,
Ere he puts on her finger the bright wedding ring!"
Then, Cathol replied-" Oh! whoever thou art,
Conduct me, at once, to the maid of my heart;
Where'er be her dwelling, in air, earth, or sea,
Tho' life were the forfeit, I'll go there with thee!
From my home, by the clear-flowing Fergus, I strayed,
To the banks of the Shannon, to woo the young maid;
But since the sweet colleen was stolen away,
The sky is my roof and my couch is the clay;
In O'Brien's proud hall there's no sweet voice of song,
And the angry Chief wonders what keeps me so long!"
Then, she laid on his arm her chill snowy hand,
And lifted him up from the green dewy strand;
As the hawk bears the lark, or an eagle a hare,
She upheld him, and bore him along thro' the air;
Towards the old ruin'd Church of Killeely* she bends,
And on the green skirt of the graveyard descends.
And Cathol stood gazing, in voiceless surprise,
Where a palace, in glory, arose on his eyes;
Its windows and walls were with diamonds illumed,
And its halls with the brightest of roses perfumed;
The towers were like crystal, and rising so high,
Their tall heads were lost in the blue of the sky.
The pillars were silver, the ceilings rich coral,
The doors purest gold, and the floor whitest pearl;
The walls, like a spring-sky, transparently blue,
Let the light of the moon and the star-lustre thro'.
Thro' the rich halls of splendour the minstrel was led
To a pompous saloon where a banquet was spread;
The tables were flaming with silver and gold,
And so laden with dainties, no more could they hold.
Ladies and Lords of distinction were there,
With bright looks of pleasure, that never knew care;
And Heroes that oft led the battle's advance,
And, white-headed Ollamhs, and Knights of the lance.
* The ancient church of Killeely was founded by St. Leila, the sister of
St. Munchion. It stood near the north-west bank of the Shannon, in the
County of Clare, and not far from the western suburbs of Limerick. There
is not a vestige of the old church remaining. Cromwell dismantled it, and
used the stones in erecting forts while besieging Limerick. Her sister, Rose,
Wlt the little Church of Kilrush, now known as Old Church, the residence
W the Ron. Robert O'Brien; and her younger brother, Quaan, built the
venerable Church of Kilquaan, commonly known as Parteen. In Killeely,
lie interred the remains of the great Irish Historian, Sylvester O'Halloran.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.              27
There were dancing and laughing, and music and wine,
And robes flashing rich with the wealth of the mine:
And healths drank, and songs sung, and high toasts proposed,
And war feats recited, and love feats disclosed.
So vast was the number of guests in that hall,
His dazzled eye fail'd to distinguish them all;
But many he knew, whose cold ashes were laid,
For years, in the dark silent house of the dead;
Noble chiefs slain in battle, and maids who died young,
Whose biers he attended-whose requiems he sungWere all there, as blooming, elated and gay,
As if Life gave new beauty and fire to their clay.
He had seen in MacCarthy's high palace of pride,
Gallant chieftains and lords at the banquet preside;
He had seen beauteous women and chivalrous men,
In the old regal halls of renown'd Inchiquin.
He had been, in his travels, thro' rich Inisfail,
In the grand festive mansion of kingly O'Neill:
But never, till now, did his wonder-struck sight
Behold an assemblage so gorgeous and bright.
The Red Hand of Nial and the proud Flag of Clare,
With their mottoes "Lamh Dearg" and "Lamh Ladir," were
there;
And the Sunburst, that Brian to victory bore,
Flash'd between, with its radiant field sprinkled with gore.
And the Bard, as the old banners glanced on his view,
Wildly shouted, " Lamh Dearg! and Lamh Ladir! Aboo!"*
At once, to their feet, all the nobles upsprung,
And the hall with the thunder of clashing steel rung;
And the banners were grasp'd, and each Knight struck his
targe,
And the wild ringing " Bara Boo" sounded the charge;
But, a sage-looking herald, with beard white and long,
Leapt amongst them, and cool'd down the fire of the throng.
Then, the solemn and shadowy Spirit that led
The steps of the Bard to the halls of the Dead;
Caught up his right hand and poured out on its palm
A sweet fairy ointment, of magical balm;
And pointed to where, by the King's jewell'd throne,
A large golden harp on the crystal wall shone;
With those words written o'er it, in letters of light,
Which were traced by the hand of some star-haunting sprite;
" Whoever shall strike this great Harp's magic string,
Shall vanquish the power of the dread Fairy King!"


* The war.cries of the O'Neills and the O'Briens.




28           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Then, Mac Curtin, embolden'd, press'd on thro' the hall,
Amid bright ranks of ladies and nobles, and all;
And advanced to the foot of the diamond-built throne,
Where the large golden harp on the crystal wall shone.
On that throne sat the monarch, resplendently crown'd,
With his marshals, and nobles, and heralds, around;
On his left his high-gifted Ard Filea was seen,
On his right sat young Ellen, elected his Queen;
The Bard made obeisance, and bowed himself down,
The King, in acknowledgment, bent his rich crown;
But Ellen, alternately blush'd, and grew pale,
And shaded her face in her white bridal veil.
MacCurtin still kept on the gold harp his glance,
The guards drew their swords and oppos'd his advance;
And the noise of the revelry ceased thro' the hall,
And, they sat as if terror had frozen them all.
The Bard never heeded but stretch'd forth his hand,
And took down the instrument, radiant and grand;
And touched its weird chords, whose wild, wonderful sound
Made the towers and the shining halls tremble around;
The guests started up and looked on, in surprise,
With their wrapt, listening souls rushing out from their eyes,
While the Bard struck the magical strings to the tune
Of that angel of harmony, " Eilleen Aroon "
Fixed as statues stood herald, and noble, and knight,
And the ladies fell off in a swoon of delight;
And Ellen flung by her rich diadem of pride,
And sprung from the throne to her loved Cathol's side,
Who clasp'd her, and cried out, "Oh! King! be it known,
Thy spells are subdued, and this maid is my own!"
Then the monarch grew wrathful, and leaped from his throne,
And broke the gold harp of the wonderful tone;
A murmur arose, and a shadow of gloom,
Like a thundercloud, swept o'er the sheen of the room.
The crow of a cock on the night-gale was heard,
The palace thrice rock'd, and the lights disappear'd;
And a voice cried aloud, " It is day! it is day!"
And the guests rush'd, confusedly and wildly, away.
The rich diamond walls into vapour were thrown,
And Cathol was left, with his Ellen, alone.
IRISH BEAUTY AND EASTERN PERIS.
AI. -" Send round the wine."
OH! I think, when I see thy bright amber locks stream,
Like the light sunset haze, o'er the snow of thy breast,
Of )~AosePeris of love that our Bard, in his dream,
#ad eeinini-the rich pearl-isles of the East.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


29


But if ever a Peri, of beauty and light,
Delighted to play 'mid the beams of the moon;
I'd swear thou wert one, had I seen thee, at night,
Mid the odours of May or the roses of June.
Had his wizard-eye seen the young dawn of thy smilesIn thy springday of beauty-he never would roam
To sing Peri-spells in the East's pearl-isles,
(   And forget he had Peris more lovely at home.
j  He may boast of the beauty that smiles in the East!
Yet we know not what dross may be mix'd with the ore
But here, in our own sunny Isle of the West,
We have beauty and virtue-could angels have more?
Yes! virtue as pure as the morning's first gleam!
And lips rich and sweet as the flowers of the grove;
And eyes breathing spells in their heart-melting beam!
And bright faces made to the image of love.
Then drink to our own Irish girls, and pray
That the sun of their beauty may never have night;
But shine on undimm'd thro' their life's rosy day,
With the snow of their virtue still pure in its light.
YOUNG ELLEN OF THE GROVE.
How blushing and bright the calm, sweet, summer morn
Beholds her red face in the stream's glossy sheen;
The light zephyrs breathe on the white flowering thorn,
And waste all its sweets round the dew sheeted green.
The lark pours his hymn 'mid the clouds' yellow splendour
The brown willow nods o'er the river's blue rim;
The wild rose peeps out from its brier-throne, so slender,
With the weight of its dewy crown bending its stem.
Bloom on, ye young flowers, in the fields' vernal shadows!
Sing on, ye wild songsters, to nature and love!
'Twas here 'mid the bright summer light of those meadows,
I first saw young Ellen, the Queen of the Grove.
White was her breast of love, red was her lip above,
Rich was her cheek, like a flower in full blow;
Graceful and bright o'er her eye's dancing light
Rose her brow, like a lily bent over asloe.
" Queen of the sunny locks! hear me! oh, hear me!
Wert thou sent to the earth on a mission of love?
What news from the angels? oh! sweet one, come near me1'
And tell me some tale of thy sisters above 1"




30            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIfOMOND.
One kind smile I wanted-the favour was grantedThen off thro' the wild-flowers she sprung, like a roe;
And the daisy-bells sweet seem'd to gaze at her feet,
Admiring their shape, and comparing their snow.
When Nature all glowing with sunshine and showers,
Awoke from the couch of her wintry repose;
She smiled on the green earth, and forth blush'd the flowers,
She gazed on young Ellen, and painted the rose.
M ONABRAHER."
AIR.-" Garnavilla."
FAIRY shades of Monabraher!
Airy meads of Monabraher!
There the skylark pours his earliest song,
To welcome spring in Monabraher.
Oh! many a lovely summer's eve,
Whilst fell the sunset's deepening shadows;
I lingered by the pale blue wave,
To breathe the sweetness of thy meadows.
Fairy shades of Monabraher, &c.
'Twas there my heart's first dream of love
Took many a fairy-wing'd transition;
And wild imagination wove
Her sunny webs of golden vision.
And when my young eye beauty sought,
'Twas in thy airy shades I saw her;
And there my wrapt soul kindled thought
That burst to song in Monabraher.
Fairy shades of Monabraher, &c.
Of all the sun-bright summer scenes
That smile round Shannon's pleasant river;
Woodclad hills and shamrock plains,
In Nature's beauty rich for ever:
There's none can yield my heart such joy
As Monabraher's meadows bowery;
There Love and Fancy lit my eye.
And Nature taught me lessons flowery.
Fairy shades of Monabraher, &c.
* Moina-m-brathar, i.e., the Friars' Bog. It formerly beloe d to the
Dominicans, and was the scene of a great battle, a descriptiowrlI.'hich is
to be found in this volume. Some years ago this historie plain was
beautified by Robert Hunt, Esq., J.P., of Limerick. He planted it with
a great number of trees, which give it a fine woodland appearance.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.


31


DRAHERIN 0 MACHREE.*
AIR.-"' Draherin 0 Machree."
I GRIEVE when I think on the dear happy days of my youth,
When all the bright dreams of this faithless world seem'd truth;
When I strayed thro' the green wood, as gay as a midsummerbee,
In brotherly love with my Draheria 0 Miachree!
Together we lay in the sweet-scented meadows to rest,
Together we watch'd the gay lark as he sung o'er his nest,
Together we pluck'd the red fruit of the fragrant hawtree,
And I loved, as a sweetheart, my Draherin 0 Machree!
His form was straight as the hazel that grows in the glen,
His manners were courteous, and social, and gay amongst men;
His bosom was white as the lily on summer's green leaHis God's brightest image was Draherin 0  lMachree!
Oh! sweet were his words as the honey that falls in the night,
And his young smiling face like the May-bloom was fresh, and
as bright;
His eyes were like dew on the flower of the sweet apple-tree;
My heart's spring and summer was Draherin 0 Machree!
He went to the wars when proud England united with France,
His regiment was first in the red battle-charge to advance;
But when night drew its veil o'er the gory and life-wasting fray,
Pale, bleeding, and cold lay my Draherin 0 Machree!
Oh! if I were there, I'd watch over my darling's last breath!
I'd wipe his cold brow, and I'd soften his pillow of death;
I'd pour the hot tears of my heart's melting anguish o'er thee!
Oh! blossom of beauty! my Dralerin 0 Machree!
Perhaps, in his death-pangs, he wish'd that his loved one were
near
To clasp his cold hand, with a fond-breathing prayer, and a tear!
As he gasp'd all neglected, with none but his Maker to see,
And pity, my poor dying Draherlin 0 MNachree!
Now I'm left to weep, like the sorrowful bird of the night,
This earth and its pleasures, no more shall afford me delight;
The dark narrow grave is the only sad refuge for me,
Since I lost my heart's darling-my Draherin 0 lMachree!
My soul has exhausted its treasure of tears for my love!
He comes to my dreams, from his home in the regions above;
I long for the hour when my grief-worn spirit is fi-ee,
To meet in those regions my Draherin 0 Machree!
* Little brother of my heart.
t Referring to the Battle of Inkerman, where this young Irishmai




32


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


THE PEASANT'S STORY.
WHEN showery's April's golden sky
O'er Nature's birth shed tears of joy!
I strayed a happy, careless boy,
By Garna's fairy river:
My days were pearls in Time's bright flood,
And my heart was like the honey bud,
Fresh opening in the vernal wood,
By Garna's fairy river.*
But Love's young footstep left its trace
Upon the calm dew of my peace,
Since first I saw sweet Peggy's face,
By Garna's fairy river.
May morning, with her misty curls,
Bright beaming on her throne of pearls,
Could only peer my queen of girls,
By Garna's fairy river.
Sweet was the hour, and bright the day,The corn waved an emerald sea,When Peggy gave her heart to me,
By Garna's fairy river.
Her wedding guests were love and truth;
Her bridal hall, my humble hut;
Her dow'ry, beauty, health, and youth;
By Garna's fairy river.
Like dewdrops on the shamrock sod,
Our simple hearts with one light glow'd;
We lived and loved, and thwpk'd our God!
By Garna's fairy river.
To know the world we had no wishOur neighbours were the lark and thrush;
Our summer shade, the flowering bush,
By Garna's fairy river.
Thro' winter's showers and summer's sun,
Our peaceful thread of life we spun;
And honest was the bread we won
By Garna's fairy river:
But tyranny our poor hut found,
And razed its clay walls to the ground;
Oh! God, what tears our young hopes drown'd?
By Garna's fairy river.


* Literally O'Cearneigh.    It flows thro' Six-mile-Bridge into the
Shannon, below Bunratty Castle.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
That lowly hut to us had been
As good as court to King and Queen;
While love and peace endear'd the scene
By Garna's fairy river.
Grief laid my blue-eyed Peggy low;
To lords and laws I turn'd a foe,
And slew the author of our woe,
By Garna's fairy river.
BROWN-HAIRED         JANE.
AIR.-" 'Gra Machree."
THE Moon behind the Cratloe hills
Has hid her silver horn;
And o'er the dewy summer-woods
Appears the yellow morn.
The skylark high in heaven's blue fields,
Sings sweet his early lay;
And Nature in her vernal arms
Has clasp'd the bright young Day.
Oh, kingly Sun! that brightens heaven
And drinks the sparkling dew I
And spreads a golden robe of light
Upon the mountains blue:
Yet, linger in thy radiant course
Along the Western main!
And fling thy glory round the bark
That bears my Brown-hair'd Jane!
Among green Meelick's dewy fern,
In life's young dawn, we play'd;
Her smiles were like the rosy beams
That gild the green wood shade;
Her eye was clearer than the spring
That feedslthe woodland rills;
Her step was lighter than the haze
That veils the autumn hills.
Her hand was like the daisy's rim;
Her robe of stainless white;
Her brow like summer's moonlight-mist
On Shannon's wave, at night;
Her cheek was softer than the dew
On Coonagh's twilight plainYou'd think that Nature in a dream
Conceived my Brown-hair'd Jane.
There's many a radiant maiden-flower
In Cratloe's mountain-shades;
But she, the bright queen-rose of all,
Is gone from Meelick's meads;


33




34           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And summer now looks on those fields,
As if their sunny green
Had lost its May-bloom glow, and died
With grief for Brown-hair'd Jane.
Among green Meelick's airy bowers
Her homely father dwell'd;
Till one, he deem'd a kindred friend,
Usurp'd the lands he held;
Then for Columbia's distant wilds
He took the western main;
And far from Meelick's rural shades
He bore my Brown-hair'd Jane.
THE DEATH OF MOROGH.
DARK Prince of the Dalgais! high offspring of Heber!
Nerve of brass, never weary of battle's fierce labour!
Thou, in whose presence the mighty stood trembling,
When hosts for the red work of death were assembling!
As the burning flash leaps from a thunder-cloud horrid,
And shatters to fragments the mountain's black forehead;
Thus thro' the fierce battle-surge burst thy dread form,
With the strength of the flash, and the sweep of the storm.
'Round thy red path the brass-coated giants lay riven,
With their blood-oozing death-wounds wide-gaping to heaven
Thro' all the long day, 'mid the iron surge heaving,
Thy axe of destruction was crashing and cleaving;
While, with wild eyes dilating, the fear-stricken foeman
Stood pale in amaze at thy strength superhuman;*
He thought that some fire-arm'd Spirit of wonder,
Leap'd down on his ranks, from the house of the thunder.
Strong as the ocean-cliff-fleet as the beagle,
Fierce as an angry god-proud as the eagle,
Thou wert on that grim day of bloodshed and ruin,
When hosts lay like grass that the mower is strewing;
When kings from the height of their glory were tumbled,
And proud heads of tribes in the lowly dust humbled;
Thou hast stood like a hill, while the forests, that crown'd it,
All blasted and broken, lay prostrate around it.
'Mid the bursting of ranks and the smashing of armour,
Thy axe hiss'd and tore, as the plough of the farmer
Drives on thro' the field, the brown stubble upturning;
Or the rush of the flame when a city is burning.
* Tradition relates that many of the Danes, on beholding the dreadful
havoc and carnage committed by Morogh, at the Battle of Clontarf, stood
paralysed with amazement. It is also said that the stroke of his battle-axe
was heard distinctly, by spectators, ringing above the tumult and clash of
the conflict.




SLAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


35


In the charge of the giants, thy step was the proudest;
'Mid the thunder of weapons, thy blow rung the loudest;
And thy steel made the gaps in the bleeding hosts deeperTheir squadrons were corn, but thou wert the reaper.
To the cool spring the warrior retires from the slaughter,
And bathes his swell'd hand in the crystal-bright water;
That hand in whose might lay the fate of a Nation,
The fortune of battle-all Erin's salvation.
On his armour the blood of the sea-kings is streaming,
His fire-flashing eyes, like two meteors, are gleaming:
With a thousand bold sword-strokes his cuirass is batter'd,
And the plume of his helmet hangs broken, and shatter'd.
With the rush of a whirlwind, he's back to the battle,
Hark! the clang and the crash of his blows, how they rattle;
Lo! the clouds of the combat the fierce chief environ
With a deluge of blood, and a tempest of iron;
Pile on pile, the invaders fall cloven before him,
Behold, where he fights, a thick blood-mist is o'er him;
See round him the swords, how they dance, flash, and quiver,
In one leaping flood, like the fall of a river,
Hast thou heard the ice-mail of the winter-lake roaring,
When a thick shower of hail on its surface is pouring;
While the thawing snow-flood, from the white hills, sweeps
o'er it,
And bursts the cold doors of its bondage before it;
The waves dande, like spirits of freedom new-risen;
And fling to the shore the gray wreck of their prison.
So burst the mail'd ranks where fierce Morogh rush'd thro'
them,
So the iron-clad sea-giants groan'd as he slew them.
The silver-hair'd Ruler of Erin, stands gazing
On that death-cover'd plain, where the combat is blazing;
And he sees the dread war-axe of Satric the valiant,
Hewing down the tall ranks of Clan Eoghain* the gallant;
And he cries, "Lo, yon giant! my son, go defeat him!"
And Morogh obeys, and springs forward to meet him;
He drives thro' the war, with the rush of the thunder;
And, thro' helmet and armour, cleaves Satric asunder.
The sun to the ocean's red wave is retiringpAnd the battle still rages with wrath unexpiring;
But the chiefs of the north, with the jackets of mail,
Are all smash'd by the axes of mighty Clan Tail;t
* The Eugenians, clans of South Munster, of the stock of the MacCarthy
More, descended from Eugene orfOwen More, who conquered " Conn of the
Hundred Battles," and compelled him to divide the country equally between
them.
t The Dalcassians, descended from Cormac Cas, the brother of Owen
More.




36


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


With their huge frames divided, they lie in grim ridges,
Like oaks split asunder by strong iron wedges.
On their mail, hack'd and shatter'd, their heart's blood is
crusting,
And their weapons, beside them, lie broken and rusting.
By a mound of slain heroes, whose blood-gouts were raining,
The fierce Morogh stands, 'gainst the horrid pile leaning;
His right hand-no longer his country's protectionIs swoll'n and powerless, from dealing destruction;
He glares all around, with the eye of a lion,
From the host of Clan Tail to the tent of King Brian;
And his face, like a spirit's, with lightning seems burning,
For the red scale of victory, for Erin, is turning.
The Prince* of the Sea-Robbers stands to survey him,
He sees him disabled, and rushes to slay him;
With war-axe uplifted and flashing, he came on,
With the stride of a god, and the frown of a demon;
Morogh grasps the strong chief, with his left hand upswings
him,
And shakes off his armour, then prostrate he flings him;
Press'd the sword~thro' his frame-but the Dane, ere he died,
Grasp'd the skian of great Morogh, and opened his side.
As falls a round tower by a thunder-bolt riven,
When the Lord, in his wrath, scatters lightning thro' heaven;
From its site, with a circle of dark oaks surrounded,
It shrinks from the rage of the heaven that crown'd it.
Thus stretch'd on the plain, by his foeman's side, dying,
The glory and hope of Mononia is lying;
His eye with the last spark of valour is blazing,
And still on the breast of the battle he's gazing.
Wrap his cochal around him, his death-wound to cover!
Hide his fall-keep your tears, till the combat is over!
Bear him off on your shields to the tent of his father,
As they lived, let them die in their glory, together.
To the hearts of the mighty their fall shall bring sorrow!
All Erin shall weep for the heroes to-morrow.
No more shall their right hands be lifted to save her!
And clothe her with glory, and crush her enslaver!
Dread bcleaver of armies-red plague of invaders!
Strong rock of Mononia's fierce legions and leaders!
How may I describe the wild anguish and sorrow,
When the news of thy fall had arrived at Kinkora?
* Anrudh, Prince of Denmark. This mighty chief was clad from ankle
to head with heavy brass armour, which Morogh shook off his body, as described in the text.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


37


Where the Bards, who assembled to hail thy returning,
Flung away their gold harps, and shriek'd wild with their
mourning;
While Tail's royal maids smote their bosoms of whiteness,
And tore from their tresses the diamonds of brightness.
Thou hast fallen, with thy ripe fruit of glory around thee,
At the moment when victory was rushing to crown thee;
When Death, like a fierce wolf by slaughter o'erfeasted,
Grew sick with the life-blood thy dreadful hand wasted.
Thy steel on the red plain left many a sleeper,
The harvest is gather'd, but where is the reaper?
Woe! woe to Leath Mogha-woe! woe to Leath Cuinn!*
The victory has cover'd all Erin with ruin.
Must the brave troops of Thomond return without thee       '
That strode to the combat, like tigers, about thee?
And scour'd the dread field, with the bright Sunburst o'er them,
Each a sea-wave, and you, like a tall ship, before them;
Oh! fierce was their battle, when Morogh began it,
Their axes would shatter a mountain of granite;
Two nations in arms would scarcely have stay'd them,
In the rush of their valour, when Morogh would lead them.
They'll throng round thy death-couch, with swords grim and
gory,
All fresh from the work of their harvest of glory;
But thou shalt not see them, nor 'wake from thy sleeping,
At the groan of their grief or the wail of their weeping.
Kinkorat may weep, but her towers are not sounder
Than the halo of fame that thy deeds have flung round her;
Long shall Valour remember, and Freedom regret thee!
But the widows of Denmark shall never forget thee!
Oh! Hand of Munificence-Foot of Agility!
Heart of Benevolence! Soul of Nobility!
Unbounded in valour! unrivall'd in daring!
Iron tower in the van of the armies of Erin!
Could you 'wake to behold the lov'd land you defendedThe land where the reign of thy father was splendid;
The land which you fought for, in battle defiant,
And clove with thy broad axe the iron-clad giant.
* The two divisions of the Kingdom of Ireland made between Mogha
Nugat, or Eogain More, King of Munster, and Conn of the Hundred Battles.
Leath Mogha signifies Mogha's half, and Leath Cuinn, Conn's half.
t The palace of Brian, which stood on the bank of the Shannon, near
Killaloe. It was twice destroyed, first by MacLoughlin, Prince of Aileach,
and secondly by Torlogh O'Connor, King of Connaught. See a description
of its destruction in this volume. No vestige of it now remains, except
the circular mound, supposed to be a part of the great banquet-hall.




38


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


From your grave, which the long grass of ages has shaded,
Could you wake, to behold her now sunk and degraded!
You'd shrink from the vile sight of bondage before you,
And call on the tomb shades again to close o'er you.
Gone-gone from Green Eire are her spirits of boldness,
But the Saxon is there with corruption and coldness;
And those who would fling from her neck the curst halter,
Are treated as felons, or bann'd from the altar.
The Isle of the Brave is a graveyard and prison,
Where the cottage has sunk, and the poorhouse has risen;
And the people of God are swept off and replaced,
In the land of their love, by the boor and the beast;
Black Famine is yearly commission'd to slay them;.And those whom they look to for justice, betray them;
No Prophet-no Saviour-no gleam of salvation
To rouse or redeem the dead soul of the nation.
SHANNON'S SPANGLED BANKS AND BOWERS.
SHANNON'S spangled banks and bowers
Are beautiful to see, Mary!
Shannon's fragrant fields and flowers
Are beautiful to me, Mary!
But beauty's light more soft reposes
On thy dimpled cheek of roses,
Where the blush of love discloses
Brighter charms in thee, Mary.
Lo! the rich May-sunset's beaming,
And its red gold tinge is gleaming,
Where the folded flowers are dreaming,"
O'er the bowery lea, Mary!
Come by Shannon's pale blue wave,
Fresh and pure as thou, Mary!
And the roseate lips of eve
Shall kiss thy virgin brow, Mary!
Come-Love's vestal star is glowing,
And the woodland flower-balm flowing;
And the cool, fresh May-wind, blowing,
Scarcely waves a bough, Mary!
Come-the twilight sweets invite us;
Summer's vernal scenes delight us!
Nature's beauty shall requite us,
For our wanderings now, Mary!
Day, on the crimson verge of heaven,
Has left his golden zone, Mary!
See the blushing face of even,
Is rosy as thine own, Mary!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


39


Mark, an azure shadow lowers
O'er old Luimnoch's flood-girt towers;
Where King William's banded powers
Were foil'd, and overthrown, Mary!
There, 'mid ruin's red hail teeming,
Limerick's glorious blue-eyed women!
Turn'd the fight, and dashed the foemen
From the noble town, Mary!
Heard you how the heroines stood
Before the flaming balls, Mary?
Beauty shed her purest blood,
Fighting for those walls, Mary!
Heaven and earth have heard the storySee those fields, once damp and gory!
There was Valour link'd with Glory,
Marching to her halls, Mary!
And-but Treachery betrayed her'Midst the conquests that array'd her!
Never would the false Invader
Stand within her walls, Mary!
At the tale, thy cheek's wild rose
Beams more fresh and bright, Mary!
And thy sparkling blue eye glows
With a lovelier light, Mary!
Would'st thou meet the cannon's flashing?
Stand before the war-ranks dashing?
Brave the gory falchions' clashing?
For poor Erin's right, Mary!
But thy fair, white breast may nourish
Sons, who will their country cherish!
And, for her the bright steel flourish,
Yet, in Freedom's fight, Mary!
COME TO THE MOUNTAINS.
Now Summer is green o'er the vale, and the mountain-grove,
The lily is white in the woodland, so airy,
Come, let us wander by Callan's blue fountain, love!
Come, in thy blushes, my beautiful Mary!
Maid of the shining locks!
Come to the flowery rocks!
Come to the hills where the sunbeam reposes!
'Mid Nature's wild grandeur,
We'll joyfully wander,
By Callan's blue wave, and its banks of wild roses.




40


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


The brier's snowy blossom the dale is adorning!
O'er flower-scented wold trips the light-footed fairy!
The blue mist is pluming the helmet of morning,Nature looks sweet like my beautiful Mary!
Maid of the beamy eyes!
Soft as the sunny skies!
Thy love-sharing smiles are like honey on roses!
Thy foot falls as light
As the silver of night,
That gleams on the moss where the heath-flower reposes.
The sweet morning work of the dairy is done, love!
Thou'rt free for a while from thy rural employment;
Thy butter is made and thy flax is all spun, love!.
A stroll thro' the meadows will give thee enjoyment!
I'll slip thro' the corn,
And wait near the thorn
That o'er the bright well waves its green, dewy shadow;
And, lest any should mindKeep a sharp look behind,Steal round the boreen, and we'll meet in the meadow.
I'll gather the blue-bells, to wreathe thy dark ringlets,
Near the streams, where the white water-lilies are sleeping
We'll pluck the pale rose, where the zephyr's light winglets,
The fresh flowery side of the wild Lake, are sweeping.
Then come to the mountain's
Dark glens, and bright fountains!
And, we'll trace on the red heath the rings of the fairy!
And I'll tell you a story
Of Erin's past glory!
As we wander together, my beautiful Mary!
BRIAN'S LAMENT FOR KING MAHON.
LAMENT, O Dalcassians! the Eagle of Cashel is dead!
The grandeur, the glory, and joy of her Palace is fled!
Your strength in the battle-your bulwark of valour is low!
But the fire of your vengeance shall fall on the murderous foe!
His country was mighty-his people were blest in his reign,
But the ray of his glory shall never shine on them again;
Like the beauty of summer, his presence gave joy to our souls,
When the Bards sung his deeds at the banquet of bright golden
bowls.
Ye maids of Temora, whose rich garments sweep the green
plain I
Ye chiefs of the Sunburst, the terror and scourge of the Dane!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                   41
Ye gray-hair'd Ard Fileas! whose songs fire the blood of the
brave!
Oh! weep, for your Sun-Star is quenched in the night of the
grave!
He clad you with honors-he fill'd your high hearts with delight!
In the midst of your councils he beam'd, in his wisdom, and
might!
Gold, silver, and jewels were only as dust in his hand!
But his sword, like a lightning-flash, blasted the foes of his land!
Oh, Mahon! my brother! we've conquer'd and marched, side
by side,
And you were to the love of my soul as a beautiful bride!
In the battle, the banquet, the council, the chase, and the
throne,
Our beings were blended-our spirits were filled with one tone!
Oh, Mahon! my brother! you've died, like the hind of the
wood!
The hands of assassins were red with thy pure, noble blood!
And I was not near, my beloved! when you were o'erpower'd,
To steep in their hearts' blood the steel of my blue-beaming
sword!
I stood by the dark, misty river, at eve, dim and gray,
And I heard the death-cry of the Spirit of gloomy Craighlea;*
She repeated thy name, in her wild caoine of desolate woe!
Then I knew that the Beauty and Joy of Clan Tail was laid
low!
All day and all night one dark vigil of sorrow I keep!
My spirit is bleeding with wounds that are many and deep!
My banquet is anguish, tears, groans, and the wringing of
hands,
In madness lamenting my Prince of the gold-hilted brands!
* Craighlea, near Killaloe, was supposed to be the dwelling-place of Oebhinn, the Banshee of the Dalgais. When any distinguished member of the
Clan was near death, her caoine, or funeral cry, is said to be most distressing, and full of wild melancholy pathos. She, according to tradition, wrapt
Dunlaing O'Hartagain in a magical cloud, in order to 'prevent his joining
the battle of Clontarf. But the Chief made his way to Morogh, son of
Brian, who reproached him for (delaying from the conflict. O'Hartagain
related the circumstance of his interview with Oebhinn, and brought Morrogh to where she was. In a conversation which ensued, she foretold the
disasters of the fight, and mentioned the names of all the great Chiefs
destined to fall on the field that day. Thus ran her prophecy:" Brian shall fall, Morogh shall fall! &c. &c.,
But woe to the wearers of the shirts of iron!
Woe to Brodair of the black shining hair!
Woe to Mealmordha, the shedder of blood!
The clouds shall be rent with the cries of widows!
The hosts of the North shall be covered with death!" &c. &c.
4




42             LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
0 God! give me patience to bear the affliction I feel!
But for every hot tear a red blood-drop shall blush on my steel!
For every deep pang which my grief-stricken'spirit has known,
A thousand death-wounds, in the day of revenge, shall atone!
REQUIEM FOR KING MAHON.*
A BARDIC DIRGE.
THERE'S gloom in the house of the golden swords!
And the sky has a fiery stain!
And the sons of the mighty, like maidens weep,
For the Prince of the people is slain!
O Cashel! where is thy bright-hair'd King?
The brother of princely Brian!
Has the Wolf-Dog of Desmond lapp'd the blood
Of Kincora's proud war-lion?
The white-robed Fairy of the Hill
Sings her death-wail of despair,
And the snow-brow'd daughters of princes rend
Their sun-clouds of beamy hair.
For the Beautiful of their souls is dark!
Their May Flower of Love is chill'd,
And the golden cup of their wine of joy,
With burning tears is fill'd.
Oh! Brian of the mighty arms!
War-eagle of host-ridged fields!
Why hangs thy death-sword idle
In the hall of the silver shields?
Thy march to battle is heaven's flash,
When it burns the mountain-wood;Does the fiery ear of thy vengeance hear
The cry of thy brother's blood?
And Brian loved the dark-eyed King!
As the hawk loves the gold-orb'd sky!
Then why should Mahon, unavenged,
Like the elk of the wild hills, die?
* "Mahon, the brother of the illustrious Brian Boroimhe, surnamed Kennedy, was murdered on the Mushera Mountain, near Macroom. He was
betrayed by Donovon, son of Cahal, ancestor of the O'Donovans, and delivered into the hands of Molloy, son of Bran, ancestor of the O'Mahonys.
who basely commissioned his people to put him to death, because he envied
his greatness and the growing power of the Dalgais. King Mahon deserved
a better fate; he was a noble and worthy monarch, a munificent patron of
learning and piety, and an incessant scourge to the Danish invaders, over
whom he gained many brilliant victories (in conjunction with his brother
Brian), especially the celebrated victory of Sulchoid, where five thousand
of the Northmen, with their bravest commanders, were slain. The remnant
of the Danish host fled into Limerick, fiercely pursued by the victors, who
burned the city, and demolished the fortifications, slaying at the same time
the fugitive Danes in great numbers. The conquerors found in the town
an immense booty of gold, silver, and jewels, which the generous Mahon
divided among his soldiery."-Keating.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                  43
God's curse on the hand of the son of Bran!
Whose murderous steel cut down
The topmost bough of our Royal Tree,
With its glory-blossom'd crown!
Clan Tail of the red destroying brands!
There's revenge in your orbs of fire!
And wrath on your brows, like the dark-lined clouds
That foster the Wind-God's ire.
And the flaming points of your cleaving swords
Shall smoke in the wine-red spring
Of the venom'd blood of the traitors' hearts,
That murder'd your noble King!
Remember the field of red Sulchoid!
And Luimneach's blazing towers,
Where the hot heart-streams of the Sea-Kings gush'd,
Like the thunder's burning showers;
And Torrell's shield, like an iron moon,
By the hand of our King was broke;
And the enemy flew from his sweeping steel,
Like grain from the thresher's stroke!
In the blood-rain of that stormy field,
Fought Mahon and Brian, all day;
And their lofty plumes, like two wind-rock'd pines,
Were seen 'mid the steely sea:
Together they beam'd on the ridge of war,
Like two suns in one cloudy sphereTwo eagles from one mountain nestTwo wolves from one forest lair!
Open the Sunburst Flag of light!
There's a stain on its beamy fold;
A fiery stain, like a bleeding star,
On the sheen of its airy gold!
And that stain of shame shall not be cleansed,
Till 'tis wet with the rain of death!
And hung o'er the reeking spears of Cas,
To dry in the War-God's breath!
And no songs shall be sung, nor red wine drank,
In the Palace of Golden Swords! *
Till the grinding steel of our Chiefs shall feast
In the blood of Desmond's Lords!
*"The gold-hilted swords. The Dalcassians wore gold wire around the
hilts of their swords, by way of ornament, which often had the effect of inflaming the blood and swelling their hands in the heat of conflict. The
awful swelling which disabled Morogh's hand and arm, at Clontarf, may be
traced to the great amount of gold wire on the hilt of his ponderous sword,
and on the handle of his destructive battle axe.




44


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND,


Saint Columb's curse on the dark Molloy,
Is before the Throne divine;
And his grave shall be made on the cold hill-side *
Where the sun shall never shine!
THE FLOWER OF LIMERICK.
SWEET are Glenomera's woods in May,
When Nature's choir is full in tune;
And sweet on Truagh's hills to stray
Among the crimson bells of June!
But sweeter far, when summer's eve
Wraps earth to sleep in golden shades,
To meet, by Shannon's moon-lit wave,
The queenly flower of Limerick maids.
When first her beauty thrill'd my view,
My heart I struggled to control;
While, like a shower of honey-dew,
Her smiles fell on my charm'd soul!
All in a dreamy trance I lay,
In Monabraher's flowery shades,
And thought some fay had cross'd my way,
From green Killeely's haunted glades!
'Tis not her bright face I admire,
'Tis not her wild, blue wizard eye;
But 'tis her mind whose virgin-fire
Was brought by angels from the sky!
Tho' Peggy's smile is sweet to me,
And Norah's glance my heart invades;
I'd give them all to gaze on thee,
Oh! radiant queen of Limerick maids!
When Nature with delight espy'd
The maiden's beaming face of love;
"This is my masterpiece!" she cried,
"I can no more my work improve!"
With joy and admiration wild,
" She's my soul's likeness!" Beauty said;
"Oh! yes and she's my bosom's child!"
Cried Virtue, clinging round the maid!
* "And the holy priest predicted that Molloy Mac Bran would come to an
evil end, and he wept and cursed him bitterly for the murder of Mahon
Mac Ceineidighe, and he said the grave of Molloy would be on that very hill
where the bloody deed was committed, and the sun would never shine on it.
4nd in some time after, Molloy became blind and was slain, in a wretched
ht, and his body was buried on the north side of the mountain where the
sun never shines on his grave."-Annals of the Four Masters.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


45


The rich man's daughter proudly goes
In glittering silk and showy gold;
But wealth and art her charms compose
And all for wealth her heart is sold.
The haughty lordling, at her feet,
His love, with cold refinement, pleads,
While true admirers come to greet
The graceful Flower of Limerick maids.
When morning clears her misty brow,
And gently opes her dreamy eye,
Night faints before the roseate glow
Of her bright sunburst in the sky,
Thus from thine eye's soft silvery dart
The cold gloom of my bosom fades;
And joy and sunshine fill my heart,
Before the Flower of Limerick maids.
KING DONALD'S DAUGHTER.*
A LEGEND OF THE SHANNON.
THE martial King Donald o'er Luimnoch reign'd,
And the cause of his country with valour sustain'd;
And in many a fierce battle and bloody foray,
From the grasp of the false Saxon wrested his prey.
A hundred bright shields in his proud palace-hallsThe spoils of red battle-fields-flash'd on the walls!
A hundred rich golden cups blazed on his board,
When he call'd to the banquet the Sons of the Sword;
And a hundred sweet harps at his revels were strung
And proud were the war-songs his Irish bards sung.
Fleet were his war-steeds, as spirits of air,
When they swept o'er the green plains of Limerick and Clare,
With their long-bearded riders, and silver-starr'd reins,
And rich golden housings and wild streaming manes.
Ah! woe to the Norman, relentless and stern!
Who stood in the path of his strong-handed "kern,"
When, on the grim slaughter-field, charging, amain,
They swept, like a torrent of fire, o'er the plain.
But the Star of Green Erinn's high chivalry died!
Alas! for l)r glory-alas! for her pride!
And that dread Chief-the scourge of invaders no moreSleeps sound, in the dust, 'neath Saint Mary's gray tower.t
King Donald's bright daughter was fair Kathaleen,
The Swan of the Shannon, and Beauty's young Queen;
Light was her form-majestic her step,
And sweet, as the new rose of summer, her lip:
* Tradition tells that this beautiful young lady was, during many years,
a somnambulist.
t Some historians state that King Donald was buried in Holycross Abbey,




46            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Dewy her eye of love-sunbeams her hair,--
Honey-drops were her words-regal her air!
Gentleness, tenderness, dignity, grace,
Lived in her spirit, and beam'd in her face.
But why steals she, at night, from her father's dark towers,
To seek, in her light skiff, yon lone Island-bowers?
Tho' the rain may descend, and the winds whistle loud,
Or red lightnings leap from the skirts of the cloud;
Yet she stems the wild flood, where its white eddies boil
Round the dark, rocky shores of Saint Thomas's Isle.
'Twas said that the fairies had haunted her bed,
And fill'd, with their wild spells, her heart and her head;
For in all her lone wanderings, at night, on the deep,
The beautiful Princess, 'twas said, was asleep.
And night after night, the white lady was seen
To haunt the wild flood, and the Island so green;
And the fisherman shook on the river's dark side,
When he saw her drift by, like a ghost, on the tide.
Young Fergus MacMahon woo'd the fair Kathaleen,
And with smiles she received the proud Chief of Tireen;
And the haughty King Donald, complacently smiled,
Well-pleased, at the choice of his beautiful child.
The bridal day dawned, and the wedding guests met,
And the grand, nuptial feast, in the palace, was set;
At Saint Mary's high altar, the bridegroom and bride,
In regal magnificence, kneel side by side.
The Ladies admire the young Chief of Tireen,
And the Lords pour encomiums on fair Kathaleen.
As the stately arbutus, with blossoms all white,
Appears in the gold of the rich summer light;
Thus, before the grand altar, so graceful was she,
As fair as the blossoms-as straight as the tree.
O'er her proud, queenly shoulders a soft falluinn* flow'4,
That richly, with damask'd embroidery, glow'd;
And its long, golden fringe shed a twilight around
Her white, fairy feet, like twin pearls on the ground.
On her bosom a bright, star-like jewel she wore,
That once graced the nuptials of happy Queen More: +
And a crownlet of gems o'er her sunny hair shone,
Like the rainbow of noon o'er the dreamy clogds thrown.
Behold the proud bridegroom,-how lordly his glanceAs fix'd as a tower, and as tall as a lance;
His spirit's nobility bursts, with a glow,
On the rose of his cheek, and the snow of his brow.
* A mantle worn by the women of ancient Erin.
t More, the daughter of O'Hine, King of West Connaught, was Brian
Boroimhe's first wife, and the'mother of his invincible son, Morogh. This lady
was eminently distinguished for her beauty, her charity, and her humility;
not so his second wife, Gormley, sister to the King of Leinster. She was
vain, vindictive, and intriguing, and was the main cause of fomenting the
Battle of Clontarf, on account of the loss of a silver button.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


47


His eye, which now sparkles with tender desire,
But reveals half the blaze of its summer-noon-fire;
And his hand, gently pressing fair Kathaleen's hand,
Would shiver the best Norman mail in the land.
The ceremony's ended-they're one evermore,And the pageantry, splendid, proceeds from the door;
The sweet bridal anthem the silver bells rung,
And the harps, in the palace, responsively sung;
Gay flowers shed their odours, and banners wave bright,
And the city resounds with one song of delight;
The wedding boards bend with the luxurious fare,
Rich sirloins of beef, from the pastures of Clare;
Golden bowls sparkled high, with the grapes' blushing rain
From France, and the bright, sunny vineyards of Spain.
All night the gay palace resounded, and rung
With the toast, and the laugh, and the dance, and the song;
But when the great bell of the Abbey * toll'd one,
The bridesmaidens whisper'd, "The Princess is gone 1"
And they look'd on each other, in silence, and sigh'd,
When they heard the proud Fergus inquire for his bride.
But the chief turn'd pale when her old nurse drew near
And related some mysterious tale, in his ear;
Without cochal, t or barrad, he sprung from the door,
And rush'd, in his grief, to the dark river shore.
Wild was the night, and the wind whistled shrill,
And the rain-torrent leaped, with a dash, from the hill;
And the wide-spreading Shannon, deep, swoll'n and strong,
In a mantle of darkness, rush'd roaring along.
Thro' the dense pitchy gloom, green and red meteors glanced,
The fitful blast piped and the dark forest danced;
And the wild, leaping river show'd many a white ridge,
Where its swift flood was broken, at Thomond's old bridge.
'Mid the howl of the storm, the fair Kathaleen,
All alone on the bank of the Shannon is seen;
She unmoors her frail boat from the shore's slanting side,
And drives off 'mid the rage of the wave-crested tide.
Like the bright river Genius, with proud unconcern,
She plies her light paddle, and sits in the stern;
And the waves-as if glad of the burden they boreKiss'd her hand, and then leap'd, with a song, to the shore.
To the channel's dark centre she fearlessly drove,
As if wildly, with darkness and danger, in love;
Good heavens! what nuptials! the storm and tide
All fiercely contending to dance with the bride.
* The ancient Abbey of St. Francis, which stood in the locality that still
bears its name. The old County Courthouse, now a deserted ruin, was built
on the site of this celebrated Abbey. It was ornamented with a beautiful
steeple, which contained a core of fine bells.
t Cochal was the mantle of the ancient Irish; the barrad was their headr
dress or cap.
A part of the walls of King Donald's Palace is still standing in the
vicinity of the old town, near St. Mary's Cathedral.




48            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
On the brown shore the bridegroom, mute, motionless, stood,
With his flashing eye piercing the gloom of the flood;
Has his dreaming soul roam'd thro' the shadows of night,
Presenting this dark scene of awe to his sight?
Has some phantom allured him?      Oh! no, 'tis his bride,
He sees, all alone, on that dread midnight tide:
While, breathlessly gazing, he thought the rough blast,
That brush'd the dark waters, would sink her at last.
On she drives, and young Fergus, upon the dark shore,
In silence, keeps pace with the dip of her oar;
While her skiff o'er the billows danced gracefully on,
With the light, careless ease of the silvery swan.
Oft he thought she was lost, as the sable-veil'd night,
'Mid the valley of waves, hid her form from his sight;
'Till, tossed on the crest of the black surge, on high,
The flash of her jewels blazed full on his eye.
Now the wind-beaten Isle of Saint Thomas, * she near'd,
Thro' the rock-lashing current, with judgment, she steer'd;
When an angry squall rush'd, with a howl, thro' the wood,
And tost her frail bark on a rock 'mid the flood.
One bound, and the Chieftain is into the tide,
Ploughing on, thro' the foam, towards the skiff of his bride;
He furrows the flood, like a wave-cleaving ship,
And spurns the spray of the surge from his lip;
With proud head erect, 'gainst the torrent he toils,
Which, around him, on either side, furiously boils;
But, in spite of the river's wild swiftness and strength,
He gain'd the light skiff of the lady, at length.
He gazed in her face, but she heeded him not,
As if all that was dear to her heart was forgot;
The white-rolling waterfalls tumbled around,
Yet heedless she seem'd, as if born of their sound.
The cold night-wind sung in the cloud of her hair,
And she look'd, like a ghost, on the dark billows there.
He grasp'd her white garment, and call'd out her name,
And she started, and scream'd, and sprang into the stream.
But he holds her afloat with his powerful hand,
And buffets the current, and wades to the strand;
Yet the wild flood, as loath to relinquish its prey,
Towards the Fall's boiling whirlpool bears him away.
Assist-him, 0 Heaven!-The merciless surge
Drives him on, like a reed, to the torrent's deep verge;
Still he holds the droop'd head of the lady away
From the lash of the wave and the chafe of the spray.
* This beautifully secluded little Island was once the retreat of religion.
In its interior stood a small Abbey, surrounded by a churchyard, but its
venerable ruins were razed to the ground, its graves desecrated, and the
bones of the dead thrown into the river, by one of its Anglo Saxon proprietors,
after the Siege of Limerick. The sacrilegious act brought a curse on the
desecrator-not one of his progeny ever inherited the Island.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                49
One plunge-the Fall's clear'd-and one bold effort moreThe danger is past, and he stands on the shore.
He clasps her drench'd form, with accents of joy,
Life's warm in her heart, and her pulses reply;
She trembles, and turns her eyes from the stream,
And her spirit has broken the yoke of its dream.
Never more, at dark midnight, the lady was seen
To haunt that wild flood, and the Island so green;
But oft, in nights, after, when winds whistled drear,
And the roar of the Shannon 'rose wild on her ear;
As she sat by her lord, in the grand palace-room,
And laid on his bosom her bright cheek of bloom;
She'd whisper him gently, and laugh, with delight,
"Say, Love! would you swim the wild Shannon to-night?"
THE DEATH OF DONOVAN,* SON OF CAHAL,
Slain in Single Combat by Morogh, Son of Brian.
A BARDIC DIRGE.
ON the winds of Ui Fidhgeinte t the death-cry is swelling,
To the harp's weeping music, in Donovan's dwelling;
Where his clans, in wild rout, from the battle-field driven,
Bear the corpse of their King, with his proud bosom riven.
The Prince of Mononia stands near, in the glade,
With a frown on his brow, and a stain on his blade;
While his fiery Dalcassians, all stalwart and stern,
Like blood-sated mountain-wolves, rest in the fern.
Towards the Palace of Helmets $ his dark face he turns,
And his eye, with the flash of his proud spirit, burns;
But his heart feels a pang, and his soul yields a tear,
As the words of the death-song float wild on his ear.
"'Like the oak of the desert thy glory was growing!
And the sunlight of fame on thy valour was glowing!
Thy sword, like a sunstroke, swept squadrons before it!
Now a grass-blade may fetter the strong hand that bore it!
No more shalt thou chase the brown deer on the highlandLoud voice in the war-field, why art thou so silent?
No more shall the Bara Boo's thunderlike rattle,
In the flames of thy steel, rouse thee up to the battle!
* Brian led a great army into the territories of Donovan and Molloy, and
gave them, and their Danish allies, a terrible chastisement for the murder of
his brother Mahon. Morogh, his eldest son, then only 18 years old, engaged
Donovan hand to hand, and slew him.
tUi Fidhgeinte, now Kenry, was the principality of Donovan.
t Donovan's Palace.




50          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Oh! fierce was the splendour that blazed from thy spear'!
When Kinkora's young war-hawk, to combat, drew near!
When breastplate and shield, by the mighty blows rent,
Like fragments of light, on the reeling plain went. v
But, who could encounter Boroimhe's furious son?
How grimly he laugh'd when the battle was won!
When the tide of thy breast dyed the steel of his ire,
And thy locks strew'd the dust, like a shower of gold wire!
Give his dirge to the blast, 'mid his people's tears burning,
Let his spirit ascend on the sound of our mourning;
He may pause, in his flight, o'er the mountain-top, hoary,
To take a last look at the field of his glory!
O'er the tomb of the warrior the eagles shall hover,
Lamenting his blood-wasting battles are over;
For, where'er his red war axe was lifte in anger,
He largely supplied the wild rage of th'ir hunger!
Dread ghost of our Chieftain! where'er thou dost wander
'Mid the winds of the hill, or the clouds of the thunder!
Fierce spirits of valour shall throng round thee, brightening
With joy, stretching out their blue arms of lightning!
MARY OF LOCH REA.
AIR--" The Banks of sweet Loch Rea."
'TwAs in the golden harvest-time when summer's roses fade,
And Nature mourns her dying bloom in every rural shade,
I wander'd o'er the yellow fields, as evening died away,
To see the angel of my heart, sweet Mary of Loch Re!
And Mary was a gentle maid, bright, beautiful and proud;
Her hair was like the sunny fringe of summer's show'ry cloud;
Her mouth, a honey-cell of smiles-her face like flowery May,
And her neck like winter's freezing moon on the blue waves
of Loch Rea!
I woo'd her long, and loved her well-she loved me in return,
She was my bosom's summer rose, of love, without a thorn;
But, oh! she was too good to live! too bright on earth to
stay!
And, like the lovely star of dawn, she smiled, and pass'd away!
I came to the appointed place, but Mary was not there;
T. evening dew lay undisturb'd on blade and floweret fair;
iThe shadow of some sad event seem'd dark'ning o'er my
way,
But yet I hoped I soon would see my Mary of Loch Rea.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


51


The twilight star look'd from the West's soft shades of gold
and green,
And whitely lay the silent mist upon the sleeping plain;
When from her lowly cottage 'rose a shriek of wild dismay,
I rush'd within, and cold in death was Mary of Loch Rea.
The heart swell'd in my bosom, and the tear burst from my eye,
My manhood's spirit melted, and I join'd the wailers' cry;
I felt the cold, white shoud that o'er her breast of lilies lay,
But colder, in death's frozen sleep, was Mary of Loch Rea.
Oh, Mary! why did nature make you beautiful and bright?
Or why did beauty clothe you with her richest robe of light?
Heaven grew jealous with the earth, and hurried you away* The angels fell in love with you, sweet Mary of Loch Rea!
Oh! heart of kindness, mouth of smiles, and eyes of sunny
light!
Alas! have thy sweet lips no word of love for me, to-night?
You'd always some good news to tell, or some kind word to say!
Always, till now-my darling one-my wild rose of Loch Rea!
And shall we never meet again? Oh, love! why don't you
speak?
You do not hear me, Mary! Oh! I wish my heart would break!
Ah! love! as you have gone from me, I would not go from you,
Without, at least, one dear and fond, affectionate adieu!
You loved the Blessed Virgin, with a true, and holy love,
And she took you to her palace, in the crystal fields, above;
You were so lovely, like herself, she long'd to have you there,
Lest, any breath of earth would stain a flower so bright and
fair!
No more I'll hear your sweet song, in the dewy milking bawn,
With the kine all lowing round you, in the pale, red light of
dawn;
Some other maid will sing those songs, while you are in the
clayOh! Blessed God! my heart will break for Mary of Loch Rea!
As, in an ivory temple, chimes a sweet-toned silver bell,
The music of your modest voice into iy heart's core fell!
The admiring angels heard its tones, ared.they laid their sweet
harps by,
And they stole you off to join them in tieyr heavenly songs
of joy!
The sun will miss the glory of your glossy; shining hair!
The youths will miss you from the dance, on summer's evenings
fair!  "'
The flowers will want your faiiy step to shake their drops away.
And I will miss your smile of love, sweet Mary of Loch Re40i*:ý




52


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.
ACHIEVEMENTS OF THE WOMEN.
A. D. 1691.
LET Grecian Poets sing, with martial joy,
The fabled glory of immortal Troy,
Where mighty nations, for a woman, vain,
Bled, in fierce battle, on the wasted plain!
I'll sing a theme, where Irish arms appearA theme to glory, and to Ireland dear!
Proud Limerick's breach, where woman's hostile hand
Smote the Invaders of her native land.
Inflame my soul, O Muse! with fierce desire
To draw the picture, with a touch of fire!
Unlock the past, and summon back to life
The acts and actors of that noble strife!
On tower and wall the stern defenders throng,
Tho' weak in number, yet in spirit strong;
With sullen faces and suspended breath,
They look the heralds of approaching Death.
Like iron statues, on the ramparts placed,
Their reckless hearts with brazen valour braced;
Grim, fierce, determined, daringly they stood,
Waiting the signal for the work of blood.
On Singail's plain the bold besiegers stand,
Ready to charge-impatient for command;
Ten thousand eyes upon the breach are turn'd,
Ten thousand hearts to leap within it burn'd.
Swords rattle, helmets flash, and cannon frown,
And threaten vengeance on the stubborn town.
All the dread engines of destroying war,
All that a treacherous foe can plan, or dare;
All, all that might, and ruin, can essay,
Are to be pour'd on Limerick town, to-day.
The signal guns the dreadful silence breakThe armies charge-the tottering bulwarks shakeFull on the breach a surge of fire and steel
Drives, with a crash that makes the city reel.
Up the defenders, like crouch'd bloodhounds, sprung,
And swords and guns, in mingled lightning, rung;
Fierce, in the breach, before the foes, they stand,
And smash their ranks, and slay them hand to hand.
On came Dane, Saxon, Dutch, in banded swarms,
Loud rung the steely thunder of their arms;
A bloody whirlpool of destruction howls
Round the red fosse, and in the chasm rolls.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Above the clang which seem'd the world to rend,
The Irish shouts, in sounding peals, ascend;
As, dashing on the columns of their foes,
They fell, outnumber'd, and o'erpowered with blows.
The sea of combat heaves, and sinks, and swellsLike fiery demons, leap'd the bursting shells;
Grape shot and flaming balls, in blasting sway,
Mingled their fires, and swept whole ranks away;
Cannon and howitzer belch'd red ruin 'round,
Gunners and guns lay shatter'd on the ground.
Horses and riders backward reel'd and fell,
The ramparts rock'd, and blazed with fire and steel
As from a hundred mad volcanoes driven,
Thick clouds of smoke o'ercast the echoing heaven.
From place to place, the daring Sarsfield speeds,
Firing his troops, and kindling mighty deeds.
"Oh! Men of Limerick!" he loudly calls,
" Stand to your posts, be firm, and keep your walls!
Now is the time to your old land to prove
Your manly valour, and devoted love!
Hear her, thro' me, to your brave souls appeal,
In this brave contest, for her future weal;
Lo! at your doors the fierce invader stands
Give him a bloody welcome, at your hands!
He comes to trample, in his fraud and might,
Your ancient country, and her sacred right!
Now, all your arms in valiant action join!
Remember Aughrim and the bloody Boyne!
Think of your butcher'd comrades' reeking tombs!
Think of your blazing fanes and plunder'd homes I
Think of your mothers, sisters, daughters, wives,
To you they trust their honour and their lives!
This day your country, in her gory shroud,
Cries for the vengeance of your arms aloud!
Her life, her faith and hope are in your trust!
This day she dies, or rises from the dust!
All, all depend upon your manly deeds!
And all are ruin'd if the foe succeeds!"
Thus, breathing his brave soul into their soulsFierce, on the foe, a double deluge rolls;
Red floods of ruin flame along the ground;
Trembled the towers, and roar'd the hills around.
Upon the walls an iron whirlwind sweeps;
Glares the grim breach with dead, in gory heaps!
Broad sheets of flame, like winged hells, arise,
Blaze o'er the fight, and vanish in the skies!
On surged the mighty foreign host, amain,
And inch by inch the reeking ground they gain:


53




54           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
O'er the plough'd mounds the driving columns pour;The brave defenders are press'd back before
The overpowering number of their foes;
But every inch is bought with blood and blows.
Round, on the walls, the scaling ladders rise
Forests of steel shoot upwards to the skies,
And bristling o'er the battery's iron crest,
In whelming force, the Brandenburghers press d;
While, thro' the deep street-passage of Saint John,
In one wild river, rolls the battle on;
One thick, tremendous shower of burning rain
Sweeps the scour'd street, and whirls thro' every lane:
Earth rocks beneath the combat's mighty wheel;
The turrets quiver and the houses reel!
But hark! what deafening cheer-what new war-cry
Peals thro' the town, and sounds along the sky?
What fresh reinforcement swells the deadly tide?
Springs on the foe, and bursts from every side?
Limerick! behold thy daughters! proud and fair!
Like arm'd angels, flying to the war!
They saw their husbands, brothers, sweethearts, all
Fly from the ramparts, and desert the wall;
And dashing forth, 'mid streams of fire and blood,
Attack'd the foe, and check'd the martial flood.
A moment's silence still'd the awful scene,
New fire-new vigour fill'd the men again!
A double soul in every man revives,
And on the foe, with double might, he drives!
Foremost the women press'd, with bosoms bare!
Round their white shoulders stream'd their floating hair;
With heavy stones the cuirassiers they wound!
And rattling plate, and crashing helms resound.
Matrons and maids, wives, widows, young and old,
In virtue peerless, and in danger bold;
On the astounded ranks, from every side,
Dash'd, with wild cheers, and turn'd the furious tide.
The mother from her arms tost her child,
And grasp'd a stone, and joined the conflict wild;
The maids threw by their mantles, with a shout,
And arm'd with missiles, on the host, sprung out.
Now, with new fire, the contest burns and roars;
And stones, and crags descend, in whistling showers;
The helmets burst, the horsemen fall around,
And swords, and muskets clang upon the ground;
The plunging horses, gored and terrified,
Foam thro' the war, without a hand to guide.
O'er the red street a crimson deluge falls,
Warms the cold stones and smokes upon the walls!
O'er the thick dead the valiant women strode,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


55


Their hands, and hair, and garments drench'd with blood;
Some, from the saddles hurl the cuirassiers,
Some, hand to hand o'erthrow the musketeers!
The staggering ranks confess'd the missile hail,
Like sounding anvils, clang'd the shatter'd mail.
From end to end, along the flaming street,
Crash'd the stone-showers, and hiss'd the iron sleet.
Thro' the mad chaos of contending men,
Loose, waving gowns and flying scarfs are seen!
Dane, Saxon, Dutch, in fierce confusion bledThe Shannon reddened in his silver bed.
O'er the war's din great Sarsfield's voice was heard,
As in the van the dreadful chief appear'd.
From Shannon's passes, o'er the Bridge of Baal,
Rush'd many a knight, and many a trooper tall;
And springing from their war-steeds, sword in hand,
Fell, with a vengeance, on the foreign band.
Now came the conflict's mighty tug and strain,
And William's army bled at every vein!
Back to the breach the bloody war-wave turn'd,
And town and sky with flame and battle burn'd.
As o'er some mountain river's rocky bar
A wintry torrent leaps, in foaming war;
In one stupendous mass the mad flood toils,
And bounding onward, headlong whirls and boils;
Thus, thro' the breach, in furious disarray,
Leapt the wild combat, like a broken sea.
The match great Sarsfield to the mine applies,
And high thro' heaven the roaring battery flies;
Stones, steel and Brandenburghers, upward whirl'd,
In flaming atoms, thro' the skies are hurl'd!
On town and plain return'd the crashing showers;
Like dancing giants, sway'd the groaning towers;
The reeling houses shake their heads around,
And stoop, like drunkards, towards the quivering ground!
Limerick is free-peal out St. Mary's bellsO'er plain and hill the joyful anthem swells!
Immortal honour to her daughters bright
That smash'd the foe, and turn'd the scale of fight!
THE SARSFIELD TESTIMONIAL.*
OH! yes, 'tis true, the debt is due, by Erin's children all,
Brave Chief to you, who never flew from battle fire, or ball!
Alas! too long, the brave and strong in stern oblivion lies,
The glory of our ancient town-the Idol of her eyes!
* This long-projected Testimonial ought to be as large as a pyramid when
completed, for the largest of Egypt's pyramids was begun and finished
during the same space of time the patrons of the Testimonial are only
talking.




56           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Oh! 'twere a shame to let his name, like other names decay,
Or let the Earth forget his worth, like other things of clay;
But we must see the brave and free defender of our walls,
High in the light of sculptured might, among our homes and
halls.
There let him stand, with sword in hand, and flashing arms
of steel,
In bright array, as on the day he made the foemen reel;
And let our eyes, with glad surprise, the warlike sight enjoy
Of him who stood, 'mid fire and blood, our tyrants to destroy.
Oh! Sculptor! trace on his bold face the spirit-blaze which
shone,
The day he roll'd the flood of war to Limerick from Athlone;
As if, with word and waving sword, he call'd on Limerick's
men,
"My freeborn sons! with hearts and guns, go man yon breach
again!
Oh! Sculptor! show, on 'his high brow, his freedom-grasping
zeal,
When Limerick's streets, and brave old walls, blazed red with
fire and steel:
When, undismay'd, with sweeping blade he clear'd the
flaming town,
Oh! show us how his stalwarth arm had cut the foemen down!
Show us his godlike bearing, 'mid the burning wreck of fight!
His loud command, and lifted hand, and blazing eye of light!
His eagle-glance that, like a lance, pierced centre, rear andvan!
His form tall, revealing all the majesty of man!
Let daring thought be sternly wrought in his high, dauntless
air,
As if the seed of some great deed had grown to action there;
Like, on the night, when his fierce might from Limerick
sallied forth,
And swept'the foe, at one dread blow, for ever from the earth!
Show us the grief that fill'd the chief, when with his hopes
betray'd,
Far, far away, across the sea he led the brave Brigade;
Show us the blood-gout, from his side, red-welling on his hand,
With his last words-" I wish 'twere shed for thee, my Native
Land!"
O'NEILL'S       WAR-SONG.
AIR.-" O'Donnell Aboo."
FIERCE is the flame of the vengeace of Erin,
When roused by the blast of the battle to shine;
Fierce is the flash of her broadsword uprearing
To strike for her rights and her altars divine.




LAYS AND LEGHNDS OF THOMOND.


57


Haste-snatch the spear and shield!
Rush to the battle-field!
The Saxon is come from the towers of the Pale!
Sons of the vale and glen!
Children of mighty men!
Swell the dread war-note of conquering O'Neill!
Lightly the Red Hand of terror is streaming,
Like a fire-cloud of death on the hills of Tyrone;
Brightly the spears of Clan Connaill are gleaming,
Like Swilly's blue waves in the beams of the sun:
Hark! the wild battle-cry
Rings thro' the sounding sky!
Valley and mountain are blazing with steel!
Eagles and forest deer
Rush from the heights, with fear,
Scared at the war-shout of conquering O'Neill!
O'Donnell descends from his father's dark mountains,
He comes, glorious prince! to the strife of the Gael;
He comes, like the rush of his own stormy fountains,
Sweeping, impetuous, o'er moorland and vale.
On to the Yellow Ford,
Chiefs of the flashing sword!
Charge the proud Sassenach back to the Pale!
Fierce to the scene of bloodWild as a mountain flood,
Rush the strong warriors of conquering O'Neill.
Our war-shouts shall ring and our musket peals rattle,
Our swords shall not rest from their hot, bloody toil;
Our plains shall be drench'd with the red showers of battle,
Till the godless invaders are swept from our soil!
Pikeman and Musketeer!
Kern and CavalierThe wolves and the ravens are scenting their meal!
Carve to them, red and fresh,
Plenty of Saxon flesh!
Follow your princely chief-conquering O'Neill.
Onward, O'Neill! with thy Red Hand of glory!  a
Thy sword lighteth thousands to conquest and fame
The annals of Eire are emblazed with thy story,
Her valleys are fill'd with the praise of thy name!
On with the Bloody Hand!
Shake the dread battle brandWoe to the spoilers of Green Inisfail!
Lo! theiiSred ranks appearUp, every gun and spearCharge-charge-O'Donnell! and conquering O'Neill!
5




58         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


THE BATTLE OF THE YELLOW FORD, A.D. 1598.*
THE morn, on silver Avonmore, thro' cloudless skies shone
down,
When Bagnall led his Saxon powers from Armagh's lofty town;
And polish'd helm and fiery lance, and glittering corslet
flash'd,
As forward, o'er the shining plain, the splendid squadrons
dash'd.
With bugle-note and trumpet-clang, and loud resounding drum,
And red flags dancing in the air, o'er many a gaudy plume;
In awful pomp of martial power rolls on the hostile tide
To grapple with the fierce O'Neill, that scourge of England's
pride.
As pamper'd, rampant lions from their iron cages freed,
With bristling mane and fiery eye, pranced many a knightly
steed;
And many a lord and veteran chief in golden harness ride,
And cuirassier, and musketeer, at siege and foray tried.
Now, towards the wild wood's branchy skirt the serried legions
drew,
And in, to scour its leafy shades, the lighter horsemen flew;
All there is silent as the night-no ambuscade they findAnd onward, in their sounding march, the shining columns
wind.
The passage's clear'd-the border's pass'd-the wood's green
heart is gain'd,
When sudden on the startled van a crushing volley's rain'd;
And fiery death, on leaden wings, leaps out from every shade,
And quickly in the reeling front a bloody gap is made.
Proud Bagnall sees the vanguard fall, and, spurring past the
flanks,
Urged his black war-horse, at a bound, before the swaying
ranks;
The rallied troops press'd on against the storm of deadly hail,
And from the gloomy wood dislodged the ambush of the Gael.
Now backward to the open plain the skirmishers retired,
The Saxons, at their new success, with sterner hopes are fired;
And pouring from the forest's shades their firm and fierce array,
See Erin's ranks, full in the front, extended for the fray.
* Bearl-an-atha Buidh. The mouth of the Yellow Ford, near Armagh
In this great battle over five thousand of the English army was put hers
de combat.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.               59
High glitter'd in the flashing air their steady ridge of steel,
And, o'er their lines, majestic stream'd the banner of O'Neill;
And burnish'd skein, and well primed gun, and gleaming axe
and lance,
Present their bristling surge before the Saxon's stern advance.
In front of that fierce Irish host, all in the level pass,
Deep pits were sunk and cover'd o'er with fragile boughs and
grass;
Irish traps for Saxon foxes-by the bold O'Neill design'dAnd their deep bottoms, thickly sat, with pointed stakes were
lined.
As taken by surprise, awhile, the scarlet ranks stood still,
And on their General fix'd their eyes, as if to read his will;
He scann'd the order of his foes, and cried, " My gallant men!
Advance! and strike for good Saint George and England's
Virgin Queen /"
As shoots the booming thunder on the mountain's splinter'd
rock,
As bends the nodding city with an earthquake's sudden shodk,
Thus o'er the hollow sounding plain the charging host drives on,
And in the pits the formost ranks roll headlong, horse and'man.
A shout of jeering laughter thro' the Irish legion runs,
And on the baffled foe they hurl'd the thunder of their guns;
Then, feigning well a quick retreat, drew backward on the plain,
To give the raging Saxons space to make the charge again.
All wild with wrath, the horsemen o'er their prostrate comrades spurr'd,
And dying groans, and savage yells, and frantic oaths are
heard;
Full on the second hidden range of deadly pits they sweep,
And down again roll steeds and men, crushed, bruised and
buried deep.
Now brave O'Neill! let loose thy clans! their spears are
bloodless yet!
Those spears that thirst in foemen's hearts their burning points
to wet
And down upon their squadrons sweeps that stern and
stalwart band,
As leaps a mighty sea-wave, in its madness, on the strand.
As tigers, in their flaming thirst, surround a desert well,
So on the reeling Saxon host the furious kerns fell;
And spear, and sparth, and skein, and sword their reeking
work begin;
And soon the English phalanx, and its iron wings grew thin.




60           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The tall and vigorous Gallowglasses, with war-axe broad and
keen,
Like hewers in the swinging groves, among the ranks are seen;
With flashing eyes, and wrathful shout, and fierce destructive
blow,
Right onward thro' the opening host their deadly path they
mow.
As groans the crackling forest by the polar tempests tost,
The tangled combat sway'd and rock'd, in stormy chaos lost;
The muskets boom'd, and breastplates clash'd, and sounding
axes gleam'd
And rattling spears, and whistling shot in deadly whirlwinds
stream'd.
Earth's bosom seem'd to sink beneath the deluge of the fight,
And heaven in darkness hid its face, and closed its eye of
light;
While roar'd the battle's thunder-blast, 'mid burning showers
of blood,
The echoes shriek'd, like tortured fiends, o'er hill and sounding wood.
Amid that surging sea of death what mighty bosoms bleed,
And daring hearts that lately swell'd with many a fearless
deed?
Rank after rank is hurl'd to earth, as wither'd trees expire
Before the fierce, devouring rage of mingled wind and fire.
The Milan armour flies, like glass, at every crashing blow,
And horse and foot commingled, in one frantic ruin, grow;
Man'gasps on man, wounds gush on wounds, and spears are
smashed, like reeds,
And dying Knights lie gash'd and crush'd beneath "their
plunging steeds.
But, hark! what world-rending crash--with more than
thunder's knellHas shook the shivering hills around, as if a mountain fell?
The Saxon's powder waggon has exploded 'mid the rout,
And, thick as autumn's blasted leaves, their ranks lie blown
about.
Down swept the fierce O'Donnell on the remnant of their line,
As springs the scorching lightning on a grove of wither'd
pine;
The furious wave of ruin on the riven columns burst,
And fresh, hot streams of parting life cement the reeking dust.
As thro' a raging mountain storm the eagle cleaves his way,
Or as the hungry panther thro' the desert seeks his prey;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.              61
The fierce O'Neill sought Bagnall, 'mid the battle's rolling
throng,
But Bagnall lay, a gory corpse, the scatter'd dead among.
The bravest of that host have fallen-that host so lately seen,
In glittering splendour, winding thro' the forest's leafy screen;
Thro' brake and dell, for Armagh's walls, the horrid route rolls
on
Before the sweeping vengeance of Tyrone's pursuing clan.
All sense of shame and order, in their fearful flight, is lost,Are those the troops which form'd, so late, a stern and powerful host?
Are those the bands proud Bagnall led to crush a noble race,
Now in mad panic, smash'd and gored, all flying in disgrace?
As when a gather'd tempest cloud impends and swells on high,
And spreads its giant shadow o'er the bosom of the sky,
Till it bursts and flies in fragments from the storm's angry
might,
So fled the scatter'd Saxons from that stern and bloody fight.
GENTLE NANNIE.
Now sunny April's vernal showers
Besilver Cuil's bright lawn of flowers,
While love and beauty fill the bowers
Around my gentle Nannie;
Fair thou art as spring's young moon,
Gentle Nannie! lovely Nannie!
Sweet to me as flowery June,
My gentle, dark-hair'd Nannie!
Hark! in the golden ear of day,
The blackbird pours his silvery lay,
While streams in sunny splendour play
Around my gentle Nannie.
I wander'd o'er the fresh green lea,
Gentle Nannie! lovely Nannie!
But saw no flower as sweet as thee,
My gentle, dark-hair'd Nannie!
Let us seek some grassy shade
In yon daisy-sheeted mead
Where the bright, wild bees shall breathe
Flower-songs round my Nannie!
And I'll sing a sweet one, too,
Gentle Nannie! lovely Nannie!
All of beauty, love and you,
My gentle, dark-hair'd Nannie!




62


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


The primrose opens, in the vale,
Its golden mouth to kiss the gale
That wafts the sweets of dell and dale
To you, my gentle Nannie!
But sweeter far art thou to me,
Gentle Nannie! lovely Nannie!
Than the fragrant gale to thee,
My gentle, dark-hair'd Nannie!
The yellow-flaming sunlight gilds
The cloudy helmets of the hills;
Young mist wreaths curl o'er the fields,
Soft as thy radiant hair, Nannie!
Bright's the morning's scarlet-fringeGentle Nannie-lovely Nannie!
But brighter is thy mouth's red tinge,
My gentle, dark-hair'd Nannie!
Rich-scented hangs the meadow-sweet,
Like snow-plumes o'er an emerald sheet;
Or like thine own white-glancing feet
Upon the sun-bright lawn, Nannie!
I think the fragrant, pale flower tells,
Gentle Nannie! lovely Nannie!
That sweetness in thy bosom dwells,
My gentle, dark-hair'd Nannie!
THE FAIRY MAID OF GARNA.*
A LEGEND OF SIX-MILE-BRIDGE.
BY Garna's fairy river,
Where the bright green birch-boughs quiver,
Dwelt a maid as fair as ever
Nature shaped or beauty blest;
Her voice was sweet and airy,
And her form was like the fairy
That treads the woodland dreary,
When the day is hush'd to rest.
Fell her brown locks' floating splendour
O'er her milk-white arms tender;
And her queenly port was slender
As the ash-tree on the lawn;
Than the summer dew-fall lighter
Was her waxen foot, but whiter,
SAnd her soulful eyes were brighter
Than the star-beams ere the dawn.
* The ancient name of Six-mile-Bridge, in the county of Clare. It derived
this name from the river O'Cearneigh, which flows through it. It was'formerly
a famous place for trade, commerce, and faction fighting. The scenery
around it, especially that of Mount levers and Castle Cren, is very rich and
romantic.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND
Round her simple robe of neatness,
Play'd a wild harmonious sweetness,
As, with a sun-ray's fleetness,
Down the valley's slope she hied;
And the young flowers look'd up blushing,
All with liquid honey gushing,
As her wind-like feet went rushing
O'er their heads of modest pride.
One golden July morn,
When the meads' green wealth was shorn,
And the new-hay's sweetness borne
On the honey-winged gale;
O'er the dew's resplendent whiteness,
With her step of aerial lightness,
Like a thing of angel brightness,
Went she wandering thro' the vale.
Beside a brier-bush tangled,
All with snowy blossoms spangled,
Whose flowery incense mingled
With the wild thyme's breathings sweet;
Gently there the maiden ventured,
Its dreamy shade she enter'd,
And sat, a pearl centred,
In its emerald retreat.
Humm'd the bees in sunshine sleeping,
Glanced the dewy wood-leaves weeping,
Sung the streams, like harp-notes, creeping
The small silvery stones among;
The zephyr, like a dove, came,
The sunny clouds above gleam,
While Nature, in a love-dream,
Gush'd out her heart of song.
Fleetly pass'd each golden minute,
Sweetly sung the lark and linnet,
'Till in the burning zenith
Blazed the hot meridian beam;
Still the brown maid of the valley,
Like a sun-o'erheated lily,
Lay in that scented alley,
Dreaming many a fairy dream.
But, hark! what sweet tones ringing,
'Mid the rosy sunbeams springing?
As if the flowers were singing
An airy summer-lay!
Or the bands of heaven descending,
Their million harp songs blending,
Round their sister-angel bending,
To charm her away!


63




64


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The young maid gazed around her,
With a look of joy and wonder,
When from the green woods yonder
A host of figures sprung,
Youths and maidens, bright and splendid,
In a radiant circle blended,
And their merry laugh ascended,
Like a gush of melting song.
As the calm, grand rainbow beaming,
'Mid the showery cloudlets streaming,
With their rose-hued fringes gleaming
In the April evening sun,
So look'd their rich robes flowing,
All their dazzling textures showing
Like a mass of diamonds glowing,
As the glorious band moved on
But a youth of heavenly bearing,
In the splendid van appearingLike a prince of ancient ErinTo the brown-hair'd girl bow'd;
And his fond lookp seem'd to woo her
For his bright eyes burn'd thro' her,
As the regal youth moved to her,
Bowing down his person proud.
Waved his amber curls fantastic,
Round his towering brow majestic,
As he bent his knee elastic,
Before the wondering dame;
To his lips of lusmore brightness,
With a touch of breezy lightness,
He press'd her hand of whiteness,
Gently murmuring her name.
-Golden dews of odour breathing,
Dreamy music-swelling, fadingRound the maiden's soul came wreathing
Their delicious fairy spells;
And she felt as if up borne
On the sunny wings of morn,
Never caring to return
To her own green summer dells!
The red-faced sun was setting,
And his gold-ray'd shafts were flitting
Where the starry dew was wetting
The lone graves of wild Croaghane;
Stole the breeze, in sleepy silence,
From blue Shannon's reedy Islands,
O'er dark Cratloe's wooded highlands,
And Bunratty's sylvan lawn.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The birch-groves' rocking shadows,
Like silent weeping widows,
Moved along the lonely meadows,
On the low sun's crimson bars;
And the night began to render
To the hills its gloomy splendour,
And heaven look'd clear and tender,
As if cradling infant stars.
On its grass-clad rock well-foundedWith its ivy cochal round it,
By a belt of dark trees bounded,Frown'd Rosmanaher's castle tall;
And Bunratty's fortress hoaryIron king of feudal glorySeem'd to nurse some awful story
In its time-defying wall.
By Garna's fairy river,
Where the tall, green marsh reeds quiver,
Stood a youth as bold as ever
Trod the old land of the Gael;
By his glance you may discover
Connor Roe, the outlaw'd rover,
The fond, accepted lover
Of the brown maid of the vale.
Ah! where delays the maiden
Who has made his heart an Eden
With love's dearest treasure laden
For his Beautiful-his own!
The last sun-rose is dying
The calm, clear, tranquil sky in;
Still waiting, watching, sighing,
Her lover stands alone.
As he stood alone, and pondering,
At the maiden's absence wondering;
Down the churchyard path, meandering
Four strange weird-like figures came,
A gloomy coffin bearing
To the graveyard, slowly steering,
And in solemn grief appearing,
As they bore the lifeless frame.
Connor look'd, with airy feeling,
On the silent cortege stealing;
No step-no voice revealing
The sound of living thing;
Like cloud-shades of the brown night,
On misty Boola's lone height,
Drifting in the moonlight,
Upon the south wind's wing.


65




66           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Connor was a youth of daring,
Neither fiend nor fairy fearing,
And, as the forms were nearing
The old, gray churchyard wall,*
Forward on their path he darted!
With a sudden scream, they started,
And, like flying mist, departed,
Leaving coffin, corpse and pall!
Moan'd the owl and croak'd the raven,
And the bending trees were waven
By a blast that shriek'd thro' heaven,
With a horrid ghostly groan;
And a black cloud, thick and chilling,
All the scene with midnight filling,
Rose darkly-densely swellingRound the youth and coffin lone.
Nothing fearing-nothing dauntedBy no airy terrors haunted,
He faced the bier enchanted,
And tore the lid away!
Slowly at the white corpse peepingThen, with a cry, upleapingThere calmly, gently sleeping,
His brown-hair'd girl lay!
The darken'd plain was shaking,
And a million tongues seem'd speaking,
As if the Dead were 'waking
In every olden tomb!
And around his footpath narrow,
Rung many a wail of sorrow
That chill'd him to the marrow,
As he bore the maiden home!
Her fairy trance is over,
And the morning smiles above her,
As she sits beside her lover,
In her cottage, in the glen;
But her feet have lost their fleetness,
And her face its bright repleteness,
And her silvery laugh of sweetness
Was never heard again!
* Croaghane Churchyard; tradition states that within this very ancient
burial ground, the bravest men and fairest women of Munster lie interred.
It signifies, "John's Cross."




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


67  /


THE FENIAN BRIDE.
ON Cuil-na-lawn the Ceanna bhan
Waves in the breeze its silvery plume;
The mist has roll'd its dewy fold
Around Ardcuilen's crest of broom;
In Ballyosheen the trees are green,
The linnet sings on wild Slieve Doun;
But, oh, mo stoir! my joy is o'erMy heart has lost its summer sun!
On Cuil-na-lawn the bright red dawn
Had shower'd its crimson gems of light;
Each white cloud seem'd a snowy fawn
Upon Ardcuilen's dusky height;
But ere the morn, on Callan's side,
To glistening rubies turned the dew;
By lonely Cashen's briar-fringed tide,
My mountain eagle from me flew.
I mind the eve when Summer's breath
Scarce stirr'd the mist on dark Knoc Ree,
With trembling souls we sat beneath
The snow-bloom of the wild haw-tree;
The bees were humming to their homes
Within the heather's green retreats;
While, like their gushing honeycombs,
Our hearts were filled with Nature's sweets.
The moon look'd in on Knocmore glen,
The crags like piles of silver shone,
Where twice two hundred patriot-men
Were marshall'd at his word alone;
The tale was told-the pass was soldThe patriot band was forced to flee;
And to escape a dungeon cold,
My mountain eagle flew from me!
Again the beams of sunny Spring
With crimson pearl-buds clothe the broom;
And freshening showers and sunshine bring
To primrose banks a robe of bloom;
Again with rich, white beauty glows
The bosom of the wild haw-tree;
Yet Spring, with all her balm, bestows
No happy bloom of heart to me.
On bleak Craighbhan I sit alone,
The mountain-breeze around me sighs;
My tears have warm'd the cold, gray stone,
And burn'd a circle round my eyes;




68


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND


The hawk is flying to his nest
High on the cliffs of dark Knoc ReeBut, och! mo stoir! my heart is sore!
My bird no more shall fly to me!
THE BATTLE OF MOINMOR.*
A. D. 1151.
SING the day of Moinmor where the ravens were feasted,
And the blood of the mighty, like water, was wasted;
Where many a fierce Gallowglass, Kern, and Bonnact,
Came to conquer green Thomond, from Leinster and Connaught.
Thick as grain in the brown sheaves of autumn, they gather,
And spread their dark lines o'er the face of the heather.
Like the weird lights that gleam round the dark Rock of Cleenat
Shone the glittering war-axes of Meath and Lagenia. +
Bright ridges of spear points, towards heaven, are gleaming,
Like fire sparks that float o'er some doom'd city flaming.
Proud Torlogh O'Brien, from Clan Carrha retreating,
Sees the foemen assembled, and joys at their meeting.
There's a dark, fiery stain on his high kingly honor,
That he longs to blot out in the blood of O'Connor.
And never did wolf gnash the fangs of his anger,
When seeking the flocks in the rage of his hunger,
With deadlier thirst to destroy and devour them,
Than Thomond's fierce chief, when his foes stood before him.
The eagle-soul'd Dalgais surround their great leader,
Resolving to die or repel the invader.
Tho' their numbers, by thousands, are less than the foemen,
They fear not O'Connor's tall spearmen and bowmen;
* "This great battle was fought by Torloghmore O'Brien, King of Munster.
at the head of seven thousand Dalcassians, against the united forces of
Leinster, Connaught and Meath, commandad.b  Torlogh O'Connor, King
of Connaught, father of the celebrated Rod   onarch of Ireland. The
cause of the conflict was jealousy of powe   ion of territory between
O'Brien and O'Connor. The latter Chie was mar ing to invade Thomond,
-when overtaken, unwittingly, by O'Brien, who was returning to his principality after subduing the MacCarthys of Desmond. The armies met at
Moinmor, an extensive plain in the Barony of Clanwilliam, and an engagement took place, the like of which was not seen since the day of Clontarf.
The Dalgais, though overwhelmed by superior numbers, and quite unprepared for the contest, maintained their ground with desperate valour, and
almost decimated the whole army of O'Connor; but the victory remained not
with the invaders, until the entire army of Thomond was destroyed, all but
one shattered battalion."-HIistorical Memoir the O'Briens.
This fierce encounter destroyed more of the military prestige of Ireland
than did the great fight of Clontarf. It opened a positive and easy avenue
to the Norman robbers. The slaughter of the nobility on this field was
fearful; the annalists give a long list of it.
t The residence of the Fairy Queen, Cleena-a romantic cliff, in the county
Cork, about which many wild legends are told.
t The ancient name of Leinster.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


69


But their iron-nerved grasp on their axe-handles tight'ning,
On they move, like the spirits that ride heaven's lightning;
While their long-measured tread makes the ground tremble
under,
Like the deep-muffled sound of the low groaning thunder.
The wild battle-blast of the trumpet has sounded,
And swift to the onset the giant hosts bounded;
The field flamed and roared with the torrent of arms,
Like a huge forest swung by the madness of storms.
Have you seen, at Ardmore, the white billows advancing,
When the sea to the tune of the whirlwind is dancing?
And the wave-giants, rising and roaring together,
With their awful war-songs, charging mad on each other?
Thus raged the dread fight, in tumultuous disorder,
And the sounding plain trembled from centre to border.
Spears whistled and rattled in deadly collision,
To the hearts of the combatants seeking admission;
Souls of heroes-forgetting the temples that shrined themFlew out thro' red rents from the clay that confined them:
Shields leap'd from the axes, in many a splinter,
Like wither'd leaves tost from the dark groves of winter;
And towering heads sunk, with the helmets that bound them,
While their reeking brains smoked on the weapons that found
them.
But in vain are the fearless Dalcassians contending,
For the might of fresh legions their phalanx is rending:
And the powers of the foemen seem growing around them
More fast than their gore-clotted weapons can wound them;
Like billows of fire, on the ranks they are closing,
New ramparts of steel to their bosoms opposing;
And fast as they come, yet the Dalgais are mowing
Their lines, thick as sleet when the north wind is blowing.
"Oh! green-bosom'd Thomond! thou'rt bravely defended!
And thy foes shall be few when the conflict is ended.
Stand together, ye flowers of the children of Heber!
Whose strong hands vere made for the broad axe and sabre!
With those bright blades of valour that ever array'd you,
Give a grave to the raiders that dared to invade you!
Oh! think of your honors, as heroes and freemen!
And think of the fame of your proud, queenly women!
And think of the glory that courted and crown'd you!
When Erin's Kings bow'd in submission around you!
Let your dark foes remember this great day, with sorrow,
And curse the war hawks of the House of Kinkora!
Your fathers in battle were never defeated,
No field show'd the mark where their footsteps retreated!
Their proud faces ne'er show'd the white hue of pallor,
When the vengeance of war met their bosoms of valour!




70         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


Up, Torlogh! thou fire-hearted, eagle-eyed warrior!
In the red time of danger our beacon and barrier!
Is the hot blood of Brian in thy royal veins failingIs the lion growing weak, that the fawns are prevailing?
No!-tho' unprepared the fierce enemy found you,
Tho' his strong-handed thousands are pressing around you!
Tho' his masses of steel on thy host thickly cluster,
Like fire-laden clouds when at midnight they muster.
There's a soul of defiance, proud burning, within you!
Whose towering ambition an empire might win you!
Then on to the fight-in the van let them find youOh! why should the bard of your glory remind you!
Prince of the rich gifts, and strong steeds of fleetness!
Prince of the grand halls, and wild harps of sweetness!
Prince of dark forests, green pastures and cattle!
Prince bf bright swords, in the red day of battle!
Let tly loud voice be heard thro' the startled field ringing,
Like the storm spirit's tone in the mountain wood singing!
Fire thy chiefs to their high posts of danger and honour,
And fling their fierce might on the host of O'Connor!"
Oh! they come at the call of their trumpet-tongued leader,
With their uplifted axes all blazing together;
And they drive on the foe, in their hot fury thirsting,
Like a mad, hill-hemm'd flood on the wasted vales bursting.
Wild was their shock, as the monster waves meeting
At Shannon's dark mouth, when the tide is retreating.
How the fast sinking ranks reel and tumble before them,
Like reeds, when the wrath of the lightning sweeps o'er them.
Red was their track thro' the centre enlarging!
Thick was the blood shower that smoked at their charging!
Many the steel-cloven corpses deep strewing
Their widening pathway of carnage and ruin.
Fierce was the clang of ten thousand swords cleaving
Their way, like the waves when'the ocean is heaving;
While the hosts seem to melt, as the mountain mists sweeping
Thro' heaven, when the blast from its slumber is leaping.
Have you seen, in the black face of midnight, the gleaming
Of meteors of fire thro' the parted clouds streaming?
While river and wood seem with terror to tremble,
As in air's gloomy bosom dark demons assemble;
The purple-edged fire-clouds, unmoved and unriven,
Seem hanging like pitch-cover'd mountains in heaven
Till, sudden, their mighty artillery awakenThey burst with a crash, and creation is shaken!
Thus the warriors appear'd thro' the battle-tide dashing,
Th-'ing their sharp axes thro' steel helmets crashing;
Ilke N  rain of toil down their foreheads is pouring,
And a  ir greedy blades steam with the lives they're devouring I




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


71


Half the mighty Dalcassians in carnage are lying,
And yet not a man from the combat is flying;
But, seeming to gather new vigour, they rally,
And cleave thro' the foemen a blood-crimson'd alley.
O'Connor's fierce war-cry encounter'd O'Brien's,
As, 'mid the red conflict, they met, like two lions;
Or two haughty eagles, on storm-lifted pinion,
Contesting their claim to the aerial dominion.
Lo! they fight, in the midst of the gore-deluge horrid,
With wrath in each eyeball and gloom on each forehead;
And never met chiefs, in the battle's dread clangor,
More deadly and hot with the flames of their anger.
O'Connor appear'd against Thomond's proud leader,
Like a portly round tower by a hugh mountain cedar;
While the weapons of slaughter raged harmless round them,
As if none, but their own steel, was worthy to wound them!
With shields, like hill crags by the lightning strokes rifted,
They closed, with their blood-painted axes uplifted,
And they swerv'd from the blows, as if earthquakes shook them,
While their helmets spit fire at the weapons that struck them!
Gore splash'd in the track of their deadly advances!
The poison of serpents seem'd mixed in their glances!
Their arms sway'd, like wings of an eagle in motion,
Or the shark's rapid fins when he darts thro' the ocean!
Have you heard the strong hammers the metal war waging,
When the sons of the forge the red iron are sledging?
The shrill-ringing anvil, repeatedly stricken,
Roars a long, rusty note as the heavy blows quicken!
Thus on their orb'd bucklers, half shatter'd and sunder'd,
In clanging succession their war-axes thunder'd.
But the steel of O'Brien thro' his foe's corslet rushes,
And red on its blue edge the royal blood gushes!
He reel'd, as the stroke on his bosom resounded,
And fierce on the proud King of Thomond he bounded!
Like giants, in frenzy, they clutch one another,
And roll on the blood-sheeted war-field together!
The sound of their fall and their armour's deep rattle,
Like death-bells, are heard o'er the clang of the battle!
The quivering sward by their fierce weight is dinted,
As, like two raging leopards, they struggled and panted!
Around them the torrent of battle is sweeping,
Like a ghost-ridden squall o'er a broken bank leaping!
To rescue their leaders both armies contendled,
Spears, axes, and swords in one fearful crash blended;
Thick showered the blows, o'er the prostrate kings ringing,
And the sluices of life were all open and springing.
Like a red sunset purpling the sea's stormy water,
A blood-haze enveloped that whirlwind of slaughter.
Pile on pile, the deep mass of dead heroes is growing
As fast as the drift when the dark sky is snowing.




72           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
You'd have thought-so determined the warriors contended,--
That the kingdoms of earth on the combat depended.
From the dread pile of carnage the princes are torn,
And, wounded and weak, to their chariots they're borne;
But the haughty O'Brien sees no host to defend him,
For few are the faithful chiefs left to befriend him!
Of all the brave thousands, his glory maintaining,
One shattered battalion, alone, is remaining!
And they bear him away, in their stalwart embraces,
With grief in their great souls, and gore on their faces.
They retreat, through Clanwilliam, all sadly and slowly,
Round their Prince, in his chariot, desponding and lowly!
But the toil-wearied victors forbore to pursue them,
As they looked on the battle-wreck'd plain where they knew
them.
Oh! ne'er shall that field from dark memory's mirror,
Withdraw its grim, blood-shrouded image of terror!
'Tis twilight-the pale sky with white stars is studded,
And the West with deep shadowy crimson is flooded!
The victors remain on the war field blood-clotted,
Like a few stunted trees where a forest once nodded.
No wild cheer was heard the red victory greeting,
But silent, as ghosts, was the conquerors' meeting!
Ah! dearly they paid for their triumph of honor,
And small was the trophy it yielded O'Connor!
Where's the glory of which you pretend to have tasted?
Where's the conquest for which your dear country was
wasted?
The meed of your rancour anrd discord is grantedYou have done-basely done-what the foreigners wanted!
SONG OF IRISH EMIGRANTS.
AIR--"Cruiskeen Lawn."
'TIs the last night of our stay
Ere we wander far away!
To seek our fortune on a foreign shore;
But, before we brave the sea,
Let us on this night be gay!
For, to-morrow, we may part to meet no more, boys! no more!
To-morrow, we may part to meet no more!
To a strange and distant landWith honest heart and hand;
Strong destiny obliges us to roam;
Yet, be it weal or woe,
To whatever port we go,
We won't forget the old friends at home, boys! at home!
We won't forget the old friends at home!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


73


Then fill your glasses high,
For our parting time is nigh!
And to-morrow we'll be far away from here;
Then our friends will be alone!
But they'll miss us when we're gone!
And they'll pray for our success, with a tear! boys! a tear!
And pray for our success! with a tear!
They say Australia's land
Is wealthy, great and grand!
With its fields rich in gold's shining ore;
But if every grain of sand
Were a diamond on its strand,
We'll still love poor Ireland more, boys! more!
We'll still love poor Ireland more!
Farewell, birth-place of our loveMay the angel-powers above
Give our ship a peaceful sea and gentle wind!
And tho' other lands may be
Independent, rich and free;
Yet there's none like the Land we leave behind! boys! behind!
There's none like the Land we leave behind!
Here's a health to those we leave
In the country of the brave -
May the day-star of Freedom on them smile!
May God from His high Throne
Give our people back their own!
And drive the perjured Saxon from our Isle! boys! our Isle!
And drive the perjured Saxon from our Isle!
Here's to all our youthful joys
With the pleasant girls and boys!
And every honest friend we love and knowOn Australia's golden shore
There is wealth for us in store;
And the morning is approaching! we must go! boys! go!
The morning is approaching!.we must go!
MARYANNE'S CHARMS.
MY Maryanne's hair is like the gossamer-threads,
When they float in silver wreaths o'er the flower-fring'd meads;
Round her peril-white temples its rich rings are straying,
Like the Lake's sunny curls around water-lilies playing.
My Maryanne's eyes are two blue wells of light,
Were they set in heaven, as stars, day would die in love with
night;
Nature, anxious to make something on earth, like angel-eyes,
To form Maryanne's, stole the crystal of the skies!
6




74


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


My Maryanne's voice has a fairy-harp's tone,
When 'tis heard in the twilight-fields lovely and lone;
While the flowers, all enamour'd, on their dew-pillows round,
Seem imploring the sweet airs to call back the sound!
My Maryanne's lips would the wild bees allure,
Like the red bell-blossoms of the fairy lusmore;
Love rifled all the rose-tints of the brilliant sunset-sky,
And gave to my fair one's lips their richest crimson dye.
My Maryanne's foot is as light, and as white
As a butterfly's wing in its sunny May-flight;
The wild mountain gold-flower may bend to her tread,
Without losing one gem from the crown on its head.
My Maryanne's bosom is smoother than silk,
And white as a silver cup flowing with new milk;
Her garments float round her, like veils on a shrine,
Or a parterre of flowers o'er a diamond-mine.
Last Sunday, at Mass, my young colleen was there,
And looking at her I forgot Priest and prayer;
And I thought, "what a fine place this world would be!
If all were as sinless and lovely as she!"
Yester-eve, as she walked by the blue-bosom'd tide,
I deserted my comrades, and stole to her side;
My poor, dreaming heart twenty love-speeches framed,
But, to give them an echo, my tongue got ashamed.
At last, we sat down 'mong the white daisy-bells,
And I dived for her thoughts in her two azure wells;
And there her kind spirit said something to mine,
Which I heard not but felt to be almost divine.
I press'd her hand gently-the press was return'd,
And her soft virgin eye with a sweeter beam burn'd;
I said, " Can you love me?" and drew her to my breast;
And she, blushing, whisper'd, "Yes!" and-" Shrove" told
the rest!
DRUNKEN THADY.*
(A LEGEND OF LIMERICK.)
BEFORE the famed year Ninety-eight,
In blood stamp'd Ireland's wayward fate;
When laws of death and transportation
Were served, like banquets, thro' the nationBut let it pass-the tale I dwell on
Has nought to do with red Rebellion;
*_Ebis was a realcharacter; he was a weaver by trade. Hedied in ia
4ed, 97 years.                                        -.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Altho' it was a glorious ruction,
And nearly wrought our foes' destruction.
There lived and died in Limerick City,
A dame of fame-Oh! what a pity
That dames of fame should live and die,
And never learn for what, or why!
Some say her maiden name was Brady,
And others say she was a Grady;
The d 1 choke their contradictions!
For truth is murder'd by their fictions.
'Tis true she lived-'tis true she died,
'Tis true she was a Bishop's bride,
But for herself, 'tis little matter
To whom she had been wife or daughter.
Whether of Bradys or O'Gradys!
She lived, like most ungodly ladies;
Spending his Reverend Lordship's treasure
Chasing the world's evil pleasure;
In love with suppers, cards, and balls,
And luxurious sin of festive halls,
Where flaming hearts, and flaming wine,
Invite the passions all to dine.
She died-her actions were recordedWhether in Heaven or Hell rewarded
We know not, but her time was given
Without a thought of Hell or Heaven.
Her days and nights were spent in mirthShe made her genial Heaven of earth;
And never dreamt, at balls and dinners,
There is a Hell to punish sinners.
How quick Time throws his rapid measure
Along the date of worldly pleasure?
A beam of light, 'mid cloudy shadows,
Flitting along the autumn meadows;
A wave that glistens on the shore,
Retires, and is beheld no more;
A blast that stirs the yellow leaves
Of fading woods, in autumn eves;
A star's reflection on the tide,
Which gathering shadows soon shall hide.Such and so transient, the condition
Of earthly joys and man's ambition.
Death steals behind the smile of joy,
With weapon ready to destroy;
And, tho' a hundred years were past,
He's sure to have his prey at last.
And, when the fated hour is ready,
He cares not for a lord or lady;
But lifts his gun, and snaps the trigger
And shoots alike the king and beggar.


75




76            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND,
And thus the heroine of our tale,
He shot, as fowlers shoot a quail;
And, 'mid the flash of pomp and splendor,
He made her soul the world surrender.
She join'd her fathers' awful forms
'Mid rolling clouds and swelling storms;
And, lest the Muse would be a liar,
I'm led to think she went no higher.
But now I have some secret notion,
She did not like her new promotion;
For if.she did she would remain,
And scorn to come to earth again.
But earth, the home of her affection,
Could not depart her recollection!
So she return'd to flash and shine,
But never more to dance or dine!
The story of her resurrection
Flew out in many a queer direction!
Each night, she roam'd, with airy feet,
From Thomond Bridge to Castle-street;*
And those that stay'd out past eleven,
Would want a special guard from Heaven,
To shield them, with a holy wand,
From the mad terrors of her hand!
She knock'd two drunken soldiers dead,
Two more, with batter'd foreheads, fled;
She broke the sentry-box in staves,
And dash'd the.fragments in the waves!
She slash'd the gunners, left and right,
SAnd put the garison to flight!
The devil, with all his faults and failings,
Was far mpre quiet in his dealings,
(Notwithstanding allthat he lost),
Than this unruly, ranipant she-ghost! -
No pugilist in Limerick town, -
Could ksock a man so quickly 4own,
Or deal an active blow so ready
S-.  Tfloor one, as the Bishop's Lady!
And thus the ghost appear'd and vanished,
Until her Ladyship was banish'd
SBy Father Power whom things of evil
%             Dreaded as mortals dread the devil!
J         Off to the Red Sea shoreihe drove her,
From which no tide nor time can move her,
* I have heard, since a child, mim  curious anecdotes related of the
"Bishop's Lady;" and, often hab   her midnight depredations formed
themes of awe and interest, at viany a hearth-side, in the old locality
which she haunted with a vengeance. Her nightly attacks were chiefly
directed against the guard of the Castle-barrack garrison. But the innooat tjines of ghosts and ghost-stories are gone by, and it would be well er
flib ttntry if many of the living ghosts of the present age were only a
harmless.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
From numbering sands upon the coast
That skirts the grave of Pharaoh's host!
A lady of her high-born station
Must have acquired great education
For such a clerkship-numbering sands,
With no account-book, save her hands!
But, ere the Priest removed the Lady,
There lived a "Boy," call'd "Drunken Thady '
In Thomond-gate, of social joys,
The birth-place of the " Devil's Boys!"
Thade knew his country's history well,
And for her sake would go to hell!
For hours he'd sit and madly reason
Upon the honours of high treason!
What Bills the House had lately got in,
What Croppies nimbly danced on nothing!
And how the wily game of State
Was dealt and play'd in Ninety-eight!
How Wexford fought-how Ross was lost!
And all to Erin's bloody cost!
But had the powers of Munster 'risen,
Erin had England by the weasan'!
He told long tales about those play-boys,
Call'd Terry Alts and Peep-o'-day Boys
Who roused, at night, the sleeping country,
And terrified the trembling gentry!
Now who dare say that Irish history
To Thady's breeding was a mystery?
Altho' the Parish Priest proclaim'd him,
And,first of living devils named him!
In heart he was an Irish Lumper,
But all his glory was a bumper!
He believed in God, right firm and well,
But served no Heaven and feared no Hell!
A sermon on Hell's pains may start him,
It may convince but not convert him!
He knew his failing and his fault
Lay in the tempting drop of malt;
And every day his vice went further,
And, as he drank, his heart grew harder.
Ah, Thady! oft the Parish Priest
Call'd you a wicked, drunken beast!
And said you were the devil's handle
Of brazen, bare-faced, public scandal!
An imp,-without the least contritionAt whiskey, discord and sedition!
That drinking was your sole enjoyment,
And breaking doors your whole employment!


77


/           /




78


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


That you-at every drunken caperMade windows change their glass for paper!
That, sure as closed each Sunday night in,
You set near half the parish fighting!
That, with your constant, droughty quaffing,
You broke Moll Dea and Biddy Lavin!
And drove the two poor widows begging,
For not a drop you left their keg in!
If Satan stood, with his artillery,
Full at the gates of Stein's Distillery;
With Satan's self you'd stand a tussle
To enter there and wet your whistle!
In vain the Priest reproved his doingsEven as the ivy holds the ruinsHe caution'd, counsell'd, watch'd, and track'd him,
But all in vain-at last he whack'd him;
And with a blackthorn, highly seasoned,
He urged the argument he'd reasoned.
But Thady loved intoxication,
And foil'd all hopes of reformation;
He still rais'd rows and drank the whiskey,
And roar'd, just like the Bay of Biscay.
In every grog-shop he was found,
In every row he fought a round;
The treadmill knew his step as well
As e'er a bellman knew his bell;
The jail received him forty times
For midnight rows and drunken crimes;
He flailed his wife and thump'd her brother,
And burn'd the bed about his mother,
Because they hid his fine steel pike
Deep down in Paudh Molony's dike!
The guard was call'd out to arrest him,
Across the quarry loch they chased him;
The night was dark, the path was narrow,
Scarce giving room to one wheelbarrow;
Thade knew the scanty passage well,
But headlong his pursuers fell
Into the stagnant, miry brook,
Like birds in birdlime sudden stuck.
The neighbours said the devil steel'd him,
For if the garrison assail'd him
Inside King John's strong Castle-wall,
He would escape unhurt from all!
All day he drank "potheen" at Hayes's,
And pitch'd the King and Law to blazes!
He knocked his master on the floor,
-And kiss'd Miss Lizzy at the door!:.;:    ~ er.  drunken pranks went further,
s   ";'''i.l         d he had milla murdher I




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The window panes he broke entire,
The bottles flew about the fire;
The liquor, on the hearth increasing,
Caught fire and set the chimney blazing!
The Reverend sage this deed admonish'd,
The congregation stood astonish'dHe said that Thady was an agent
Employ'd on earth by hell's black Regent!
And if he wouldn't soon reform,
His place and pay would be more warm!
His vital thread would soon be nick'd,
And into Hades he'd be kick'd!
Even there he would not be admitted,
Except the Porter he outwitted!
For, if he got inside the wall,
Most likely, he'd out-devil 'em all!
The people heard the sad assertion,
And pray'd aloud for his conversion!
While Thady in the public-house
Was emptying kegs and "brewing" rows!
For him the Priest prognosticated
A woeful doom and end ill-fated!
And truth hath rarely disappointed
The sayings of the Lord's Anointed!
But many a one in heaven takes dinner,
Who died a saint and lived a sinner!
'Twere better far, and safer surely,
To live a saint and die one purely!
All ye who're ready to condemn
A fellow-child of clay, like him!
Try if yourselves need no repentance,
Before you pass the bitter sentence!
And ere you judge your brother, first
Remember that yourselves are dust!
But if your conscience tells you then
That your own heart is free from sinCry, with the Pharisee, " Thank God!
I am not like that wicked clod!"
But to our story of this queer boy
Thady the drunken, devil-may-care-boy!
'Twas Christmas Eve-the gale was highThe snow-clouds swept along the sky;
The flaky drift was whirling down,
Like flying feathers thro' the town.
The tradesman chatted o'er his "drop,"
The Merchant closed his vacant shop
Where, all day long, the busy crowd
Bought Christmas fare, with tumult loud.
The Grocer scored the day's amounts,
The Butcher conn'd his fat accounts;


79




80


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


The Farmer left the noisy mart,
With heavy purse and lighten'd heart.
In every pane the Christmas light
Gave welcome to the holy night;
In every house the holly green
Around the wreathed walls was seen;
The Christmas blocks of oak entire,
Blazed, hiss'd and crackled in the fire;
And sounds of joy from every dwelling,
Upon the snowy blast came swelling.
The flying week, now past and gone,
Saw Thady earn two pounds one!
His good employer paid it down,
And warn'd him to refrain from town;
And banned the devilment of drinking,
But Thady scorned his sober thinking;
He fobb'd the coin, with spirit light,
To home and master bade good-night,
And, like a pirate-frigate cruising,
Steer'd to the crowded City, boozing!
The sweet-toned bells of Mary's tower,
Proclaim'd the Saviour's natal hour!
And many an eye with pleasure glisten'd!
And many an ear with rapture listen'd!
The gather'd crowd of charm'd people
Dispersed from gazing at the steeple;
The homeward tread of parting feet,
Died on the echoes of the street;
For Johnny Connell, that dreaded man,*
With his wild-raking Garryowen clan,
Clear'd the streets and smash'd each lamp,
And made the watchmen all decamp!
At half-past one the town was silent,
Except a row rais'd in the Island,
Where Thady-foe to sober thinkingWith comrade boys sat gaily drinking!
A table with a pack of cards
Stood in the midst of four blackguards,
Who. with the bumper-draught elated,
Dash'd down their trumps, and swore, and cheated!
X, Four pints, the fruits of their last game,
i '. Vhite-foaming, to the table came;
They drank, and dealt the cards about,
And Thady brought "fifteen wheel out "
Again the deal was Jack Fitzsimon's,
He turned them up, and trumps were diamonds;
* The fir-famed Johnny of Garryowen notoriety,:fter half a century of
a terrible wild career, he died well, mahing ample restitutioa for his
glorious mistakes.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.
The ace was laid by Billy Mara,
And beat with five by Tom O'Hara;
The queen was quickly laid by Thady,
Jack threw the king and douced the lady!
Bill jink'd the game and cried out, " Waiter!
Bring in the round, before 'tis later!"
The draughts came foaming from the barrel;
The sport soon ended in a quarrel;Jack flung a pint at Tom O'Hara,
And Thady levell'd Billy Mara;
The cards flew round in every quarter,
The earthen floor grew drunk with porter;
The landlord ran to call the Watch,
With oaths half Irish and half Scotch.
The Watch came to the scene of battle,
Proclaiming peace, with sounding wattle;
The combatants were soon arrested,
But Thady got off unmolested.
The night was stormy, cold and late,
No human form was in the street;
The virgin snow lay on the highways,
And chok'd up alleys, lanes, and byeways.
The North still pour'd its frigid store,
The clouds look'd black and threaten'd more;
The sky was starless, moonless, all.
Above the silent world's white pall.
The driving sleet-shower hiss'd aloudThe distant forest roar'd and bow'd;
But Thady felt no hail nor sleet,
As home he reel'd thro' Castle-street.
The whistling squall was beating on
The batter d towers of old King John,
Which guarded once, in warlike state,
The hostile pass of Thomond-gate.
The blinding showers, like silvery balls,
Rustled against the ancient walls,
As if determined to subdue
What William's guns had fail'd to do!
Old Munchin's trees, from roots to heads,
Were rocking in their churchyard beds;
The hoary tombs were wrapt in snow,
The angry Shannon roar d below.
Thade reel d along, in slow rotation,
The greatest man in Erin s nation;
Now darting forward, like a pike,
With upraised fist in act to strike;
Now wheeling backward, with the wind,
And half to stand or fall inclined;
Now sidelong, 'mid the pelting showers,
He stumbled near the tall round towers:


81




82            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
With nodding head and zig-zag feet,
He gained the centre of the street;
And, giddy as a summer-midge,
Went staggering towards old Thomond Bridge,*
Whose fourteen arches braved so clever,
Six hundred years, the rapid river;
And seem'd, in sooth, a noble picture
Of ancient Irish architecture.
But here the startled Muse must linger,
With tearful eye and pointed finger
To that dark river once the bed
Of Limerick's brave defenders deadThere half the glorious hope she cherished,
In one sad hour, deluded, perish'd;
The fatal draw-bridge open'd wide,+
And gave the warriors to the tide;
The flood received each foremost man,
The rear still madly pressing on;
'Till all the glory of the brave
Was buried in the whirling wave;
And heroes' frames-a bloodless slaughterChok'd up the deep and struggling water.
Now Thady ne'er indulged a thought
How Limerick's heroes fell or fought;
This night he was in no position
For scripture, history, or tradition.
His thoughts were on the Bishop's LadyThe first tall arch he'd cross'd already;
He paused upon the haunted ground,
The barrier of her midnight round.
Along the Bridge-way, dark and narrow,
He peep'd-while terror drove its arrow,
Cold as the keen blast of October,
Thro' all his frame and made him sober.
Awhile he stood in doubt suspended,
Still to push forward he intended;
When, 1o! just as his fears released him,
Up came the angry ghost and seized him!
Ah, Thady! you are done!-Alas!
The Priest's prediction comes to passIf you escape this demon's clutch,
The devil himself is not your match!
He saw her face grim, large and pale,
Her red eyes sparkled through her veil;
* Old Thomond Bridge, with its fourteen arches, and the adjacent fortifications, round towers, &c., were erected in the reign of King John.
t This was the act of a traitor who held the command of the draw-bridge
at the time of the siege.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Her scarlet cloak-half immaterialFlew wildly round her person aerial.
With oaths, he tried to grasp her form,
'Twere easier far to catch a storm;
Before his eyes she held him there,
His hands felt nothing more than air;
Her grasp press'd on him cold as steel;
He saw her form but could not feel;
He tried not, tho' his brain was dizzy,
To kiss her, as he kissed Miss Lizzy,
But pray'd to Heaven for help sincereThe first time e'er he said a prayer.
'Twas vain-the Spirit, in her fury,
To do her work was in a hurry;
And, rising, with a whirlwind's strength,
Hurl'd him o'er the battlement.
Splash went poor Thady in the torrent,
And roll'd along the rapid current,
Towards Curragour's mad-roaring Fall
The billows tost him, like a ball;
And who dare say, that saw him sinking,
But 'twas his last full round of drinking?
Yet, no-against the river's might
He made a long and gallant fight;
That stream in which he learned to swim,
Shall be no watery grave to him!
Near, and more near he heard the roar
Of rock-impeded Curragour,
Whose torrents, in theirheadlong sway,
Raged mad as lions for their prey!
Above the Fall he spied afloat
Some object, like an anchor'd boat,
To this, with furious grasp, he clung,
And from the tide his limbs upswung.
Half-frozen in the stern he lay,
Until the holy light of day
Brought forth some kind assisting hand
To row poor Thady to the strand.
'Mid gazing crowds, he left the shore
Well sober d, and got drunk no more!
And in the whole wide parish round,
A better Christian was not found;
He loved his God and served his neighbour,
And earn'd his bread by honest labour.


83




84


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


REQUIEM FOR JOHN MITCHELL.
'Tis midnight-the spectre-eyed meteor is red
Where the dingy mist covers Camailta's bleak head;
And the cold, constant blast over Ara's dark broom,
Seems to whisper of death and the grief of the tomb.
Why moans the lone wood, like a ghost in despair
Why looks yon dim star, like a blood-circled tear?
While a dismal sound throbs up from Shannon's deep tide,
Like a lover's heart-groan at the grave of his bride.
The skies of Tipperary are fringed with a cloud
That hangs o'er her hills, like a wizard's black shroud;
While I mark its weird drapery, some phantasy dread
Seems to whisper around me-" John Mitchell is dead!"
Dark spirit! whose voice 'wakes an echo of fear
In the springs of my being when evil is near!
Accurst be thy white-phantom lips that have said,
To the cold midnight shadows-" John Mitchell.is dead /"
Must evil for ever our Island consume
With the gall of the traitor and grasp of the tomb?
Must every grand tree that grows up in our cause,
Be consign d to the grave or cut down by the laws?
Ah! something accurst has been doing or done,
For which evils rain on us from heaven and its sun;
Lo! every proud soul, with an arm raised to save
Our Land-has been mark'd for the dungeon or grave!
Brave Oak of our freedom! unbroken and unbent
By the blasts which the tyrant and traitor have sent;
After all your long exile, and toils of the past,
You came back.to poor Erin to die there at last!
Yes, o'er the wild seas, to her ever-loved shore,
You return'd with the flag which at parting you bore;
Sure, for you, glorious martyr! the world had no rest,
Till you came back to Erin to sleep in her breast!
The proud eagle of Camailta that soars to the sun,
Is the only grand type of the course you did run!
You stopp'd not for power and you paused not for prey,
Like the Patriots that crawl at Baal's altar to-day!
Your coufi~try' deep love in your great soul you boreThat soul richly set with the gems of her lore!
Whose godlike ambition was only to see
Her spoilers o'erthrown and her children free!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


85


For the helots that crouch to the rods that control
Each pulse of the heart and each voice of the soul;
There was scorn on your high brow and fire on your tongue,
Like a God-inspired prophet His people among!
Let our grief rain the calm drops of sorrowing pride,
Such as sad Erin wept when her Owen Roe died!
But let no dastard tear of a helot be shed
O'er the glorified dust of the mighty-soul'd Dead!
A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR HER INSANE
DAUGHTER.
2Mavourneen bhan deelish! My heart's black with sorrow
To see the young bloom of your Reason all gone!
Whose mind, like a rainbow, so lately could borrow
The bright hues of heaven from intellect's sun!
Mavrone, oh, mavourneen! My soul's living jewel!
When fate flung this mist on the beam of your mind,
We thought you'd be cured-but, oh! God! 'tis too cruel,
To see your young spirit still, living on, blind!
Oh, innocent darling, my poor, stricken daughter!
Those meaningless smiles on your cheek seem to be
Like beams on the face of the cold, heartless water
That feels not, nor cares how it rolls to the sea.
The heavens may smile, but you heed not their smiling,
The blossoms may blow, but you see not their bloom!
The mountains look grand and the meadows beguiling,
But you are as cold to them all as the tomb!
God's worlds of light may roll on in their beauty,
All singing His anthems of love round the Pole;
Their splendour and beauty ih vain may salute thee,
Since your Reason's bright eye lost the star of its soul.
Oh, cuishla mavourneen! thrice black was the season,
When this soul-shrouding shadow hath fallen upon thee!
Blighting and burning the flowers of thy Reason,
As a blast tears the buds from a young summer tree!
AMavourneen machree! you once made my life sunny!
My heart drank your smiles as a lily drinks dew!
But since your mind's honeycomb lost its bright honey,
I'm like a poor, lonely bee mourning for you
How long, oh, mo stoir! will your young spirit linger
In blank, dreary shadows of dreamland enshrined?
May the angel of God, with his bright shining finger,
Brush off the bleak darkness that's clouding your mind!




86


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


COME, GENTLE SPRING.
(1862.)*
COME, gentle Spring, with thy blossoms and leaves,
And sweet gales, and calm skies of sapphire and gold;
With thy clear, sunny morns and soft, shady eves,
Oh! come, gentle Spring, as thou camest of old!
I have watch'd thy first bud on the branch of the tree;
I have mark'd thy first tears as they dropp'd from the sky;
I have hail'd thy first daisy, adorning the lea,
With a soft, snowy fringe round its bright-yellow eye!
I have yearn'd for thy beauty, thro' winter's bleak hours,
When the silent snow lay on the hill's foggy side;
I have dreamt of thy verdure, thy sunbeams and showers,
As a sick lover dreams of the smiles of his bride!
I have welcomed the glow of thy flower-nursing sun,
Thro' his red, orient curtain of rainbow-mist seen,
When the woods put the robes of their loveliness on,
And the rich, glowing landscape look'd flowery and green.
Tho' Seasons have vanish'd, my heart is the same,
Since, in boyhood's first glee, 'mid thy glories I trod,
And saw thee record, with a finger of flame,
On mountain and meadow, the bounty of God!
When, like two lovely sisters, sweet April and May,
Thro' our bright, showery Island went laughing along,
And rivall'd each other, upon their green way,
With smiles rich in sunshine, and wild bursts of song.
But now, thou art sullen and dark, gentle Spring!
Thy voice has no music-thy face has no mirth;
Cold showers, chilly blasts, and black vapours you bring,
As if God's love and bounty had fled from the earth!
Thy days, erst so golden, wax sickly and pale,
Thy skies, erst so smiling, look cloudy and chill!
Thy infant flowers droop in the half-perish'd vale,
SAs if winter's bleak shadows had linger'd there still!
Trhe small brooks to broad lakes have grown with thy tears,
And the young apple-blossoms are slain with thy breath,
And the cold wood, half-naked and shivering, appears
To whisper some dark tale of famine and death!
The black north-east wind shakes the sleet from its wing,
And wails o'er the plain, like a funeral cry;
' The birds, in the groves, have forgotten to sing,
As if Nature, in tears, was preparing to die!
* This season, like the present, 1879, was intensely severe, With continuous
rain, blighting winds, gloomy days, &c.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


87


Oh! thou once-gentle and bright-beaming One!
Wilt thou cast the cold frowns of thine anger away?
And put on a new dress of verdure and sun,
And welcome, with smiles, thy fair daughter, sweet May?
Oh! throw off thy dank cloak of darkness, and smile,
The plume of the raven becomes not the dove;
Pour the spirit of life in the veins of the soil,
And breathe in our hearts the mild sweets of thy love!
THE WIDOW'S LAMENT.*
HAS my noble one perished?-Oh! can I believe
That his brightness and beauty were meant for the grave?
There's a pain in my soul, for the tear-fountains there
Have been dash'd to my eyes by the stroke of despair!
O'er my spirit a desolate midnight is cast,
Like a blight where the black-footed plague-fiend hath pass'd;
Oh! the chords of my bosom are bleeding and torn,
And my brain, like the bed of a furnace, doth burn!
Has the palm of my heart's summer garden been stole,
Whose sunny bloom sweeten'd the bower of my soul?
Where his image has sunk itself deep, as the beam
Of the yellow-brow'd sun in the breast of the stream.Is he gone?-Oh! my God! I imagine the ray
Of earth's glory is quench'd since you call'd him away!
There's a shadow o'er all-Heaven seems to my sight,
As if Death held his wing between earth and its light.
Let me weep o'er my love, 'till his white face appears
Melting back into life, with the light of my tears!
'Till death, at my heart-burst of anguish, shall breathe
A sigh of regret for the wreck he has made!
Ah, my Idol! thou'rt silent and frozen, as snow,
But the stamp of thy soul is yet fair on thy brow;
Like a pensive beam left on a gray cloud alone
In the West, when the flame of the Day-God is gone!
The rich, silken fringe of the ringlets that gemm d
Thy forehead hangs yet o'er its white throne undimm'd;
But the bright berry-stain of thy lip had not fled,
Could I kiss a new soul in its crescent of red!
Yes! thy brow yet has light on its snow-palace fair,
0 God! what a halo of manhood was there!
What a sun-torrent flash'd from the wells of those eyes,
Like morning's gemm'd arrows shot down from the skies!
While my heart to the music that burst from thy mouth,
Danced'light, as a flower in the gale of the South!
* The above lament was composed for a gentleman of great worth and
learning, who died suddenly in Limerick some years ago. He was respected and loved, by all classes of the community, for his true goodness of
heart and brilliant attainments.
This accomplished person was William Fitzgerald, Mayor of Limerick, in
1861. His death occurred in the year of his mayoralty.




88


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


And thou'rt gone from my soul and the babes of thy love?
So sudden-Oh! Merciful Maker above!
When you summon'd my darling for ever from me,
Had I seen the dread angel that brought the decree,
At his dark, awful feet I would fling myself down,
And my heart, wing'd with prayer, would rush up to Thy
Throne!
And I'd clasp in my arms his pinions' black plume,--
Tho' the light of my eyes were struck dead with his gloom,--
And I'd show him my babes, and implore him to spare
Their sire, 'till he'd listen and yield to my prayer,
And pity my madness of grief, and depart
With his gloomy wing moist with the tears of my heart!
Oh! I'd tell all the bounties my darling's hand spread,
And I'd number the widows and orphans he fedBut I'm raving-I'm raving-the blast on the plain
Of the desert, can not be so wild as my brain!
Oh! his spirit was rich as a golden Spring-day,
And no cloud ever shadow'd the calm of its ray;
And the high, noble tone of his manners and mind,
Like a magnet, drew round him the hearts of mankind:
His wisdom, his talent, his beauty!-0 Heaven!
Was it all for the grave that such bright gifts were given?
Ha! see how the pale-handed Angel succeeds
In destroying Earth's blossoms while sparing the weeds!
Sure my lost one was generous in kind deeds, each day,
And a halo of blessings was shower'd on his way;
But all could not shield his young heart from the stroke
That slew him, as steel slays the stately hill-oak!
Oh! the dim sky appears like a winding-sheet spread,
And the face of the earth to my vision looks dead!
And the moaning of ghosts seems to come in my ears,
And the City looks black with a rain-mist of tears!
The carriage of death, with its raven-like plume,
Is waiting to take you away to the tomb;
But I'll not let you go-they'll not take you from me,
'Till I empty my heart of its last drop o'er thee!
'Till my eye-founts, exhausted, in darkness shall swim,
And my soul, in a blood-circle, melt on their rim!
Ah! the grave-stone that soon shall close o'er thy young brow,
Has a shadow less black than my dreary heart now!
The day-beam of heaven shall brighten no more
Thy face that so proudly God's grand image bore;
And the worms shall creep thro' those ringlets of light
That flowed, like calm rays round a summer-cloud white!
Thou wilt lie in the clay-in the deep horrid gloomAnd I'll sit, in my desolate sorrow, at home,
With my spirit in streams, and thy babes at my knee
Looking round, with their innocent blue eyes, for thee!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
THE DARK-HAIRED BOY,
CAMAILTE'S hill is bright,
With its scarf of azure-sheen,
And the glowing gems of heaven
In its glist'ning crown of green:
But I know a dark hair'd youth,
With a heart as bright and high
As the cloud that drinks the sunbeam
On its summit, in the sky.
'Twas on a bright red eve,
In the fiery month of June,
When the heavens seem to boast
They can do without the moon,
I put on my Sunday gown,
With three flashy flounces gay,
And green as that wild meadow
Where the mountain Fairies play.
To the crossing of four roads,
Where the dance was held, I sped,
With some notion, I believe,
Of a lover, in my head!
The boys and maids were up
In their native jigs and reels,
And you'd think the very wind
Lent its pinions to their heels.
I sat upon the hedge-bank,
Looking-laughing-at the fun,
With my heart upon a thorn,
Till the merry reel was done;
Then a slender, dark-hair'd boy,
With a playful, smiling glance.
Came, and bowing, took my hand,
And invited me to dance.
I rose slowly to my feet,
And pretended to look shy,
While the heart, within my breast,
Gave a ringing laugh of joy.
O'er the white face of the road,
Our quick feet chased the tune
Of "The Piper in the Meadow!"
And the merry "Young May Moon!"
Oh! I never felt so glad,
And I never danced so light,
But when I turn'd home,
Little I did sleep that night.
At last when slumber cameIt was but to cheat me thenI was dancing, in a dream,
With the dark-hair'd boy again!
7


89




90


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
When day roll'd o'er the fields
Its yellow, glancing ring,
I took my milking-can,
And went for water to the spring:
But as I stood awhile,
In the meadow, looking round,
O'er the blooming thorn fence
Came my dark boy, with a bound.
How I felt I could not tell,
Were I speaking for a week;
But I thought my leaping heart
Flung red fire upon my cheek;
He spoke a few kind words,
And, I think, they had the tone
Of the airy sounds that float
Round the summer's leafy throne.
I gazed upon his locks,
All as curling and as black
As a raven-bosom'd cloud,
With a sunburst on its back;
And his eye laugh'd, like a gem
In a shaded pearl-ring,
As he took my yielding hand,
And came with me to the spring.
We sat upon the marge,
Where flowers, red, white, and blue,
In their green beds, slept away,
Their carouse of gushing dew.
By the crystal-bosom'd well,
There weTtalk'd for two long hours,
While his words grew round my heart,
Like a glowing zone of flowers.
And when we 'rose to part,
And he turn'd to go away,
Oh! I'd give the whole wide world
To be near him all the day!
He said he loved me truly,
And his bright eyes seem'd to swear
That each tender word he utter'd,
From his young heart, was sincere.
Oh! I'll wear no other gown,
But the green one, every day,
For its colour is so rich,
And its flounces are so gay;
A gentle, Irish maiden
To her Irish lover 's seen
In the true light of her beauty,
When she's dress'd in native green I




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


91


THE WOODS AND WATERFALLS OF DOONASS.
WHEN the calm sunset flung its red gold on the heather,
And the clouds on the gray hills were resting together,
And the winds, as if tired of their sporting thro' heaven,
Fell asleep on the white, silver bosom of even,
Then I stray'd-as one strays in a splendid night-vision,
'Mid scenes robed in glory, all wildly ElysianWhere Doonass lifts to heaven its forests of darkness,
And the naked rocks frown, in their desolate starkness!
The sapphire-zoned moon, in her mid-summer mildness,
Lit the lone, dreary night-scene of beautiful wildness,
And the gloom-shrouded forest, deep, silent, and hoary,
Received, with cold frowns, the rich gift of her glory;
While convulsively roar'd the dread cascade gigantic,
As if giving birth to another Atlantic;
And its surges leap'd madly, o'er rocks rent asunder,
Like a host of white demons with trumpets of thunder.
Where the woods shake their crowns, 'mid the hall of the
lightning,
O'er the battle of torrents, all whirling and whitening,
Stretching down to the wild flood their arms stupendousAs if conciliating the giant tremendousI sat on a bank, with pale summer-gems spangled,
O'erscreened by those boughs, with their green shadows
tangled,
While the dim, silvery spray, from the dashing Falls driven,
Gleam'd on them, like sparks from the star-fires of heaven.
In the bloom-cover'd parterres, that o'er me ascended,
Earth's sweetness, with all heaven's brightness, seem'd blended;
Spring's wardrobe, where Nature puts on her choice dresses,
When virgin May 's coming to meet her caresses,
Like breathings of angels, the winds from the meadows,
With murmurs of joy, fell asleep in their shadows;
And the woods' moonlight helmets seem'd lightly to quiver,
As timing the organ-toned song of the river.
The charms of Hy Brazil,* by spirit-hands painted,
'Mid the waves' sunset glory, ne'er look'd so enchanted,
As fairy Doonass, when the Night Queen doth render
The spell of her beams to its wild summer splendour.
* A beautiful phantom Island, called Hy Brazil, is said, by the peasantry
of Arran, to make its appearance above the waters of the Atlantic, clothed
with indescribable splendour; but any one attempting to visit it is sure
never to return. It was in early ages supposed to be the Elysian Bower of
the Pagan Irish, i. e., Tir-na-n-oge.
See Gerald Griffin's magnificent Poem on Hy Brazil, and another on the
same subject by the talented R. D. Joyce.




92


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


As dreamland appears to the soul of the sleeper,
Changing wilder and brighter, and darker and deeper,
Thus rose the weird landscape of grandeur before me,
Like an Eden, just dropp'd from the star-islands o'er me.
Bank, bower, hill and lawn, look'd so richly united,
They seem'd with each other's wild beauty delighted;
While the planets, as wrapt in sublime meditation,
Hung o'er the bright picture, in mute adoration!
Oh! to see it, when Morn, with her vesture of whiteness,
Walks o'er the blue hills, in her new-born brightness!
What a grand, fairy halo of magic glows round it,
When the rich sunny splendour of daylight has crowned it!
Then look, with thy soul, from that Eden of sweetness,
On the glories that circle the river's wild fleetness;
From gay Castle Connell,* and Erina's green alleys,
To lordly Mount Shannon of flower-cover'd valleys:
Feast thine eyes on those scenes, all with magic abounding,
Hear the waterfalls' thunderous music resounding;
And thou'lt feel that the seasons ne'er paid their bright visit
To a landscape of beauty so wildly exquisite!
Behold it in Springtime-how vernal and bowery!
Behold it in Summer-how radiant and flowery!
Behold it in Autumn-romantic and airy!
Behold it in Winter-how awful and dreary!
In Springtime the greenest! in Autumn the mildest!
In Summer the grandest! in Winter the wildest!
O Nature! thou st painted no scenes to surpass
The bright waterfalls and green woods of Doonass!
O'NEILL'S GATHERING.
A BARDIC WAR ODE.
THE clans are trooping from the hillsLamh dearg Aboo!t
Wild their martial war-cry swellsLamh dearg Aboo!
High waves the Bloody Hand
Over the rushing band,
That burns to bleed for Erin's landLamh dearg Aboo!
* Properly, Castle Connaing. It derived its name from the once powerful
family of O'Connaing, or Gunning, who inherited the Castle and ruled the
districts around. It is stated that a troop of cavalry could manoeuvre in the
great ball of this mighty fortress. Itself and Carrigogunnell were almost
entirely blown up by gunpowder, after the Siege of Limerick, by a paid
Vandal, named Ormsby.
t The Red Hand for ever-the war-cry of O'Neill's clansmen.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Here come O'Donnell's spearsLamh dearg Aboo!
Hark! how Tyrconnell cheers,
Bataillah Aboo!
Here comes the proud O'Neill,
Flaming with Freedom's zeal,
In Saxon blood to plunge his steelLamh dearg Aboo!
Who would be so base or mean,
Lamh dearg Aboo!
To kneel before the Saxon Queen?
Lamh dearg Aboo!
Oh, sun! withdraw thy blessed ray!
And, Mother Earth, dissolve away,
Ere we behold that hateful day!
Lamh dearg Aboo!
Still the blood of mighty kingsLamh dearg Aboo!
In O'Neill's proud bosom springsLamh dearg Aboo!
The rushing sea shall turn to stone,
And heaven and earth in fetters groan
Ere he shall bow before her throneLamh dearg Aboo!
Now is the time to knowLamh dearg Aboo!
Erin's true friend or foeLamh dearg Aboo!
Ye who feel Erin's woeYe who hate Erin's foeForward, and strike the blow!
Lamh dearg Aboo!
Fetters and famine-gravesLamh dearg Aboo!
Are the reward of slavesLamh dearg Aboo!
Sons of the brave and free,
Lovers of Liberty!
Onward to victory!
Lamh dearg Aboo!
Who'd prefer a shackled handLamh dearg Aboo!
To a brave battle-brand?
Lamh dearg Aboo!
Shackled hands, let them stay
Battle brands! up-away!
Freedom is yours to-day!
Lamh dearg Aboo!


93




94         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


THE BATTLE OF CLONTIBRET.*
(A.D. 1593.)
THE noonday sun, at Clontibret, blazed on the helms and
spears
Of Norrey's far-extended ranks and Segraye's cuirassiers,
While closely set, in grand array, with sparths all flaming
bright,
Stood princely Hugh's embattled clans, fierce, thirsting for the
fight.
High in the Chief's refulgent van the royal Red Hand stream'd,
And many a princely helm beneath that glorious bannerbeam'd;
And many a stalwart arm of wrath, and many a heart of fire,
Thirsted to drown, in Saxon blood, the Gael's eternal ire.
Along the vale one burning sea of polish'd steel is pour'd,
One furious surge of human force, with many a lifted sword;
A Nation's spirit blazing up 'gainst foreign fraud and might,
A Nation's hand, in vengeance raised, to guard her sacred
right.
Ho! Norreys, tho' thy alien powers in arms and gold are
strong,
They soon shall feel the dire result of Right confronting
Wrong;
Not one of all thy pirate tribe, embattled for the fray,
Shall e'er forget the black defeat that waits them here to-day.
Now swelling wild, along the plain, the thunderous war-notes
ring,
And with their peal a roar of arms resounds from wing to wing,
As.when, upon the darken'd main, a sudden whirlwind springs,
And in the angry face of heaven the boiling ocean flings.
Now forward, in tempestuous sweep, with lifted spear and
targe,
Across the stream, like hungry wolves, the Saxon columns
charge;
But back they reel, before their foes, upon the river's banks,
As if a shower of heaven's bolts had cleft their bleeding ranks.
With loud harangue, and gesture stern, their General checks
the flight,
And, wheeling back their bristling tide, renew'd the furious
fight;
* Five miles from the town of Monaghan lies the celebrated battle-field
of Clontibret, where Hugh O'Neill, Prince of Ulster, defeated a great Eniglish army, commanded by General Norreys. and in the thick of the conflict, encountered and slew Segrave, a Meathian officer of gigantic stature,
who headed a body of English cavalry.




LAYS AND LEGBNDS OF THOMOND.                 95
Then blazed the muskets of the Gael along the blasted plain,
Then crash'd the axe, and rung the sword, and swell'd the
Saxon slain.
The grim, ascending cloud of war shut out the burning sun,
And swathed, in its ghastly folds, the flash of sword and gun,
'Till rolling, like a stream of fire, from out its deadly shade,
The Saxon ranks, in frantic rout, across the river sway'd.
Again they rally and return-again the conflict's roar,
Like the dread voice of an earthquake, rolls along the sounding
shore;
Again the bosom of the plain is wrapt in lurid flame;Again the broken Saxon host is driven o'er the stream.
Now thrice across that blood-dyed stream, the scourgers of
the world,
With shatter'd ranks, and tatter'd flags, in headlong flight
were hurl'd;
Each time a grove of reeking steel was buried in their frames,
And thickly burst the rain of death in smoking lochs and
streams.
And yet, tho' crush'd and gored beneath the Gael's avenging
hand,
Brave Norreys from disgraceful flight prevents his bleeding
band;
0 gallant Chief! in vain you try to turn the battle's scale,
'Tis not in human power to wrest the victory from the Gael!
Tall Segrave, with his dread array of cavalry, sweeps on,
And crushingly drives down upon the horsemen of Tyrone;
He sees their chieftain in the van, majestically proud,
And radiant, as a fiery star before a tempest-cloud.
As leaps from Galtees' misty head its lightning-diadem,
And shoots, with hissing wrath, along the forest's branchy rim,
So sprang the vengeful giant, with an avalanche's bound,
Upon the Prince of high Tyrone, with all his chiefs around.
As rapid as a meteor-flash, O'Neill laid lance in rest,
The furious chiefs met, hand to hand-their war-steeds, breast
to breast,
The steel-plates burst-the steeds roll back, each neighing, as
he reels,Like rocks against each other hurl'd from two adjoining
hills.
With flaming eyes, and cloudy brows, and lance to targe
opposed,
Again, in dire and deadly shock, the powerful warriors closed




96            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Upon each corslet's sounding plate, the buzzing spears are
broke,
And horse and man, on either side, swerve backward from
the stroke.
As towers the gloomy sea-cliff o'er the angry-foaming brineAs on the valley's kingly oak looks down the mountain-pine,
So glared fierce Segrave on O'Neill, with vengeance in his
frown,
And raised his iron-sheathed hand to strike the Chieftain
down.
O'Neill, with one fierce tiger-clutch, the raging giant grasp'd,
With straining arms, like iron-bands around a castle clasp'd;
Like waves beneath two striking ships, their stumbling horses
rock'd,
While in that dreadful steel-embrace the mighty Chiefs were
lock'd.
Both hosts stood gazing at the strife-the roaring of the fray
Subsided into silence, like a sudden frozen seaWhile, 'mid that standing wave of death, with sinewy tug and
strain,
The grappling champions from their steeds roll headlong to
the plain.
As two gigantic mountain-elms, by wintry blasts uptore,
Come down, with tangled branches, to the earth with crashing
roar,
Thus, in each other's death-grips lock'd, the furious warriors
go
Down on the field, with fierce O'Neill above his mighty foe.
One moment's dreadful struggle-then a deep death-groan
succeedsO'Neill spring up, and there, unmoved, the prostrate giant
bleeds!
Ho! Saxons! where's your champion now? his ponderous iron
mail
Was but slight proof against the sword and vengeance of the
Gael!
dash'd the clans, with bursting cheers that tore the ringing
heaven,
And, like a storm-toss'd field of corn, the Saxon host is riven;
Before the blazing tide of steel the sinking ranks expire,
As falls the crackling forest in a sweeping flood of fire!
The Saxons fly in bloody rout and direful disarray,
As when a whirlwind, from the mead, sweeps off the tangled
hay;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             97
Behind them, like a frantic surge, their foes with axe and
spear,
A deluge of destruction roll upon their broken rere.
There's harping in Dungannon's towers, and high Tyrconnell's
hall,
And paeals ring from green Tyrone to regal Donegal;
And bonfires blaze, and minstrels sing, in palace, town, and
vale,
How Britain's might sunk down before the valour of the Gael.
MAGGIE BHAN.
HAVE ye seen young Maggie Bhan?
Sweet as an apple-tree in MayShe's gone to town, since early dawn,
To buy her wedding-dress to-day:
The lily on the bank's green sideThe wild rose on its thorny throneHath not the glow of modest pride
That in her gentle features shone.
When village maidens bleach'd their clothes
Upon the sunny hedges green,
Among the snow-white linen rows
Young Maggie's were the whitest seen;
When at the needle and the reel,
Her work it was the neatest done;
When at the busy spinning-wheel,
Her flax it was the finest spun.
Young Donald of the cairn, came down
To court the maid, but woo'd in vain;
To all his words her ear was stone
That heeds not sunshine, wind or rain.
Her father press'd-her mother pray'd
The maiden to receive his suit,
With glowing cheek and eye, she said,
" I do not fear to tell the truth!"Young Donald's rich in kine and gold,
And yet to whom has he been kind?
A selfish, sordid, spirit cold,
Proclaims his barren, wintry mind!
The flower can sooner love the blast
That bites it on its gentle stem,
Than I shall have my fortunes cast
With any heartless churl, like him!
"To Connor Oge I'll give my hand,
Nor care for censure, nor applause;
His gallant father lost his land,
For he was true to Ireland's cause!




98


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


And though he has no gold, or farm,
An honest, loving heart has he;
A noble will, and manly arm,
Right able to provide for me!
"He that loves not his native Land,
Nor love for God, nor man can feel;
But Connor has a heart and hand
To dare and do for Erin's weal!
I would be rich, at his dear side,
Tho' asking alms from door to door;
But to be heartless Donald's bride,
With all his gold I'd still be poor!"
TO THE MEMORY OF "UNA."
The great Irish-American Poetess, born in the county Antrim, 1841, died
in Brooklyn, after a short illness, April, 1876, justly regretted by thousands,
throughout all America, and elsewhere. Her poems teem with rare original
beauty, piety of a heavenly order, and patriotism of the grandest stamp.
THOU heaven-gifted spirit of beautiful song!
Dearest " Una," farewell! we'll remember thee long!
And the spell of th!y genius shall breathe evermore
Thro Columbia's wide regions and Erin's green shore!
Attuned by the glorious Creator alone,
Thy lyre hath a charm ethereal in its tone!
Like the sky-bird that springs from the flower-haloed sod,
Thro' the sun-clouds of morning to warble for God!
Rich as spring buds refreshed by the dawn's virgin dew,
Thy blossoms of soul into loveliness grew!
Bright, beauteous and brief was thy life's summer day,
While thy mind, like a rose, gave its sweetness away!
Heaven call'd thee, loved " Una!" to join its sweet band,
And the harp of the Lord is now touch'd by thy hand!
Of thy soul's seraph melody earth hath its share,
And immortal as Nature thy praise shall be there!
THE EVICTED PEASANT,
MIDNIGHT raves in gloomy anger-hoarse and rough the icewinds blowAnd the bleak face of the darkness wears a streaming veil of
snow;
But our hearth is cold and empty, and our little hut is bare,
And, 0 God! my gentle Eily lies in famine-fever there!
Come, Father-oh! come quickly--with the Sacrament and
prayer,
My stricken angel's dying, and you have no time to spare!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.              99
God look upon my sorrow! Holy Saviour, dear! I pray,
Recall-recall thy dread decree-or take us both away!
The Priest obey'd the summons, and has flung his garment on,
And away thro' drift and darkness with the peasant he has
gone;
The snow fell densely round them, silent, desolate, sublime,
Like a white pall flung by Mercy o'er a world black with
crime!
Beside the dismal highway 'rose a heap of straw and mud,
That, like a thing of blackness, on the winter-carpet stood;
There the mournful peasant enter'd, with the muffled Priest
behind,
Into the dreary chamber where the stricken one reclined.
A rush-light's feeble flicker by a lowly pallet shone,
Like a solitary moonbeam thro' a churchyard shadow thrown,
And its misty gleam show'd nothing to the gazer's eye at all,
Save the bleeding Saviour's image, o'er the sick one, on the
wall!
"Eily! darling, here's the Priest!" the shivering husband
said,
As with a stealing footstep, he approach'd the wretched bed:
"Are you sleeping?-oh! my dear one!"-but she breathed no
reply,
And the dark fringe show'd no motion o'er the dead beam of
her eye.
And her face was like the shadow of the midnight moon's
eclipse,
For the snow of death had fallen on the rose-bloom of her
lips;
And the soul that lent the spring-beam of its brightness to
those eyes,
Had taken back its radiance to its Maker in the skies.
'Eily, love! dear! don't you hear me?" and he softly laid
his hand
Where her rich hair's sleeping billow edged her forehead's
waxen strand;
But its touch of freezing chillness to his fever'd pulses told
That the life-flame of her spirit was extinguish'd in its mould.
Oh! he tost his arms wildly-and a shriek of horror burst,
As if life and death were wrestling in his tenement of dust!
And he flung his arms round her, and his strong cry of despair
Seem'd to follow her free spirit thro' the broad plains of the
air.
"Eily! Eily! did you leave me? Oh! what did the Angels
say
In my absence-in my absence, when you stole from me,
away?




100         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Ah! if all the world had left me, I would not fret nor care,
While the sunlight of your loving eyes was shining near me
there!
Sure our hearts for one another, with the flame of love were
bright,
And the wintry cloud of poverty could never quench its light;
Thy pure image, like a glory, on my spirit's eye was cast,
Oh! I worshipp'd and I loved you, and you're gone from me
at last!
The night is wild and stormy-'tis too cold for you to go,
But you care not for the tempest, with its flying robe of snowNor the wind, nor drift, nor darkness could harm your spirit's
wings,
As they flash'd o'er midnight's cloud-throne up to heaven's
sunny springs!
Oh! our bridal day was splendid, as the sun-zoned summer's
skies,
And your beauty made the world look like heaven to my eyes!
While your bosom's snow was heaving, with its pulses' joyful
play,
Like a bough of milk-white blossoms in the honied breath of
May!
As we linger'd by the wild Lake-we shall linger there no
moreLike its music-breathing waters, our hearts ran, gushing o'er,
With the sunshine of the present, while the gloomy future
lay,
Like a cloud-built rainbow palace raised, and painted with a
ray.
How I pull'd the red-lipp'd wild-flowers! how I flung them on
your breast!
Like May eve's sunny roses in the bosom of the WestWhile your sweet laugh, thro' the meadow, like an air-harp's
song, was thrown,
The echoes, from each other, seem'd to snatch its golden tone:
And we rested on the moss-bank where the yellow beams lay
bright,
And your wild, glad eyes were dancing, like two fairy springs
of light;
And the Lake's gold curls before us, in bright rings of splendour run,
Like a shower of fire-gems shaken from the forehead of the
sun.
Oh! you wove a zone of magic round my spirit's pinion, then,
On the bright lake's green-fring'd border,-now I think we're
there again;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             101
And I feel your sweet eyes on me, like'the blessed rays that
fall
On the captive's vision'd freedom in his dreary prison hall;
And your hair streams, like a cloud-wreath, when the mountain's snow-gemm'd peak
Steals a kiss of flashing glory from the morning's brilliant
cheek;
And your glances-like a star-gush, 'mid the darkness of the
PoleShoot their radiant points of beauty thro' the bosom of my
soul!
But the honey of our happiness was changed to bitter gall,
And 'twas not the will of God, love! sure 'twas man that did
it all!
Tho' you struggled to be cheerful, well I knew your heart was
chill'd,
Like a gentle, little blossom by a poison-vapour kill'd!
I made you a sweet drink, love, your burning lips to wet,
But you went away without it, and 'tis here untasted yet;
For the Angels had prepared for you a drink of joy, divine,
And since your soul has tasted it, you do not care for mine!
Oh! our little home was happy as the linnet's peaceful nest,
'Till our harvest-crops were blighted, and the Agent took the
rest;
And he turn'd us out to perish, in the winter of the year,
But a neighbour gave us shelter in this wretched cabin here!
The Parish Priest advised us for the poorhouse to depart,
Where my Eily and my children would be torn from my heart;
Let him tell the guilty Agent's haughty lady to go there,
Sure my Eily was as tender and as virtuous and fair!
I went among the farmers, who still held struggling on,
Like pale leaves clinging to the boughs when all the rest are
gone;
But I couldn't find employment-nor the wages of a dayTo keep famine from my darling and our little ones away!
The wily Saxon preacher came to tempt us in our need,
And he offer'd bread and money if we'd learn his foreign creed;
But Eily said-tho' famine's wolf was eating at her frame,
" God suffer'd more,-we'll die before we traffic on His Name!"
My fair-hair'd angel-daughter and her cherub-brother died,
And they lay, like two crush'd lilies, in their death-sleep side
by side!
How my Eily emptied o'er them the blue fountain of her eyes,
Like the showery cloud of morning softly melting in the skies!
I laid their slender bodies in the consecrated sod,
But their souls, like two white cygnets, flew together up to
God;




102          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And He sent them back, all shining from the grandeur of His
Throne,
To bring their mother with them, and she's gone-and I'm
alone!
Eily! Eily! oh, look on me from the palace of the sky!
You said you loved me fondly, and you never told a lie;
And you often said, you would not rest contented anywhere,
Even in the bowers of Heaven, were I not with you there!
And can you now sit happy in the presence of the Lord,
And forget me here? oh, no! oh, no!-you never broke your
word!
I feel the golden tie of love that link'd us, heart to heart,
Has fasten'd on our spirits, and will never let them part!
My soul drank rays of beauty from the summer of your eyes,
As the river takes from heaven its resplendent aerial dyes;But their fount of beams are darken'd in the heaven of your
face,
Like two quenched stars that light no more the silent halls of
space!
Yet I know that you are waiting, in a rainbow-cloud above,
With the sunburst of God's brightness on your holy brow of
loveWaiting-watching for my coming-I'll be with you soon,
astore /
Where the Famine or the Agent shall not touch us evermore!
THE WINDING SUIR.
AMONG those hills, and in those fields,
I wandered with my lover last;
The morning flowers, all wet with showers,
Were bending in the early blast.'Twas on those banks, 'mid snowy ranks
Of daises steep'd in dew-gems pure;
With many a tear, and sigh sincere,
We parted by the winding Suir!
The linnet sung the thorns among,
The haw-tree flower'd in yon green dell;
Along the woods the gold-fring'd clouds
Hung o'er the river s amber swell:
The east wind chased the white-wing'd mist
Slow o'er the primrose-spangled moor,
And all look'd gay that tearful day
We parted by the winding Suir
One burning kiss-one sweet embraceSeal'd our last farewell on the shore!
I sat beside the careless tide,
And wept until my heart grew sore l




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND


103


In Ireland's cause, the Saxon laws
Have banish'd him and left me poor;
Oh! had he died in manhood's pride
For Ireland, by the winding Suir!
Three times that day has pass'd away
Upon the year-bound wheels of Time;
And summer's sun three times shone on
Yon flower-clad banks in vernal prime;
With grief-worn face, I mark the place
We parted from my cottage door;
Ah! does he now forget the vow
He gave me by the winding Suir?
When midnight swings its starry wings
Along the cold blue face of heaven,
While others sleep, I sigh and weep,
For all my heart to him is given!
In fancy's dream again I seem
To roam the hill and lonely moor,
Where last he press'd and fondly kiss'd
His Mary by the winding Suir!
THE ANATHEMA OF OBHINN, THE BANSHEE.
Donogh O'Brien, commonly called the great Earl of Thomond, brought
reinforcements, in conjunction with the Anglo-Irish and Catholic Earl of
Clanrickarde, to aid Lord Mountjoy against O'Neill and O'Donnell, at the
battle of Kinsale, and materially assisted the English to overthrow the independence of their country.
Clanrickarde slew twenty of the Irish with his own hand, and cried aloud
to spare no " rebels." Carew says, " that no man did bloody his sword
more than his lordship that day."
On the return of O'Brien to his earldom, after the defeat of the Northern
Chieftains, he is supposed to have been met by Obhinn, the ancient family
spirit, or Banshee of his ancestors, and she fiercely cursed and denounced
him for his apostasy to Ireland; and prophesied the fall of his new title,
and the extinction of his line.
FROM the clouds of the hill, and the gloom of the night,
Who is she that appears like the wintry-moon, white?
The cold dew is gleaming, like beads, on her hair,
And she wrings her gaunt hands, with a shriek of despair!
Look, Earl! the Spectre stands full in thy path,
And her angry face beareth a mission of wrath;
There's a mist round her form that's awful to see,
And her eyes, like blue wild-fire, are turned upon thee!
The Earl rein'd in his black war-horse, and gazed,
With his sword turned down, and his visor upraised;
And he saw standing out on a cliff, in his way,
SThe dismal, White Woman of lonely Craiglea.
One hand she outstretch'd, like a skeleton bough,
And one was close-press'd to her cold, stony brow;
While her lips breathed curses that awfully fell,
On his spirit and brain, like the sentence of hell.




104           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
" The Mighty of Erin is laid on the earth,
And her war-lions, bleeding, have fled to the North:
For thou, curst apostate! hast redden'd thy steel
With the glorious heart's blood of the clans of O'Neill!
May the rank steam of death from that red slaughter field
Where you taught the proud Chieftains of Ulster to yield,
Be shaped to a scourge by the finger Divine,
To wound, waste and wither the slaves of thy line!
" 0 Chiefs of Kincora! immortal in song!
Whose arms flash'd death 'mid the fierce battle throng,
With scorn, look down from your high dwelling-place,
On the slave-making recreant who sprang from your race!
In their grandeur and might, did those chiefs ever dream
That their offspring would cover their glory with shame?
Did they from their shores the grim sea-robbers chase,
For their sons to be servants to robbers more base?
"Oh, red-handed serf of the fierce Callach Rue!*
In the house of her pride, like an upas, you grew,
Where she poisoned your spirit, your blood and your breath,
To bring to your country destruction and death!
Fly to the Red Hag of the Sassenach land,
With Erin's heart's-blood smelling fresh on thy hand;
And tell her she's queen, 'mid the damned and the dead,
Of your island, with ashes and carcasses spread! t
"May the blood wh h your traitor-sword drank at Kinsale,
When you scattered'     spearsmen of princely O'Neill,
In a deadly cloud rise and hang over your halls!
And rain down a curse that shall crumble their walls!
Ghosts shriek your base deeds through the red battle-plain,
And Heaven cries, "Where is thy brother? 0 Cain!"
Black Donogh, the murderer! hold up your hand!
Come forward, and answer God's awful demand!
" Let Clanrickarde, the homicide, shout o'er the dead,
For his black soul is drunk with the blood-rain he shed;
Let him kneel at the altar, unwashed and unshod,
A monster of crime in the temple of God!
'Twere a lie if his fierce Norman spirit could feel
Reluctance to slaughter or plunder the Gael;
'Tis his trade and his nature such evil to do,
But he's not a base, renegade hirling, like you!
* Vallach Rue, i.e., Red Hag, was a popular epithet applied by the Irish
to Queen Elizabeth.
t Lord Mountjoy boasted that he made the Queen a present of Ireland,
all carcasses and ashes.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.               105
"Ah, where is O'Donnell? that valour-soul'd man!
The high guardian-god of his country and clan!
Oh, 'tis well for your coronet, your house, and your head,
That the strong, fiery hand of his vengeance is dead! *
Do you know the dread warrior who twice flung his bands
Into Thomond's green bosom, and stripp'd your broad lands?
Oh, my soul! had he lived! your late victory's cry
Would turn into death-groans for you, and Mountjoy!
" The glorious one died of his mighty heart's grief,
And Erin's last hope has expired with the Chief!
But, oh, Dar a Chriesta! he oftentimes gave,
A legion of Saxons, cleft heads and a grave!
O'Neill, to the gloom of his mountains retires,
He sold not his honour, he shamed not his sires:
But the bones of your forefathers groan in their graves,
For your treason to Erin! you maker of slaves!
" Perdition will grasp the low heirs of thy line,
And the death-curse of freedom brand all that is thine!
Till its vengeance shall leave not a stone of thy walls,
Nor a fire on thy hearth, nor a slave in thy halls!
Eternal contempt on the day you went forth,
With the Saxon, to crush the Red Hand of the North!
Hark! the cry of your country rings up from her tomb;
'Assassin of Eria! Lord Thomond, go home!'
" Go home, you apostate! and drink your red wine!
May the odour of corpses.be round where you dine!
And the tears of gaunt widows mi: black in your bowl,
And the cry of starved orphans strike hard at your soul!
Go home-may the charnal pits, gory and deepWhere your countrymen fester-bring balm to your sleep!
May your soul feast on visions of famine and flames,
And the death-shriek of Erin be heard in your dreams!"
ROSROEt-A POEM PICTURE(AUTUMN, 1874.)
THE autumn is dark on the hills of Rosroe,
And its plains are fast losing their rich summer-glow;
While I stand gazing up from the Lake's reedy shore,
On the towers, where the brave shall assemble no more.
* The renowned Red Hugh O'Donnell embarked for Spain, immediately
after the battle of Kinsale, to solicit King Philip for new reinforcements to
continue the war against the English in Ireland. But, ere any material
help could be organised, he died of a broken heart, on account of the
miseries of his native land. He bore deadly wrath against the O'Briens,
for their adhesion to the invaders. Actuated by this feeling he twice overran Thomond and plundered it, not leaving a head of cattle from Coroumroe to Loophead.
+ A beautiful locality, three miles north of Bunratty, watered by a magnificent lake, upon whose shore stand the remains of a strong castle built by
8




106            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
There are wild legends told of those old, ruined halls,
With the gray veil of ages surrounding their walls,
Whose ponderous rocks, sword and cannon defied,
When the strength of the mighty in combat was tried.
Proud race of the Brave! not a record remains
Of the strong-handed sway which you held on those plains
Save yon war-broken ramparts, all mossy with time,
That frown in wreck'd grandeur, cold, dark, and sublime!
Your high crest of honour has sunk to the dust!
The steel of your glory has perished in rust!
The mist of oblivion is over your graves,
And your princedom is mark'd with the footsteps of slaves!
The tall fern trembles on brown Craig-an-oir,*
Once steeped in the wave of the war-giants' gore;
When the lightning of God from a fire-cloud blazed down,
And blasted the sight of the tyrant-chief Conn!
Through the dark cloud of ages I fling my soul back
To paint the fierce scene of that dread battle-wreck;
The sun's in the zenith-the clans and their lords
Are cleaving each other, with axes and swords!
Like the sounding of surges, the battle-shouts swell,
And the war-weapons clash, like a mighty death-knell;
Here and there, thro' the mist, on the Craig's redden'd height,
Now breaks, and now blends the deep mass of the fight.
When the wind blows the tiist-veil aside from the fray,
One broad flame of steel flashes out on the day;
And round the wild plain might be widely descried,
Where the onslaught had left the red mark of its tide.
Near yon gory broom-tuft a chief seems to rest,
With the fangs of a dart fastened deep in his breast;
He calls to his clan as it slowly retires,
And he struggles to rise, but falls back and expires.
Faster and deeper, each moment succeeds,
The hoarse cry of men and the neigh of gored steeds;
O'er the cliff, with mad yellings of vengeance and woe,
The wounded are dash'd in the red surge below.
Fineen Dhu MacNamara, A.D. 1291. It was the second fortress raised in
Thomond, after the Norman castle of Bunratty, and many a stern siege have
its stubborn walls withstood. The lake was once full of red trout, but that
fine species of fish has entirely disappeared from its waters.
* Craig-an-oir, i.e., Golden Crag, is an extensive flat-headed cliff at the
eastern wing of the lake. On the plain of this crag was fought a fierce
battle between the two sons of Fineen Dhu, Conn and Brian MacNamara.
Conn was struck blind by lightning, at the moment of victory. Tradition
states that the cause of the quarrel, between the brothers was Mora, the beautiful daughter of a neighbouring chief, Donagh MacNamara of Ard Cuilen
Castle. She was betrothed to Brian, but Conn forcibly abducted her.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                   107
Some struggle, in vain, with the grasp of the flood,
While the monstrous lake-eels are drinking their blood;
They scourge the wild waves in red foam to the shore,
And sink down to their cold depths, to struggle no more.
As the wrathful Conn marshall'd his troops into line,
To charge on the clans of his brave brother Brian,
A black thunder-cloud gather'd quick in the sky,
And glared on the hosts, like a demon's dark eye.
From the lake's gloomy bosom the cry of the gale
Swept round the gray towers, like a funeral wail!
And the clans, thro' the darkness, at distance, were seen,
Like two fire-blacken'd groves, with a red space between.
A blue wave of lightning shot over the field,
And danced, in broad circles, on helmet and shield;
O'er the wings of the battle its flame-banner spread,
And the mighty Conn fell, with his eyesight struck dead!
Like the laugh of a giant, the thunder boom'd out,
As the clans on each other dash'd mad, with a shout;
But Brian's clan vanish'd, like smoke in the wind,
While Conn to the Castle was borne, stone-blind!
*       *       *       *       *       *       *
No more shall your proud banners flash in the van
Of your iron tribes, combating, clan against clan;
'Twas your merciless discords and ambitious sway
Gave strength to the Saxon to sweepjye away!
I hear in the murmuring reeds by the wave,
The sigh of the harps that once sung to the brave;
For the ghosts of weird bards who were here long ago,
Still sing in the dark mist of lonely Rosroe!
In the bosom of night when the white moonbeams shine,
Like snow, on the cairn of haunted Knoc Brien;*
Wild laughter, commingling with music's weird thrill,
Is heard on the crest of that dark, fairy hill!
The spectre-mists swim round its gloom-circled height,
Like the spirits that walk the brown shadows of night;
There the grave of the murder'd chief, Brian, is shown,
With the wild mountain fern, and broom-bush o'ergrown,
* After the fight of Craig-an-oir, the defeated Brian fled to France where
he remained for nine years. lie grew home-sick, and returned to Rosroe,
where he employed mediators to become reconciled to his brother Conn,
who seemingly felt rejoiced to meet Brian, and was at once conducted to a
hill where Brian was waiting, but while pretending to embrace his brother,
the treacherous Conn drove his short sword through Brian's body. He was
buried where he fell, and a cairn was raised over his remains, which indicates his grave to this day. The country people gave the hill the significant
name of Knoc Brian. It is one mile south of the Castle.




108          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.
The eve-sun is steeping in crimson the west,
And the lake folds the sky's golden wreaths to its breast;
While the scream of the gaunt crane from lone Lan-na-gour,*
Awakes the sad echoes of wild Craig-an-oir.
The last dim rays faint on the wood's yellow stain,
And the dew-mist is weaving white rings on the plain;
And the tower 'mid the gath'ring gloom seems to weep,
As it looks at its desolate shade in the deep!
Each proud hill that seems a romance of the sky,
Has lost from its forehead each sun-purpled dye;
Deep shadows have veil'd the lake's crystal below,Farewell to thy dark beauty, lonely Rosroe!
THE SPIRIT OF MOROGH, SON OF BRIAN.
(A BARDIC VISION.)
A SPIRIT came to my midnight dream,
And a terrific glory was o'er him;
And my blood was chill'd, and my soul was fill'd
With wonder and awe, before him.
Upon his head was the gloom of the Dead,
And a meteor-diadem crown'd it,
As he stood dark and still, like a wintry hill,
With the storm-clouds slumbering round it.
The solemn light of a freezing night,
From his ghostly eyes seem'd streaming,
As they wink'd in the space of his waxen face,
Like stars thro' a rain-mist gleaming;
And his milk-white brow was like desert snow,
When the moon, thro' the shades that enwreath her,
Is seen to sail, on her silver keel,
Thro' the dim, blue realm of ether.
Methought I stood by a deep, dark flood,
When this living shadow found me;
And the Last Day's doom seem'd hid in the gloom
That pall'd all Nature around me.
"Oh, Spirit!" I cried, "whence art thou come?What mission to me has convey'd thee?Answer, thou awful thing of the tomb!
In the name of the God that made thee!* Lan-na-gour, or Goat's Island, is a beautiful woody solitude on the
north-eastern side of the lake. On my last visit to Rosroe I was sorry to
see the marks of modern Vandalism on the venerable walls of the Castle.
The finely cut stonework of the windows and doorways was torn away to
suit the ignoble purpose of some neighbouring Goth.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


109


SWhat of Eternity?-Angel or Fiend!
Or where is the place of thy dwelling?
'Mid the realms of night, or the thrones of light
Where the songs of the happy are swelling?
Say, hadst thou birth on this doleful earth,
The weakness of flesh to inherit?
Wert thou shaped out from the breath of God's mouth
A mighty and bodiless spirit? "
The Phantom bow'd, like a sunset-cloud
From the Galtees' peak descending,
To the dreary glen, or the sombre fen,
Its dusky bosom bending:
And, by degrees, with a graceful ease,
The manliest aspect form'd
That e'er the design of the mind Divine,
With His image impress'd and warm'd.
The dismal shade of the gloomy dead
Roll'd off from his forehead of whiteness,
As mists, one by one, melt away from the sun,
In the dazzling walk of its brightness;
And his high soul shone, on a burning throne,
In his eyes' large orbs resplendent;
And he look'd in the prime of manhood sublime,
Of a hundred kings the descendant.
His cheek wore the dye of a roseate sky,
When the sun to his rest is retiring,
With the smile of his love, in red glory above,
On the bosom of heaven expiring.
And his lips' bright glow was like berries that blow
In the midsummer glen's shadow hazy;
Or the crimson tinge on the snow-rimm'd fringe.
Of April's woodland daisy.
His pine-like height, and arms of might,
Delighted and awed the beholder;
And his rich locks fell, in a golden swell,
On the marble throne of his shoulder.
I spoke again, " Oh! prince of men!
Art thou Nial, or Cormac the splendid?
Or Eogain More, the renown'd of yore,
From Heber the royal descended?"
Then he silence broke, ancdproudly spoke,
With flowery and full repleteness;
And each accent rung, from his Gaelic tongue,
Like the harp-wire's melting sweetness.
"Oh! child of song! I am Morogh the Strong,
Son of Brian, the Chief of the Leaders,
Who built the high fame of his glory-crown'd name
On the ruin of Erin's Invaders! "




110          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
My bosom glow'd, and my eyes o'erflow'd,
With the joy of my wrapt soul burning,
Like the silent shower of the gray dawn hour,
Weeping welcome to day's returning;
And I grasp'd his hand-" Oh! Star of our Land!
Illustrious Prince of the peerless
Sons of Clan Tail, the flower of the Gael!
The noble, the free, and the fearless!
"Is my hand in the clasp of that dreadful grasp
Which strangled the monsters of slavery?
And made iron hosts reel from the sweep of thy steel,
In the red war-path of thy bravery?
Thou mighty lord of the axe and sword!
Why sleepeth thy chivalrous daring,
When thy strong right hand and conquering brand
Are so bitterly needed in Erin?"
He sigh'd and wept, and the dim tear crept
Thro' the fringe of his sable lashes,
As the wintry rill, 'mid the shades of the hill,
In the mournful moonbeam flashes;
And his glist'ning eyes seem'd like warm May skies,
Glowing out through a passing shower
On the sunny mist that, with silver lips, kiss'd
The green tuft that cradles the flower.
But he flung off the tear, with indignant air,
And his face into grandeur brighten'd;
And the warlike blaze of his eagle-gaze,
Like a stormy meteor, lighten'd;
He drew his blade from its gloomy sheath,
An.d its light, like a fire-zone, bound him;
While he shook its gleam, with a wing of flame,
'Thro the melting darkness around him.
Then he backward roll'd the shadowy fold,
Of the war-cloak that cover'd his form;
And I saw, gaping wide, in his princely side,
A wound that bled deeply and warm.
" Our blood was shed for your land! " he said,
And our spirits shall not forsake her,
'Till her Angel proud, in a blood-red cloud,
With a trumpet-blast shall awake her!"
The vision changed, and methought I ranged
Where trees, in their summer charms,
Sung a sweet May-hymn, by a lake's blue rim,
Entwined in each other's arms;
And the hills around look'd as cloud-kings crown'd
And the sun sent his beams to love them,
With flowery vests on their emerald breasts,
And the bright sky laughing above them.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And, again at my side, by that lake's calm tide,
Stood the Phantom of grandeur olden,
And the living rays of former days,
Shone round in a halo golden:
But the fiery light of his flashing sight
Was quench'd in a mist of sorrow,
As he said, with an air of sullen despair,
" Behold the House of Kinkora!"
I turn'd where the surge besilver'd the verge
Of the shore, with its myriad flowers,
And regal and high, 'gainst the arching sky,
Rose the heads of a hundred towers;
Whilst to and fro, in the halls below,
Kings, Ollamhs and Bards were dining.
With queenly girls whose gem-starr'd curls
And robes were as sunbeams shining.
And the breathing wires of a thousand lyres
In a warrior anthem blended,
Sweet, as if May touch'd each sunny ray
Into song, in her flower-palace splendid;
And a soul-laughing joy flash'd in every eye,
And each brow with a glory was lighted,
As if God made peace with Man's erring race,
And Heaven and Earth were united.
Again I look'd round, but the dark towers frown'd,
In desolate grandeur, lonely;
And nothing was there but a ruin bare,
That shelter d the night bird only;
The naked walls of the empty halls
Were in mournful silence weeping,
And where monarchs sate in the room of state
The spirit of gloom was sleeping.
The wandering bee, with his minstrelsy,
The red wall-flower was wooing,
And the dark-green moss spread its veil across
The face of the hoary ruin;
Rank weeds grew tall on the gray-headed wall,
With summer flies round them flitting;
And the sad owl moan'd in the banquet-hall
Where kings were so lately sitting.
I turn'd, with a sigh, to the Chief that stood by,
And said, "Mighty Prince of Temora!
What makes this change, so sudden and strange,
In Brian's grand house of Kinkora?
I'd weep all day o'er the sad decay
Of that royal pile, so hoary,
That, for ages long, nursed valour and song,
And cradled a Nation's glory!"


111




112          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Said the spectral Chief, in a tone of grief" That dwelling of desolation,
Is a doleful trait of the ruinous fate
Which attends our divided Nation!
Like birds of prey, in yon palace gray,
The strangers alone shall enjoy her,
While her sons the worst of her foes, accurst,
Lift their traitorous hands to destroy her!
"The last fate of seven, for Erin-in heaven,'
With blood has been written, 'Forsaken!'
And the gloomy record, in the hand of the Lord,
O'er the heads of the Nations was shaken!
And a Giant shall come, with a sword of doom,
From the waves of the West to save her;
Nor Earth, at that hour, nor Hell shall have power
To save from his wrath the Enslaver!"
He ceased, and anon, the man was gone
Again to his spiritual form,
And the meteor red, appear'd on his head,
Like a star o'er the cloud of a storm;
And a churchyard gloom was seen to loom,
In his midnight features, o'er me,
As he rose on high, in the face of the sky,
A dark mist-column before me.
I look'd-and once more hill, stream, and shore,
With a midnight pall were cover'd,
And an ink-black cloud, like a wizard's shroud,
O'er the frowning heavens hover'd;
And the darken'd face of ethereal space
Ope'd its starry eyes, and mourn'd,
As that spectral thing, on the night's dim wing,
To its limitless region return'd.
LOVELY MARYANNE.
OH! bear me back to Shannon's banks, and Limerick's battletowers,
Where first I wooed my Maryanne, among the sunny flowers;
Where Beauty braved Oppression's steel, and Freedom led
her on,
'Twas there I told my first love-tale, and won my Maryanne.
Oh, lovely Maryanne! my gentle, little swan!
Where'er I be,
I'll dream of thee,
'Till life's last pulse is gone!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND             113
There are some glowing eyes that leave their living rays
behind
On memory's beaming mirror in the palace of the mind;
Go where I will, those rays of love can never cease to shineOh, Maryanne! the spirit of their magic light is thine!
Lovely Maryanne! my gentle, little swan! &c. &c.
And we have stray'd on Shannon's banks, by moonlight white
and wide,
Where Sarsfield broke the Saxon ranks by Shannon's lordly
tide;
And we have sung our home-songs there, and talk'd of glories
gone,
And warm with love, and wild with joy, I kiss'd my Maryanne.
Lovely Maryanne! my gentle, little swan! &c. &c.
And we have play'd on Shannon's banks when morning's dewy
hand
Unveil'd the rosy world of flowers that gemm'd the glistening
strandThe waves, like Freedom's flashing swords, were glancing in
the sun,
Bright as your own blue, loving eyes, my radiant Maryanne!
Lovely Maryanne! my gentle, little swan! &c. &c.
By yonder dashing waterfall that brightly leaps along,
With a whirling plume of silver and a ringing battle-song,
There often have we stole unseen, and sat, and talk'd of love,
With a daisy-carpet 'neath us, and a crystal roof above.
Lovely Maryanne! my gentle, little swan! &c., &c,
My girl, I'll soon go back to you, and Limerick's battle-towers,
And Shannon's banks, for ever green and rich with golden
flowers!
I'd give the brightest pleasure that e'er charm'd the heart of
man,
For one sweet walk on those wild banks, with you, my
Maryanne!
Lovely Maryanne! my gentle, little swan!
Where'er I be,
I'll dream of thee,
'Till life's last pulse is gone!
CATHOL. MAC CARAGH,
BLEST be your heart of love! Cathol Mac Caragh!
Bright be the sky above Cathol Mac Caragh!
In golden Dalcas, from Loch Doon to Loch Deargh,
'There breathes not a spirit, like Cathol Mac Caragh!




114           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.
Behold! where o'er Thomond the sunny mists fly,
And round the blue heads of her kingly hills lie!
There dwelt your forefathers, as regal and proud
As the wild eagles nurst by the storm and the cloud.
O'Hehir, O'Loughlin, O'Dea, Mac-Con-Mara,
O'Neill and O'Kennedy-flowers of Temora!
O'Donnell, O'Callaghan, Mac Clanchy the mighty,
O'Considine proud, and O'Hogain the flighty!
Fierce war-hawks of slaughter, whose red axes tore
Thro' the dark battle-ridge on the plain of Moinmor; *
Where, mangled and gash'd with the death-wounds of honor,
They slew the strong thousands of Torlogh O'Connor.
How fierce was their cheer, with the Bara Boo blended,
When, like whirlwinds of fire, from their hills they descended!
With their long battle-sparths flashing terror before them,
And the bright Sun-burst blazing in majesty o'er them:Oh! to see them, when marching, like oak-forests shaken
On the dark wintry mountains, when wild gusts awaken;
And their brown eagle-plumes, by the fitful breeze waven,
Seemed rising to brush the cloud-garments of heaven.
Fierce, valour-steel'd clans by O'Brien commandedWhen moving to combat, like storm-fiends banded;
How weak were the ramparts of castle or barrack,
When assail'd by those brave sires of Cathol Mac Caragh?
On Dysert's red field where grim war's crimson rain,
From a thousand brave bosoms, empurpled the plain;
The Dalcassian sires of Mac Caragh were there,
Fierce-cleaving the squadrons of Richard De Clare +
* The celebrated plain of Moinmor, i.e., great bog, is in the parish of
Emly. The names of the principal chiefs slain there, are, according to the
Annalists, viz., Three of the O'Briens, two of the O'Kennedys, eight of the
O'Deas, with their principal chief, nine of the O'Shannons, five of the
O'Quins, six of the O'Gradys, twenty-four of the O'Hogans, four of the
O'Hehirs, two of the O'Lynches, four of the O'Neills Buidhe or yellow, five
of the O'Hearns, nine of the Mac Inerneys, six of the O'Hallorans, eleven
of the O'Kcarneys, seven of the MacConmaras, six of the O'Meanys, three
of the O'Hartagans, four of the O'Malleys, five of the O'Liddys, five of the
O'Halys, eight of the O'Meehans; five of the O'Slatterys, four of the
O'Moloneys, two of the O'Lonergans, four of the MacMahons, with great
numbers of good and brave men besides them.
All those, whose names are mentioned, were prime commanders and
captains of septs of the Dalcassian race who fell, fighting under the banner
of King Torlogmore O'Brien, on the fatal field of Moinmor.
See a description of the Battle, at page 68.
+ Richard De Clare, brother of Thomas, the founder of Bunratty Castle,
led a great army into Thomond, to subdue the turbulent Dalgais and take
their territories. He marched as far as Dysert O'Dea, in Burren, where
he was met by the O'Briens, the O'Deas, and MacNamaras, with their
tributary clans, and a furious battle was fought, in which De Clare and his
kinsmen were slain, and his whole army defeated, with dreadful slaughter.
And the fugitive Normans were chased from Burren to the walls of Bunratty, where Lady De Clare, hearing of the death of her lord and his friend-,
set the Castle on fire and retreated precipitately to England. Since tat
day, a De Clare never set foot on the soil of Thomond.-Historical Me.St
of the O'Briens.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.


115


From Burren's white crags to Bunratty's strong towers
Fled, broken and bleeding, the proud Norman powers;
But no flight could secure, nor no castle could save them
From the doom which Clan Tail's mighty war-axes gave them.
Their Bards and their Brehons-their lordly possessionsTheir Seanachies and Banshees, and splendid traditions;
The revel, the chase, and the plentiful hall
Where free hospitality smiled upon all,
Are gone-who replaced them? A swinish-soul'd race,
To the honour of manhood a curse and disgrace;
The low-minded miser, the knave and the clod,Counterfeiting man's state and the image of God.
Yes, Cathol! your Irish heart swells and throbs high,
When this scene of past grandeur rolls back on your eye;
But the tears and the shame of the present dark day,
Blot the image of glory and sweep it away!
See the baseness that crawls-the corruption that festers
In the old, hallowed soil of your lordly ancestors;
Weak fawns have crept into the den of the lion,
And tinsel serfs dwell in the kingdom of Brian!
Woe is me! who inherits the rich land of Canaan?
Cromwell's renegade robbers, the Puritan spawn!
And degenerate Celts-with cold bosoms of stoneAre as worthless, as cruel and base-hearted grown!
The bold erect spirit of honour is dead,
And knavery prospers and sways in its stead.From the court to the hut-from the church to the stateMammon's vot'ries and slaves are the only things great.
Let panderers crouch at the foreigner's throne,
But your sires have no reason to blush for their son!
You are worthy their pride, and 'tis glory to me
To see their high spirit rekindled in thee!
Oh! pure-hearted Celt! of repute without stain,
Like the hill's virgin snow-sheet untouch'd by the rain!
Independent and free, as your sires in the hall,
But your mind, like the spring-flower, has sweetness for all.
True Christian unselfish-true patriot and friend,
With your hand ever raised the forlorn to defend!
Since to read human nature I feebly began,
I can say it with pride-you're a true, honest man!
To minions of power tinsel-titles are given,
But the honest man's worth is acknowledged in Heaven.
Good deeds are your joy, for the true patriot-mind
Feels the same honest love for his country and kind,And this is the heaven-worthy feeling that shows
Where the generous soul's true nobility glows.




116           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
I've heard patriots talk-I've weigh'd their desertsWith the lie on their lips and the knave in their heartsWho ne'er to their caste nor country would prove
One offering of kindness-one action of love.
But honour to you! I have seen and long known
How the bountiful love of your spirit was shown;
Your service for others was never yet spared,
And, tho' small is your fortune, 'tis lovingly shared!
But still you are rich, for the Infinite Giver
Fills the house of the generous with plenty for ever,
While the gold of the sordid dissolves from his purse,
Or follows his soul before God, with a curse!
Yet, when to Bunratty your bier shall be borne,
How many will pray, and how many will mourn!
And you will be carried, and buried, by none
But pure, honest hearts and kind hands, like your own;And your true epitaph shall be read in their tears,
And felt in their bosoms and heard in their prayers!
THE NAMELESS PATRIOT.*
AIR.-," The wounded Hussar!"
WHO was he, at Kilmallock, the brave hearted stranger
That daringly breasted the fire of the foe?
Like a veteran inured to the battle's grim danger,
He fought till the red hail of death laid him low.
Nameless he fell on the frozen sward dying,
No kind hand to soothe him or bear him away;
The dreary March wind his sad litany sighing,
His death-couch and pillow the blood-moisten'd clay.
When the brave few who struck for their Old Land retreated,
Outnumber'd-not routed-betray'd-not defeated;
Their gallant young comrade, who fought so elated,
Pour'd out his heart's blood where behind them he lay!
When, gory and cold, by the wayside they found him,
Beneath the bleak freezing sky, lifeless and lone;
He wore the lov'd badge of the Virgin around him,
But the name of the patriot to all was unknown.
* At the Fenian raid on Kilmallock, there was a young man whose name
and person were unknown to his companions, although he exposed himself
courageously to the fire flying thickly from the Barrack. Next day his
dead body was found, at some distance from the place of action, pierced
with several gunshot wounds, but no one could recognise who he was or
from whence he came. He was respectably dressed and had a gentlemanly
appearance. His identity has remained a mystery.
The people of the district have erected a handsome monument over his
remains in Kilmallock churchyard.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             117
Was he one of those whom our flunkies, so loyal,
With the foul name, "assassins," so shamefully bann'd?
Whose faithful young bosoms but long'd for the trial
To shed their dear blood for their suffering Land!
But prouder your fate, gallant lover of Erin!
To fall for your country-her native green wearingThan bear the high name that some traitors are bearing,
With the gold of the spoiler polluting your hand!
When a warrior, falls 'midst his people, victorious,
With the foes of his country laid 'round him in dust;
The emblems of victory, exalted and glorious,
Encircle his statue and hallow his bust.
But, for you, son of Freedom! your fall was as nobleYou died for the Land which your heart long'd to save!
No more will her sorrows your young spirit trouble,
Nor tyrant disturb the calm peace of your grave!
But serenely the sweet beams of heaven now glow there,
And greenly the fresh, dewy shamrocks grow there;
And lovers of Freedom, in future, will go there
To bless the repose of the youthful and brave!
LOVE AND NATIONALITY.
AIR.-" Rory O'More."
OH! pleasant and bright was the sweet summer-day
When I sat, with fair Kitty, among the green hay;
With no one to witness a meeting so sweetSave the skies overhead and the flowers at our feet.
To their plain, rustic meal the brown mowers were gone,
And Kitty and I in the fields were alone;
I waited and watch'd to be near her all day,
For my heart to the maiden had something to say.
Her hand-like a blossom embrown'd by the sunI stole to my lips and then press'd with my own;
And her cheek, like the throne of the morning, grew bright,
When heaven is strown with its roses of light.
" Now tell me, my sweet, little flower-queen!" I said,
"Why did you stay from me all day in the mead?
Twenty times I stole near you, while tossing the hay,
And you spoke not, but moved, like a fairy, away!
Her hand press'd her brow and lay motionless there,
Like a white July rose in the shade of her hair;
And she paused, like a flower in the sun's fiery beam,
When the honey-bee woos it, but breaks not its dream.




118           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Her eye, from her hand, like a rising star, stole,
And flash'd in my face all the rays of her soul;
As, with grief in her accent, but scorn in her glance,
She said, "You had Peggy, last night, at the dance!"
"I had-and I swear by the loving and true,
I only danced with her while waiting for you!
The reels were so fine, and the jigs so well play'd,
I'd dance to a milestone if wanting a maid!
" And 'twas well for the floor-my white lily of Clare!For I'd tear it 'till daylight if you had been there!
But I care not for Peggy-your thoughts are all wrong,And you'll pay for the error a kiss or a song!"
"Then I'll give you the song!"-and she sung sweet and well,
As rich as a lark and as clear as a bell;
As if all the balm-breath of the meadows about,
Had turn'd into music and burst from her mouth!
The song was of Erin-her chains and her tears,
Her visions of Freedom, her hopes and her fearsAnd each note, as it died on the light summer-wind,
Like the dream of first love, left its sweetness behind.
Oh! blest be thy soft mouth of roses and pearls!
Come-come to my bosom, my star of all girls!
If all Erin's daughters would breathe such wild songs,
Her sons were not slow in avenging her wrongs!
THE GRAVE OF SEAAN BUIDH * MAC NAMARA.
(FIREBALL.)
How proudly over cross and tomb,
Aspires the old gray tower of Quin?
Where in their narrow beds of gloom
Repose Temora's mighty men;
The conquering chief-the princely peerLie silent, cold, and powerless here!
Behold yon gray moss-cover'd stone,
Where Thomond's maids shed drops of sorrow,
There sleeps Seaan Buidh, cold, low, and lone,
The great, the glorious MacNamara!
The heart and nerve that never shookThe hand that left no mark unstruck!
* "Pronounced Shawn Bwee, i.e., yellow John, so called on account of his
swarthy complexion. His tomb can be seen in a corner of the oratory at
the left-hand side of the grand high altar. Quin Abbey was dissolved by
Queen Elizabeth, and granted, with its appurtenances, to Sir Torlogh
O'Brien, on Desember 14th, 1583."-Annals of Tho mond.




LAYS AND,LEGENDS OF TTIOMOND.


119


Alas! alas! renown'd SeaanBuidh!
Thou mighty Oak of royal seeds!
Thou valour's rock of chivalry!
Thou lion of the dreadful deeds!
Alas! that death should here conceal
Thy heart of flame-thy hand of steel!
On Eire's green bosom never trod
A nobler chief, Seaan Buidh, than you!
Before the judgment throne of God
A braver spirit never flew!
The noblest of the brave thou wert!
Thou Eagle of the kingly heart!
You were the messenger of Death,
Among the haughty and the bold;
Before your anger's burning breath
The tyrant's quailing heart grew cold!
And many a one your hand of doom
Sent bleeding to an early tomb!*
Thro' Thomond's valleys, many a day,
Your gallant actions shall be told!
Although the grave has swept away
The relics of your heroic mould!
Your name shall make our spirits start,
And light a flame in many a heart!
e Yet you were gentle to the poor,
Dark champion of the deadly ball!
And they were welcome to your door,
Your generous board and friendly hall!
None, save the tyrants of the land,
E'er felt the vengeance of your hand!
Here o'er your dark and lonely sleep,
Recounting your brave deeds I stand!
While desolation seems to weep
Around those haunted ruins, grand,
That fling their weird, sepulchral gloom
Upon your solemn, ancient tomb!
And is your fiery bosom chill'd?
And have your strength and valour fail'd?
And is your voice of terror still'd,
At whose dread sound the mighty quail'd?
And has your great and grand career,
'Mid dust and worms, ended here?
* He fought fifty-seven duels, besides standing second in numerous
" affairs of honour." In all of those deadly transactions his opponents were
the principal sufferers.




120          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The clang of combat cannot now
Arouse you from your dreamless rest!
The earth-worm crawls upon your browThe c6ld stone weeps above your breastAnd have you fail'd yourself to save!
That sent so many to the grave?
Had Erin many sons, like thee,
Fierce, fiery, noble, proud, and brave!
Their swords would ne'er have fail'd to free
The poor, degraded, plunder'd slave!
But seldom, in a hundred years,
A daring soul, like thine appears!
From Cuilen * of the conquering spear,
Your heroic blood hath nobly flow'd;
No wonder that your stern career,
With valour's fire so brightly glow'd!
Clan Cuilen's eagles now are goneYou were the last majestic one!
Here, 'mid your old tomb's moss-clad stones,
-His web the sable spider weaves;
And o'er your noble, heroic-bones
The nettle shakes its poisonous leaves!
Oh, vanish'd honours of the great!
Is this the end of all your state?
Oh, gallant Chief! oh, glorious dead!
Where are the honours you have won?
The wreaths of fame that crown'd your head?
The deeds of valour you have done?
One act of grace linked with your name,
Were better now than all your fame!
The twilight clouds have lost their glow,
And chillingly the night-mists fall;
The dreary ruins darker grow,
The gray owl moans upon the wallI'll leave this place of gloom to thee,
Farewell! farewell! renown'd Seaan Buidh!
MOROGH THE BURNER.+
O! scandal and curse of the grand House of Tail!The King-tree of Thomond brotight forth evil fruit,
When its branches first shelter'd the foes of the Gael,
But thou wert a serpent that crawl'd from its root!
* " Cuilen, was the great progenitor of the Mac Namaras, from whom
their principal tribe name, Clan-Cuilen, was derived." -Annals of Thomond,
t Morogh-an-Thutaun, i.e., of the burnings; fire being his favourite
means of wrecking his vengeance on a hostile country. He burned many




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


121


The high, leading bough'of its glory was wither'd,
When among the poor off-shoots that sprung from the rind,
Thy seed of corruption and baseness was gather'd
To poison thy country, and ruin thy kind!
With Puritan locusts, and Cromwell's death-engines,
Thou camest, a plague-cloud of blood, to our Isle!
Nor heaven in its anger, nor hell in its vengeance,
Could cast on her bosom a monster more vile!
Base tool in the hand of a bloody blasphemer!
God's Priests were thy victims, His temples their pyres!
Thou'st trampled the Cross of the wounded Redeemer,
And ravaged His High altars-built by thy sires!
Thou homocide-demon of red desolation!
Was it thus thy great forefathers earn'd their fame?
In Eire's blood-spotted annals, each new generation
Shall point, with a curse on their lips, at thy name!
If heaven, in its wonderful mercy, forgave theeNot Earth, with the wrecks of thy slaughter yet cramm'dDid hell in the jaws of its fury receive thee?
If so, even there, thou art curs'd by the damn'd!
A Seer has foretold-ere the Last Day of Doom,
Of Antichrist's.coming, and all he shall do;
With the army of hell at his back, let him come!
He can't be more wicked than Cromwell, or you!
A DIRGE FOR THE DALCASSIANS.
OH! fierce race of lions! you've sank to your graves,
From the face of your land-like the ocean's proud wavesFearless and free, full of honours you reign'd,
And went to your God, with your brave necks unchain'd!
Like a bright dream of grandeur you faded away,
And mute are the halls of your glory to-dayFame cover'd your steps, like the robe of a bride,
With your valour it lived-but it died when you died I
Glory fed your high souls with her fieriest flame,
And Freedom was wildly in love with your name!
In your hands hung the fate and the balance of fightIn your frames was the iron-nerved spirit of mightof our abbeys and churches. He was a daring and determined commander
and had but one match, Owen Roe O'Neill. He died on the 9th of September, 1674, aged 56 years. His remains were privately interred in the
Cathedral of Limerick.-Annals of Thomoend.
9




122           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
In your eyes the dread lightning of dignity shoneIn your hearts honour sate on her sanctified throneAlas! that your glory has faded away,
Like the unclouded beams of a long summer-day 1
Your bold breasts were Freedom's strong temple and shield,
And your red wounds were stanch'd with the moss of the field!*
Your brave souls were kind, and your friendship was warm
As the sunshine that melts thro' the haze of the storm!
And your burning swords hew'd your fierce enemies down,
'Till your spirits got drunk with the wine of renown!
For your bosoms-which recklessly squander'd their bloodWere as proud as the angels that warr'd against God!
Scarce can I believe, that Death's iron embrace
Could fetter your valour-oh! glorified race!For nought save the Hand of the Godhead alone
Could cast down the soul of your might from its throne!
When led to the field by your princes and lords,
Oh! the wreck of an army was sport to your swords!
Or a realm by your arms as swiftly o'erturn'd,
As a city laid waste, or a corn-field burn'd!
Alas! that the days of your glory are gone,
Like the long, vanish'd rays of some extinguish'd sun
Alas! that the slave and the churl have grown
Where the star of your fame in its magnitude shone!
Alas! that the splendour and pomp of your homes,
Are dark and decay'd as your time-worn tombs!
My soul bursts in rain, o'er the wail of my lyre,
For the fall of your grandeur-proud spirits of fire!
The woods, where you hunted, are levell'd and bareThe halls where you feasted are roofless and drear!
Thro' portal and chamber the dismal winds howl,
Where solitude shrouds the dark raven and owl!
The foot of the alien is over your graves,
And the heirs of your princedoms are exiles or slaves!
From the cold, dreamless bed of your rest do not 'wake!
For your eyes would weep blood, and your proud hearts would
break!
* The Irish annalists say, that the Dalgais, when attacked by the men
of Ossory, on their return from the battle of Clontarf, stanched their
wounds with moss, and having stakes fixed in the ground, a wounded man
was tied to each, with a strong man placed at his side. In this heroic
position they Igave battle to their assailants and defeated them. It has
been truly said by the historians, that they (the Dalgais) were the first
in every field, and the last to leave it.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


123


THE SWAN OF THE AYR.
(Addressed to an Ayrshire Lady.)
HERE by the blue stream of the deep, winding Shannon,
With a bright robe of flowers on his banks wild and fair,
The Bard lifts his voice, 'mid the glory of summer,
To sing the high praise of the Swan of the Ayr!
Thou art lovely as Spring in a valley of blossoms,
Thy mind is a palace of sunshine all rare!
In every sweet feature, the beauty of Nature
Has breathed its music-Bright Swan of the Ayr!
I mark, by the clear wave, the stately, young willow,
As graceful it bows to the zephyrs of noon;
I mark the wild rose, on the bank's sunny pillow,
Yielding up its sweet soul to the heaven of June!
That willow so slender-that red flower so tender,
With thy cheek and thy form can only compare!
Thy form is the willow that leans o'er the billow,
Thy cheek the sweet wild rose-Bright Swan of the Ayr!
As sunbeams asleep, on the silver of morning,
Thy rich tresses rest on the throne of thy brow!
And thy lips have the March evening's rainbow-vermilion,
With two calm stars above and a white cloud below;
The dew's crystal brightness on blossoms of whiteness,
Than thy breast's snowy heaven was never more fair!
The dew is thy bosom, thy heart is the blossom,
Thy virtue its odour-Bright Swan of the Ayr!
One calm summer-night, in a halo of slumber,
A sunny-hair'd angel was shaped in my dream!
But when I first knew thee, and gazed on thy beauty,
I thought on that angel, for thou wert the same!
I've heard, from the wild dell, the music of Fairies,
As they rode on a cloud o'er the grand hills of Clare;
But thy voice sweetly ringing, when speaking or singing,
Hath the spell of their air-harps-Bright Swan of the Ayr!
Thou'st come from the Land of romance, love and glory I!
The fair Caledonia of valour and song,
In whose glens so romantic, and mountains gigantic,
Fame, freedom and chivalry flourished so long!
Thou'st come to our heaven-bright, Emerald Island,
The down-trodden Land of the "smile and the tear!"
Then welcome, thou dear one-thou angelic fair one!
Sweet Lily of Sunville-Bright Swan of the Ayr!




124         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


THE BATTLE OF FREDERICKSBURGH.*
ON Fredericksburgh's embattled plain calm look'd the lord of
light,
And' slow the sunny-bosom'd haze was melting in his sight;
While glittering in one iron blaze, two mighty armies stood,
And soon did mother Earth drink deep her furious children's
blood.
Around the dark hills, tier on tier, the Rebel guns are set,
And sternly on the plain below the Federal powers are met;
From Rappahannock's bounding flood to Fredericksburgh is
seen
The war-god's chess board studded thick with lines of warlike.men.
In bristling ridges, o'er the field, the numerous bands deployA dazzling sea of sunbright steel on all sides meets the eye;
While rifle-pit and battery, with grim destruction rife,
Expand their black, devouring mouths athirst for human life.
But who are those majestic troops, so stalwart, stern and
proud,
That move in awful grandeur, like the desert's deadly cloud?
Each wears a green wreath o'er his heart, with manly pride
display'dOh! those are Erin's exiled sons, bold Meagher's fierce Brigade!
Lo! in their fiery Celtic eyes what martial lightnings play?
They look, like eagles gazing round the stormy hills for prey;
With quick, impatient glance they view the Rebels' dreadful
hold,
Like hungry leopards glaring on a well-defended fold.
Now, peal on peal, the skirmishers their hostile fire began,
And rapidly from sky to sky the ringing echoes ran;
And fierce, and fast the wave-like ranks to meet the onset form,
As move the sand-hills when they feel the coming Simoomstorm.
'Fix bayonets!-charge,-and take the hills!" was heard the
stern command,
And, with a cheer and headlong dash, on swept the Irish band;
The gallant Meagher, sword in hand, the rushing war-surge
fed,
As brave a Chief as ever gemm'd an Irish army's head!
* I have introduced this Irish-American battle-scene into the volume,
-merely because Meagher's Irish Brigade so fiercely and recklessly fought andfell at Fredericksburgh.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.               125
Across the sounding plain they drive their desperate tide of
mightTheir bayonet-points, like rushing stars above the sea at
nightTheir battle-yell, the thunder's voice in heaven's cloudy hall,
Or Niagara's mighty war-shout, where his giant-torrents fall.
The batteries ope'd their iron throats, with one tremendous
roar,
And shot, and shell thro' rifted lines, like flaming rivers, tore;
Still fast and fierce as they advance, as fierce and fast among
Their melting ranks the Rebel-guns the metal death-showers
flung.
On flank and front, from right to left, the shattering shot and
shell,
In blazing hurricanes of death, upon the phalanx fell;
Still on they press, like some great war-ship cleaving tide and
wind,
A sea of rolling flame before-a bloody surge behind!
As roars the dread volcano when its fiery bowels heave
Upon the scorch'd and blasted plain the lava's burning wave;
Thus roar'd and roll'd the avalanche of fire thro' flank and van;
And still they close their ball-plough'd ranks and furiously
rush on.
They near the hills, and fiercer still the iron deluge grows,
From rifle-pit and battery the fiery showers arose;
Earth shook, as on that fated band the flaming flood descends,
Heaven rung, as if the Last Day's blast had swept thro' all its
ends.
As towers, in shapeless masses, from their deep foundations
thrown,
When an earthquake yawns, and draws its breath, and sucks
a city down;
Thus reel'd and sank, in horrid wreck, the columns of the Gael,
Before that all-destroying storm of blazing metal-hail.
As in their summer glory fall the fair oaks of the wood,
Thus lay the brave, young comely Celts mow'd down in dust
and blood;
While o'er the crimson ruin roll'd the Rebels' triumph-yell,
The remnant of that stern Brigade back, like a spent wave,
-fell.
Well may ye shout, ye Rebel powers'! but were ye on the plaii,
In equal battle with those Celts, you'd never shout again!
Be thankful to your strongholds for the victory you enjoy,
Or bloody Fredericksburgh would be another Fontenoy! 1




126          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Oh, valiant sons of Golamh's race! * exiled by English laws!
Thus do ye perish in the van of every foreign cause!
In court and council-war or peace, your manly worth is known,
And thus ye toil, and bleed, and die for all lands but your own!
The world, in mute sensation, at your superhuman deeds,
Mourns o'er the reeking field where your stupendous valour
bleeds!
The trumpet-echo of your fame from pole to pole has spread,
While crownless Erin in the dust bewails her children dead.
Now dreadful on the Federal right the stormy battle raged,
As, like the ocean's furious dash, the mighty powers engaged;
One deafening roar of blazing guns along the hills is heard,
And bloody rivers, bank'd with dead, along the plains appear'd.
But vainly on the Rebel-holds they drive, with surging shock,
Host after host is hurl'd back, like billows from a rock;
Still fiercely o'er the fallen lines fresh masses drive amain,
And still as fast the Rebel-batteries mow them on the plain.
Where were you, great M'Clelland? You so valiant, wise and
kind!
Where were you, when that awful field required your mighty
mind?
If you were there, the bloody hand of slaughter had been
stay'd!
And still the Union would exult in many a brave Brigade!
Oh! Burnside! ill-starr'd of war! the night is gathering on!
The day was spent in blood, and yet the Rebels hold their
own.Oh! who can tell, thou hapless Chief! thy bosom's rending
pain,
To see thy mighty, matchless host thus sacrificed in vain?
Withhold thy gloomy veil, 0 Night! 0 Lamp of Heaven,
delay
Thy downward course, 'till he retrieves the honors of the day!
Alas! the darkness thickens fast-oh, God! for Joshua's
prayers,
For one brief period, to suspend the motion of the spheres!
The dusky night-fall blended with the war-field's sulphurous
haze,
The throat of battle ceased to roar and belch the deadly blaze;
Twas like the awful calm that heralds ruin to the earthThe ghastly stillness that precedes some dread eruption's
birth.* Milesius.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                127
Lo! how the vengeful Federals collect their scatter'd might,
Thick as the flying clouds of heaven, upon a stormy night!
And, like the sudden fury of the fierce tornado's course,
Right forward on the Rebel-hills they hurl their frantic force.
One giant-flame leap'd redly up and overthrew Night's
throne, -
One roar of cannon seem'd to shake the sounding planets
down;One fiery surge of iron on the Federal ranks burst forth,
As if heaven and hell contended for the mastery of earth!
Death gloated o'er the Federal host, and, with dire vengeance,
quaffd,
From many a brave expiring heart, the last exhaustive draught!
Again grim silence wrapt the scene-the shatter'd troops
recross'd
The Rappahannock's gloomy tide-and Fredericksburgh was
lost!
THE FATE OF DE QUINCY.*
DE QUINCY went forth, in the day of his pride,
When the daughter of Strongbow became his fair bride;
And the swords of his might were like meteors that fall
O'er the face of Loch Swilly in green Donegal.
And the warriors he led, were as fierce, and as bold,
As the demons that dwell in the clouds of the wold;
For the death-yell of slaughter was sweet to their ears,
And the strong hand of plunder and ruin was theirs.
Their horse-hair plumes darken'd their helmets' gold comes,
Like the night-spreading mist on the hills' yellow thrones,
When the sun, like a furnace, is burning the wave,
With his flame dimly seen thro' the cloud-bars of eve.
The princely domains of O'Dempsey they burn'd,
And the high palace-halls of his mansion o'erturn'd;
They slaughter'd his people and plunder'd his bawns,
Nor steeds, kine, nor corn did they leave on his lawns.
And De Quincy march'd home, in the joy of his fame,
To lay the rich spoil at the feet of his dame:
"Those gems of O'Dempsey's proud daughters!" he cried,
"Will look well in the bright, silken locks of my bride!"
* He was not long married to Strongbow's daughter, when he led a band
of Norman brigands into O'Dempsey's country in Leinster, to plunder and
sack it. He was set upon by the Chief, O'Dempsey, at the head of his clan,
and the invaders, with their leader, were soon cut to pieces.-Four Masters.




128            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And his knights sang the song of their triumph, and drove
Their steeds, swift as eagles when towering above;
But fierce as the blast to October's sere leaf,
Sprung O'Dempsey's wild clan on the track of the Chief.
And high in the van, like a fire in the skies,
With the flames of his soul all alive in his eyes,
The injured O'Dempsey his blazing sword whirl'd,
Like the lightning of God o'er the guilt of the world!
Mad on the foe burst his clan, with a cheer,
And dire was the clangor of corslet and spear;
And the blood-drinking war-axe, with helm-riving shock,
Roar'd, like heaven's bolt of fire when it shatters a rock.
Brief, bloody and brave was the battle they fought,
And dreadful the meed to the robbers they brought;
For De Quincy and all his fierce brigands were smash'd,
And the flesh of their frames to the mountain-wolves dash'd!
Sad news for proud Strongbow-The terrible tale
Has gone, like a blast, thro' the homes of the PaleAnd the eyes of his radiant-hair'd daughter are red,
With the rain of her soul, for the fate of the dead.
THE BATTLE OF FANCONRAD.*
KING BRIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE DALGAIS.
"FAM'D sons of Olliol Ollum!" Brian cried,
"In this great day be all your valour tried!
Be like your fathers, with your swords and shields,
And sweep the pirates from your wasted fields!
Let the grim Dane and rude O'Foelan know
Mononia's wrath in every hostile blow!
Let your red falchions make the blood-springs flow,
And swallow lives, as sunbeams drink the snow!
* Donald O'Foelan, King of the Decies, was stung to resentment against
Brian Boroimhe, on account of the severe defeat which Molloy Mac Bran
and Donovan suffered at the hands of that monarch; and in revenge, he
(O'Foelan) raised a great army of Danes and Irish, and invaded Brian's
territories with fire and sword. Brian immediately marched against him,
at the head of his brave Dalgais, set upon the devastators at a place
called Fanconrad, in the county Tipperary, and after a furious engagement, drove them, with great slaughter, into Waterford, where O'Foelan
was slain with all his officers, and Brian's army plundered and burned
the city to the ground.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


129


Think of your sires, who, first in every field,
(The shield of armies and Mononia's shield,)
Pour'd their hot vengeance on the pirate-band,
And mow'd the battle, with a flaming hand!
Think of Dundalgia,* where the blue sea-flood
Boil'd with a fire-shower of the Northmen's blood!
Where your fierce sires fought, like the ocean's storms,
Leaping from heaven, with ruin in their arms!
Let this great thought inflame your souls to-day,
Whet your revenge and nerve your arms to slay!
Give the red robbers their well-earn'd reward,
Death-blows and graves-the wages of the sword!
Who spares a foreign or a native foe,
May Freedom's God destroy him at a blow!
Mark, the red flames our verdant vales invade,
What clouds of smoke the blacken'd skies o'ershade!
Hear how the spoilers' shouts triumphant swell,
And startle heaven with their savage yell!
On with the Lionst thro' the wood of war!
Lift the brass shield and hurl the greedy spear!
Give the blue war-axe and the sword full swing,
And quench their lightning in a crimson spring!
Rush, like a flame from heaven's consuming eyeStrike, like the thunder from a burning skyCharge, like a flood with raging torrents swell'dBreak the war's beam and sweep the roaring field!"
Fierce was the war-whoop from the troops that burst
And in the field their monarch was the first;
His fiery armour, in a blaze of beams,
Look'd like the Ghebre's tall round tower in flames.
His plume, like midnight's angry storm-cloud shook
Above the mountain-grandeur of his look;
And as he whirl'd his fire-emitting brand,
He seem'd, in front of his gigantic band,
A war-god, with a meteor in his hand!
Onward they sweep in one tremendous flood,
As when a hurricane swings the dancing wood;
Their flaming weapons, like a burning grove,
Emblaze the cloud-line of their crests above;
* The memorable battle of Dundalk, where the naval squadron of Munster,
commanded by the gallant Admiral Felba Fion, attacked the Danish fleet,
and encountered the land and sea forces of the foreigners, who were nearly
ten to one. The army of Munster were looking from the shore at the bloody
and unequal struggle, but could render no assistance to their countrymen,
who, seeing themselves overmatched by the superior numbers of the enemy,
sooner than yield, flew on the Danish officers and principal chiefs, grasped
them, and leaped overboard with them into the sea. The Danes, terrified
at such awful achievements, hoisted sails and fled, leaving the Irish victorious.--eating.
t The provincial banner of the "T Th,'ee Yellow Lions."




130          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And their blue helmets seem'd, as they march'd on,
Like torrent-billows flashing in the sun.
Fierce met the hosts, like two huge mountains swung
Against each other, by an earthquake flung;
Rocks, woods and streams in thunderous ruin drivenEarth starts amazed and groans aloud to heaven;
Thus the dread crash of breaking ranks was heard,
And such dire ruin thro' the fields appear'd.
The cleft shields shriek-the grinding axes roarThe plunging spears thro' bursting corslets toreThe raging swords spit blood in heaven's eye,
As on earth~ red lap roll'd her sons to die '
Thro' the mAd tumult Brian's helmet burns,
Like a March sun in darkness plunged, by turns,
When the black Storm-king hunts the clouds thro' space,
And flings their shadows in his blazing face.
As on the hand of the Almighty power,
The rushing wave-hills of the ocean roar;
His great command the awful deeps obey,
And, in their madness, hear his dread decree;
Thus, in the war, the furious Dalcas bands
Heard and obeyed their monarch's fierce commands;
Where'er he points his mowing falchion, there
Death spreads a feast and earth partakes her share.
On his broad shield the iron breakers roar,
Around his feet the war's red fountains pour;
Proud and unshaken 'mid the shock he strides,
And with the battle girds his towering sides.
O'er the scoured plain the flaming conflict pass'd,
As thro' a pine grove sweeps the Polar blast,
The sylvan giants, hurl'd from their beds,
Stoop from the sky and roll on earth their heads.
With such wild ruin and disorder riven,
O'Foelan's armies from the field are driven;
The shouting Dalgais drive upon their track,
Like sea-fiends roaring round a shatter'd wreck.
On roll'd the vengeance of the battle-cloud,
With spirits flying from its crimson shroud;
The strong blows sounded, like a cascade's roar
When o'er the river drives a hailstone shower,
While the mad surges, in wild shouting ranks,
Toss their white plumes and charge against the banks.
So dire the wreck-so furious was the routSo fierce the clamour, and so wild the shoutThe armies seem'd a wood by storms, uptorn
And, roll'd together, o'er the country borne.
Bards of Kinkora! strike your harps, and sing
The mighty actions of your Hero-king!
Lo! he s returning to his halls of joy,
Grand as the Day-god in a morning sky!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.              131
His foes are crush'd, and round his regal car
Stride the grim hewers of the grove of war!
Strike the wild harp! your Victor-king comes on,
As proud as Niall,* and as fierce as Conn! t
BARDIC MEDITATIONS.
BY the soft-sounding waves of the Fergus I lay,
And my spirit drank deep of their music all day;
While the clouds of my destiny seem'd to depart
In the sunburst of rapture that gushed from my heart.
And my soul, with the wings of her transport unfurl'd,
Flew up to the Lord of this beautiful world;
And from the starr'd halls of his Palace survey'd,
Creation in all its resplendence array'd.
And fondly I gazed on the proud hills of Clare,
With the blue sky o'erglassing their green foreheads fair;
While my heart to their thrones, like a morning ray, sprang,
And pierced the blue glooms where the leaping streams sang.
Thro' Hy Caisin's bright country of legends I pass'd,
Where the fragrant birch forest its green shadows cast,
And the wild mountain-blast croons a requiem of sorrow
Round the ghost-haunted towers of the fierce MacNamara
I sigh'd for the race of the valiant and strong,
That dwelt 'mid those grand hills when Erin was young;
Ere the steel-hearted Saxon polluted our sod,
Or cowering slaves crawl'd where the mighty once trod.
I gazed on the radiant plains cover'd with bloom,
Where the famish'd serf weeps o'er his desolate home;
While the golden fruits rear'd by the toil of his hand,
Are devour'd by the foes of his dear Motherland.
Oh! helots of Erin! when will ye be men,
To grasp the bright steel of your fathers again?
And stand in the blaze of the battle's red fire,
Like them, to win freedom or nobly expire!
The birds of the air and the beasts of the wood,
On the mountains, around you, find shelter and food;
While you-oh! lost Celts!-have no homes to enjoy,
But are cast on the world to famish and die.


* Nial of the Nine Hostages.


t Conn of the Hundred Battles.




132           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Has cowardice flung o'er your spirits its rust?What curse or what spell keeps your hearts in the dust?
Or why act ye brave when to strange lands ye roam?Bold heroes " abroad "--but base helots at " home!"
Instead of the sword-brightly raised for your land'Tis the knife of the traitor that gleams in your hand!
And the Saxon-that always has found you a fool,
To work your own ruin-still makes you his tool!
Is your nature debased with that vile coward-creed
Which says 'tis a crime for your country to bleed?
Its cancer and curse in your souls have found root,
And exile, and famine, and death are its fruit.
Ere your masters the claims of your country shall feel,
You must speak to their hearts with the ring of your steel
What humbled the tyrant on Israel's plain?
'Twas the sword of the Lord in the hand of Gideon!
Throughout your sad Island oppression walks bare,
With the joy of a fiend o'er a damn'd soul's despair;
You may starve-'tis no treason-but dare you lay claim
To the fowls of the air or the fish of the stream?
And you talk-while the curse of the burden is borne'Till manhood and honour have damn'd you to scorn!
'Till, like Cain-branded felons and outlaws, you're cast
Into living Sepulchres* to perish at last!
Want clings round your steps, as the worm to its slimeYour commerce is treason-your virtue is crimeYour are hated and hunted, insulted and bann'd,
As lumber and rubbish encumbering the land!
Ah! 'twere nobler to die on the red field of fame,
With a wreath on your deeds and a light on your name,
Than, like women, to mourn and talk o'er your.chains,
'Till the spirit of manhood grows sick in your Veins!
The Muscovite robber was scourged by the Poles!
Will the fire of their deeds give a spark to your souls?
How bravely they wasted the blood of their veins,
While you murmur'd, like beggars, and skulk'd in your chains!
Oh! great God of vengeance! how long will our cry,
Rise up to the throne of thy glory on high?
Oh! when will the Beggars of Egypt be free,
Who, thro' ages of hunger, are faithful to Thee?
* Poorhouses.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


133


Lo! thy vineyard is pillaged by cowards and thieves!
And thy temple is crowded with huxters and knaves!
And the shepherds of Israel have fallen asleep, M
While the Philistine-wolves are devouring thy sheep!
THE BATTLE OF THE CURLEW MOUNTAINS.*
IN splendour array'd,
Stern Clifford came forth,
With his host to invade
The green plains of the North;
And many a Knight,
With high hope in his eyes,
Set out, with delight,
On the fierce enterprise.
With a hero's heart swelling,
And bright as a star,
The lordly Dunkellin
Rode on to the war;
With Rathcliff, whose sword
Was tremendous in fightA tower and a ford
Were the chiefs in their might.
"On-on to the mountain,
Our foes' dwelling rude!
Let your swords in a fountain
Of blood be imbrued!
'Till their fastness of safety
With carnage is spread,
And the valley grows lofty
With piles of their dead!"
With cavalry prancing,
Their march they begun;
With helmets all glancing
The blaze of the sun:
With eager hearts heaving
For conquest and spoil,
Strode the fierce brigands leaving
The borders of Boyle.
With red banners streaming,
The gorgeous arrayWith battle-spears flaming,
Tramped proud on their way* Sir Connyers Clifford led a strong division of Lord Essex's army to
penetrate through the defiles of the Curlew Mountains, into Tyrconnell.
They had advanced only midway in the glen, when, with the rush of a winter
torrent, the Clan Connaill was upotthem, and cut them to pieces.--John
Mitchell's Life of Hugh O'Neill.




134          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Thro' the glen's rocky border
They hurry along,
In grand martial order,
Majestic and strong.
The mountains are silentNo murmur is heard,
Save the stream from the highland,
And song of the bird,
Whilst-reckless of dangerLike wolves from their denThe ranks of the stranger
Drive on thro' the glen.
As bursts the red thunder,
Fierce, sudden and loud,
Swift rending asunder
The grey mountain-cloud- -
As the wintry surge swells
Round a sea-faring crewSo rang the wild hills,
With, " O'Donnell Aboo i"
The bagpipes are sounding
Tyrconnell's dread charge;
The clansmen are bounding,
With war-axe and targe;
Where the shadowy fern
Has spread its deep screen,
A host of wild Kerne,
Fierce, rising, is seen.
As an Autumn flood sweeping,
Augmented by rain,
From the mountain's breast leaping
On crops of the plain,
So swift, in their ire,
Dash'd Tyrconnell's fierce clansA torrent of fireOn the Sassenach bands.
As a wave to the coast
Swings a ship on its track,
So Clifford's bold host
Thro' the ravine sways back
While, furiously dashing
On column and rank,
Tyrconnell drives, washing
Thro' centre and flank.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Like the fury of heaven,
Roar'd musket and sword,Like thunder-hail driven,
The bullets were shower'd;Like a storm-flash brightning,
The blue-gleaming axe,
With the vengeance of lightning,
The foeman attacks.
The death-knell of battle
Swells higher and higherThe mountain rocks rattle
With falchion and fire!
O'er the war-surge high heaving,
Is heard the dread crash
Of the ringing axe cleaving
Thro' armour and flesh.
As a ghost on the wings
Of the tempest of night,
The fierce Red Hugh springs
Thro' the flames of the fight;
The Leader he singledTheir weapons are raisedWhile around, fiercely mingled,
The battle-tide blazed.
As rushes the beagle
On Callan's wild fawn,
As sweeps the strong eagle
O'er woodland and lawn,
So to combat they rush'd,
And their cleaving brands flew
But Clifford's blood blush'd
On the steel of Red Hugh.
The contest grows tangledThe Saxon gives way,
Where the war-axes mangled
His broken array;
No leader to rally,
No room for retreat,
In that slaughter-fill'd valley
One grave is their fate.
In bloody profusion
The columns are tost;
Disorder-confusinEnviron the hot!


135




136          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Like the blast of contagion
By Azrael blown,
So that late splendid legion
Lay bleeding and strown.
Like a wood cleft asunder
And flung in a mass,
The carnage lies under
The shades of the PassThe granite is paintedOne cheer-All is doneThe war-shout has faintedThe victory's won!
The red tide is welling
From mountain to plainRathcliff and Dunkellin
Are mix'd with the slainThe eagles are speeding
To feast on the dead,
Where, still freshly bleeding,
The corpses lie spread.
There's harping and feasting
In Ulster to-night;
The victors are hast'ning
To share the delight;
The maids of Tyrconnell
Are chanting a song
In praise of O'Donnell,
The valiant and strong.
MAC GENNIS'S DAUGHTER.
IN Coonagh's wild meadows the May-flowers are springing,
In Meelick's green woodlands the wild birds are singing,
And the light mountain-zephyr has curled the blue water
That flows near the home of Mac Gennis's daughter!
The sun o'er the bright bosom'd-fields is ascendingThe gold of his beams with their verdure is blending,
And the primroses peep, from their dewy recesses
Round the azure-eyed maid of the bright-yellow tresses!
The balm of the rich moorland-thyme is not sweeter
Than the heart-winning smile of young Jane, when I meet her!
How oft, with the song of her beauty, I've sought her,
And spoke with my soul to Mac Gennis's daughter?
How oft have I play'd with her long ringlets streaming,
And gazed on her face with its love-spirit beaming,
And press'd her small hand than the lily's head whitr,
And marked her glad eyes than the sunny rills brighter?




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


137


The poppies that flush 'mid the ripe-waving cornThe sun-gems that glow in the red crown of morn,The crimson of sunset on Shannon's calm waterWould fade in the blush of Mac Gennis's daughter!
The soft dawn of Cana o'er moorland springs bendingThe white moonlight clouds on the dark hills descendingThe snow-spirit's robe, or the hue of the blossomWere dark in their glory if peer'd with her bosom!
The foxglove* that stars the green skirt of the meadowThe wild-rose that sleeps in the mountain's blue shadowThe heath-bells that garland the eagle's high eyrieThe snow-drops that gem the weird haunts of the fairyThe sun-bow that zones the red bosom of even'When the shower-clouds, like jewels, are melting in heavenThe face of the blue-bell, with summer-tears ladenHath not the wild beauty that beam'd in the maiden!
In the hall of her father no virgin was milder,
In the bright fields no reindeer was fleeter or wilder,
For the sun of her heart knew no shadow of sadness,
And her soul was a harp tuned to anthems of gladness!
Her love was a pure fount of feeling and kindness,
Where my spirit fell in and was drown'd in its blindness,
For I walk'd, like a Magian, thro' air-halls enchanted,
'Till my life with wild love-dreams and angels was haunted!
By the Fairies' green palace near yon waveless fountain,
By the woods of the vale and the rocks of the mountain,
We strayed thro' the mists of the crimson-eyed even'When the meadows were white with the crystals of heaven;
While her eyes, like two star-worlds, glisten'd delighted,
With the love songs and legends I sang or recited,
'Till my fancy grew drunk o'er the pictures it brought her,
For my soul was in love with Mac Gennis's daughter!
But time brought a change on his pinions of fleetness,
That darken'd our joys in their full summer sweetness!
Woe fell on the land-and o'er ocean's green water
Mac Gennis hath, sailed with his beautiful daughter!
I stood on the shore, with my wounded heart beating,
And saw her tall bark down the Shannon retreating;
Oh! she gazed from the deck, and I curs'd the dark water
That roll'd between me and Mac Gennis's daughter!


* Commonly known as the lusmore, or fairy herb.
10




138          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
In Meelick's green woodlands the Spring is returning,
And the golden-brow'd sun on the mountains is burning,
And the gushing streams sing thro' the flower-bosom'd valleys,
And the dales are all robed with wild roses and lilies!
I stray'd on the lawn, by her cottage forlorn,
Where the sounding trees dance to the songs of the morn,
And my love-dreaming heart thro' the lone garden sought herOh! tell me, ye flowers! where's Mac Gennis's daughter?
ADDRESS TO AUBREY DE VERE, ESQ.
OH, gifted Bard! thy swelling song
Is rife with Nature's genial fire!
Impassion'd, lofty, chaste, and strong,
Burst forth the wild notes of thy lyre!
Thy wizard Muse on glowing wing
Shoots forward, as a golden dart,
And, with a startling trumpet-ring,
Awakes and thrills the charm'd heart
How radiant in thy classic lay
The summer's floral glories beam?
As if the vernal gems of May
Were woven in thy flowery theme!
As in the river's morning gleam,
Bank, bower, and sunny heaven appear,
Thus in thy song's resplendent stream
Bright Nature's beauty sparkles clear!
Oh! may thy rich heart long enjoy
The glorious gift of song divine!
And ne'er may envious worm destroy
Thy page, where Poesy's jewels shine!
Thp' faintly sounds this lyre of mine,
Its master's heart can treasure well
The soul delighting tones of thine,
And feel the sweetness of their spell!
Tho' to thy numbers' lofty sound
My voice is but a linnet's thrill,
Amid the cascade's music drown'd,Proud-rushing from a lordly hill!
Accept-great Bard-this simple lay
An humble brother minstrel gives,
Whose spirit walks the aerial way
Where Fancy charms and Beauty lives!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


139


THE BRIDE OF CLAN CUILEN.*
A ROMANCE OF CARRIGOGUNNELL.t
CANTO I.
THE woodlands are calm, and the rude winds are laid,
And the landscape is red with the sun's parting ray;
The pearly clouds float o'er the mountain's blue shade,
And Nature is dressed in the beauty of May;
The yellow West glows, like a bright golden treasure,
No stain dims the calm, sapphire splendour of heaven;
The night-queen looks down from her palace of azure,
And her handmaid-stars weep o'er the pale, dying even'.
But hark! to the sound of the gay bridal-revelIn the grand hall of Carrig the wedding guests meet;
And the bridesmaids are pacing the lawn's flowery level,
With lips red as berries, and necks white as sleetFor the Lord of the Rock, the renown'd Mac Con Mara,:
The prince of thy banquets, Clan Cuilen of swords!
Has given his fair child to O'Brien of Ara,~
The bravest and best of Mononia's proud lords!
Lightly the bride from the altar's returning,
Brightly the bonfires before her are burning;
Sweetly the tones of the bagpipes are ringing,
Fleetly the gay, youthful dancers are springing.
Proudly the chiefs round the bridal feast gatherLoudly resounds the old halls of her father;
Grandly the rich golden meaders are glowing,
Blandly the notes of the clarseachs are flowing;
Eveleen reigns the young queen of the wassailRevelling and song shake the glorious old Castle,
Valleys and plains send their tributes to meet herAllies and Seanachies are coming to greet her;
* The principality of the Mac Namaras, which comprised Coonagh, Cratloe, Bunratty, Upper and Lower Tulla, and a part of other districts, in
Thomond. The greater portion of those lands was bestowed to them, after
the battle of Dysart, as a reward for their services to the Princes of Thomond.
t Carrigogunnell, the ancient patrimony of a branch of the O'Briens,
was, for a short period, in the hands of the Mac Namaras of Clan Cuilen,
through an intermarriage of the families.
t Commonly pronounced Mac Namara, i.e., Son of the sea.
I "Ara, a small mountain district, north of the Keeper Hills. It wasthe
principality of a branch of the Thomond Princes, called the O'Briens of
Ara; they were descended from the consummate warrior, Brian Bane, who
settled in Ara, A.D. 1318, and expelled the Clan Fion Bloid, the original
owners, from the district. The life of this formidable Chief was one continued tragedy of battle, bloodshed, burning, and foray. He was, at length,
assassinated by the Clan Mac Keogh, in the year 1350. His death was
amply avenged by his son, Torlogh Oge, who exterminated the Clan Keogh,
and seized on their lands and chattels."--Annals of Thomond.




140           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Clansman and chief from the mountain and wildwood,
Kinsman and bard from the glens of their childhood!
The wealth and the might of Clan Cuilen and Ara,
All throng the proud mansion of brave Mac Con Mara!
Rich sirloins are smoking-brown ale and red wineThro' the gay banquet-hall pour their currents divine!
Behold in the dais the brave and the fair!
What grandeur and glory, and beauty are there?
What chivalrous bearing-what high queenly prideWhat order and dignity reign on each side?
There are warriors whose arms would shatter a bandThere are ladies whose charms would conquer the land!
Proud eyes that would strike through the souls of the boldest,
And smiles that would warm the hearts of the coldest.
Like a star-circled heaven the flashing hall glow'dEach dame seem'd an angel, each chieftain a god!
Pour thy wild song, oh, Mac Curtin the gifted! I
The dancers' light feet to thy measure are lifted!
The ladies and lords of Clan Cuilen the bright,
Shall move to thy harp's fairy music to-night!
The sweet ringing'numbers enchantingly pour,
And the pride of all Thomond appears on the floor;
Eyes glance, jewels glitter, and flushing cheeks burn,
Am they glide thro' the mazes, change sides and returnWhat majesty brightens each eye and each face?
What noble deportment-what dignified grace
Mark the ptep and the bearing of each in the ring?
Each dam' looks a princess-each hero a king!
The revel grows wilder-more wine is supplied,
And more boisterous gaiety comes with its tide!
The ringing towers tremble-the wine-bowls resoundThe boards are replenished-the toast goes aroundHospitality reigns in its wildest profusion,
Singing, laughing, and dancing, all blend in confusion!
Wild cheers of applause, as the dancers prevail,
Ring thro' the rafters, and swell on the gale!
There's a cloud o'er the Castle-there's mist on the heath,
And the woods seem as wrapt in the darkness of deathTho' the moon, in mid-heaven, beholds not a trace
Of a cloud on her pathway, nor mist on her face!
A gloom from yon summit pervades the still air,
For the dark fairy hosts of Knocfeirin are there;
And their monarch has vow'd-ere the dawn of the morrowTo crown, as his queen, Eveleen Ni Con Mara!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


141


But the Fays of Clan Cuilen-who know his design-*
(To protect the young princess) against him combine;
They muster their legions on Cratloe's dark height,
With the mountain-mist round them all silent and white.
From valley and woodland, and river, and bower
They gather fresh forces to strengthen their power;
Fierce cavaliers mounted on meteors appear,
And artillery arm'd with terrors of air;
The growing battalions, rank pressing on rank,
Stretch down from the hill to the wide river-bank,
They cross the broad Shannon to Carrig's low plain,
And seek to the Castle a passage to gain;
But the hosts of Knocfeirin-a deep, cloudy massIn arms, have guarded each wing of the pass!
To attack them the powers of Clan Cuilen prepare,
And they hastily summoned a council of war;
On the tops of the reeds, in the moon's dewy light,
They convened, and concocted the plan of the fight!
The leaders' designs to the troops are convey'd,And a dash on the host of Knocfeirin is made;
Before them the foremost divisions retireThen the furious artillery opened their fire,
And the cavalry charged in a whirlwind of hail,
And a fierce peal of thunder resounds thro' the vale!
The powers of Knocfeirin are shatter'd in twain,
And a dark-rolling cloud bears them off from the plain;
In lightning and whirlwind the victors pursue,
And the route of the battle rolls on to Tirvoe!
The blast-stricken forest oaks crackle and groan,
The elm is broken-the ash lies o'erthrown!
There's a pause in the tempest, a minute or more,
As if gathering its breath, with more wrath than before,
And a cloud, dark and angry, looms full on the view
Towards the point, in the air, where the routed host flewFrom distant Knoc Greine new forces arrive,t
And fierce on the powers of Clan Cuilen they drive;
In his chariot of meteors, the mighty King Donn
Led the wild, stormy sweep of the battle charge onLoud roar the hills, and the forests lie bare,
As the cloud-cover'd combatants meet in the air,
Some are tost to the ground-some are driven thro' the skyAnd the streaming mists burst where the broken ranks fly.
Clan Cuilen is flying, in wrath and despair,
And the dreadful route rolls towards the dark hills of Clare 1
* It is strongly believed by the peasantry, that the Fairy governments of
the adjoining counties sometimes disagree on some mystenous principles,
and consequently the Fairy hosts, on both sides, get into furious conflicts.,
t Knoc Greine. 1. e. 1Hill of the Sun, another great fairy fortress,
county Limenck.




142         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The waves of the Shannon dance up from their bed
Where the scatter'd hosts pass in a squall overhead;
Some to the deep woods of Cratloe repair,
And hide their defeat in the gloomy shades there,
Whilst others, more close by the enemy press'd,
Plunge down to the river and lie on its breast.
The victors triumphant to Carrig return(Ah! soon shall the bridegroom and bridal guests mourn),
Round the Rock's mighty shadow, in silence they glideAwaiting the signal to capture the Bride!
The dance and the song shake the canopied hall,
And the fair Eveleen is the fairest of all,
'Mid her train of young virgins, she beams on the sight,
Like a May-rose surrounded by lilies of light!
On her snow-neck of beauty her raven-locks stream,
Like.a dark summer-cloud on the moon's silvery beam
Steeping its folds in soft, lustrous whiteness,
Half-shading, half-showing the beautiful brightness!
A circlet of diamonds emblazon'd her brow,
Like dew on the flower of the sweet apple bough;
The spirit of loveliness beam'd in her face,
With a soul-charming majesty lending its grace;
And her red lips, when smiling, revealed to the sight
A treasure of pearl that laughed at the light!
But a heavenlier beauty adorned her mindTo all she was gentle-to all she was kind;
For seraph-toned kindness and beauty's sweet power
Live, brightly allied, like the sun and the flower!
She is up in the dance, and her small feet appear,
Like two playful butterflies circling thro' airSo light does she tread that the gazers around
Cannot see where her fairy foot touches the ground!
No echo awakes at the fall of her tread,
And her shadow seems beating the floor in her stead;
As snow-flakes that float on the gale's breathing wing,
Her glancing feet seem'd o'er the marble to sail,
'Till the moisture gush'd out on her brow, glistening,
Like honeydew fresh on the rose of the vale.
'Mid the toasts and applause of the festival throng,
Her lord led her out on the Rock's airy heightThe May-moon thro' heaven was stealing along,
Like a bright pearl-shield on the bosom of night;
Dark, silent, and solemn the woods lay at rest,
Like large sable spots on the earth's yellow vest;
And the cold, sullen, distant hills seemed to declare,
That no living beings, save spectres, were there!




143


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


Round the Rock a deep ridge of white vapour was thrown,
As if belting its shades with a huge silver zone;
And the stillness that wrapt the lone plains in its pall,
Was lovely and soothing, but fearful withalA weird, pensive solemness breathing alone,
On the wrapt ear of fancy, a spiritual tone.
The cold, mournful moonlight, calm, misty, and gray,
Like a dim winding-sheet, on the ivied towers lay;
And each stone-shafted casement peered out in the light,
From the dark coat of ivy that circled their white.
But why clings Eveleen to the breast of her lord?
What sight has she seen or what sound has she heard?
'Tis the moan of the owl from yon mist-covered rock'Tis the croak of the raven that sits on the oak'Tis the whine of the wolf-hounds that crouch in the fern'Tis the wail of the banshee that haunts the gray cairn'Tis the tone of the harps from the banquet-hall, dying,
Like a dirge for the dead in the lone churchyard sighing!
She throws her white arms the bridegroom around,
But the bridegroom stands still, as if chained to the ground
He shakes, like a young willow-tree in the galeHis eyes are distorted, his cheek has grown pale"Oh! hearest thou not that lamentable cry?
'Tis the banshee bewailing some soul on the wing!
Haste! haste from this spot-to the hall let us fly,
My heart's blood with terror is chilled in its spring!"
Scarce had she spoken when round them was driven
A dense cloud of gloom, like the rush of a river,
As if the machine of refulgence in heaven
Was suddenly dashed into darkness for ever!
"Oh God I " screamed the maid, in wild terror and wonderAnd a weird laugh replied, like the echo of thunderHer fear-fettered limbs lost all nerve to retreat,
And her lord is struck powerless and pale at her feet!
A cold hand, unseen, on her bosom is laid,
With a heart-chilling death-grip, resistless and strong,
And rudely upswung o'er the Rock's giant-shade,
Like a snow-flake in tempests, she's hurried along;
Her bursting cries startled the night-shadows roundThe echoes leaped out from their caves at the sound;
The owlet abandoned the turret-wall hoar,And the gray plover screamed, and flew off to the shore;
The wild cry of terror the banquet appals,
And the bridesmaidens, shrieking, rush into the halls!
"Chiefs I chiefs!" Mac Con Mara, in agony, cried,
Some dreadful mishap has befallen the bride!
Quick, quick to avenge her! your broadswords are strong,
And woe to the cause of the outrage or wrong!"




14a          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
As rain-torrents down the gray mountain-rocks leaping,
As hawks o'er the cloud-crested Cratloe woods sweeping,
So rushed from the Castle the strength of its men,
And followed the cries of the lost Eveleen!
Mac Con Mara was first, with his war-axe and spear,
Like a bloodhound let loose on the track of a deer;
And lowland, and highland, and shrub-covered waste
Are lost in the rush of his lightning-like haste.
No longer they hear her faint screamings resoundThey rush, all outrageous, and search all around,
Till, cast on a crag where the fern was green,
They found the remains of the lost EveleenLike a snow-ridge-when snow is dissolving awayIn her white bridal-raiment cold, silent she lay;
Her hair in the rock-brier lay tangled and strewnHer semblance was there but the maiden was gone!
Dimly the death-lights in Carrig are burningGrimly the clansmen sit round, in their mourning;
Starkly the bride lies beneath the pall-cover,
Darkly the banners of death hang above her!
Sadly the "keeners" the death-song are singing,
Madly the matrons their pale hands are wringing;
Lowly the harps' plaintive requiem is swelling,
Slowly and solemn the death-bells are knelling;
Restless and wild is the wail of the weeper,
Listless and mild is the sleep of the sleeper;
Roundly the burning tears burst from hearts bleeding,
Soundly sweet Eveleen slumbers unheedingGrief reigns thro' the dwelling of proud Mac Con MaraChieftains and clansmen all weep with one sorrow!
And now the third morning arose on their mourning,
And the sun on the wild, rolling Shannon is burning;
Gently the tide, with a soft breeze, is trembling,
And fast on the green shore the clans are assembling.
A hundred light boats, on the stream's flowery margin,
Await the slow bier of the young bridal-virgin!
Lo! it comes-with the greatest and grandest attending,
From the Rock's giant towers to the blue tide descending;
Around are her kinsmen, the proudest and oldest,
And her pall is upheld by the bravest and boldestRound her bier, in the dark badge of mourning all sullen,
Droop'd the banner of Thomond and Flag of Clan Cuilen,
While the breeze, in their folds, sung a dirge note of sorrow
O'er the Swan of the Rock, Eveleen Ni Con Mara!
O'er the grand, kingly Shannon the light boats are dashing,
Brightly the oars in the sunlight are flashing,
While the harps' solemn numbers and keeners' wild dirge,
In beautiful sorrow, swell deep o'er the surge.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


145


On Cratloe's wild shore the procession is landing,
Where Thomond's tall chiefs to receive it are standingThe lord of Moyrisk, with his amber-haired daughters,
And the gloomy-brow'd Chief of Cullane's fairy waters.
Ennistymon's dread warrior, with gossips and kinsmen,
Kilkishan's fierce champion, with allies and clansmen;
Corofin's lordly ruler, the generous and brave,
And Cratloe's Chief, wild as a storm-tost wave!
Many a fierce tribe and turbulent leader
Whose head never bowed to the haughty invaderFrom Callan of storms to golden KinkoraFrom Coonagh's green borders to dark KilfenoraFrom wild Corcumroe to the blue hills of AraNow throng round thy bier, Eveleen Ni Con Mara!
Lightly their plumes on the May-wind are streaming,
Brightly their cochals and goghals are gleaming;
In long, golden masses their cooluns are flowing,
And the purest of gold on their garments is glowing!
Tall, comely and strong was each warrior's proportion,
By Nature's hand knit, like the cliffs of the ocean;
The lightning of war in their proud eyes seem'd blazing,
And majesty sat on their brows sternly pleasing!
Quietly to Croaghane* the funeral is wending,
Whitely the plumes o'er the dark bier are bending;
Bow'd are the heads of the chieftains, slow pacing,
Loud and melodious the " caoine " is increasing;
Thrilling it swells on the gale's pensive mildness,
Filling the woods with its beautiful wildnessNow round the churchyard young Eveleen's borne,
To the last resting-place of her mortal sojourn;
Weary their hands make the narrow grave ready,
Dreary and deep is the bed of the lady;
Down in its gloom is the coffin laid lowly,
And the brown clay is cast on its dark bosom slowly.
The saintly priest offers the prayers for the deadThe requiem is sung and the solemn Mass saidThe grave is closed up, and the crowd has departed,
And the mountain-winds sigh o'er the sleeper deserted.
Westward the sun in the red wave is drowning,
Eastward the night's cloudy visage is frowning;
Day, on the mountain, his banner is furling,
Gray from the fountain the light mists are curling.
Maids in bright bands from the woodlands are pouringWreaths from white hands on the new grave are showeringOh I many a sweet bud, dew'd with hot tears of sorrow,
Is strewn on thy grave, Eveleen Ni Con Mara!
* It was a favourite burial-place of the Clan Cuilen, even long before
Quin Abbey was founded by a chief of the tribe.




146           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
But the lore-loving Seanaclhie* shake the gray head,
And declare that a Fairy was left in her stead,
For the lovely young bride by a wizard was seen
On Knocfeirin's dark hill, with King Donn and his Queen.t
CANTO II.
In Carrig's gray Castle the.death-song has ceased,
And the chiefs have retired from the funeral feast;
The wine-lowls are empty, the boards are undrestRound the huge bogwood fire whisper inmate and guest.
The clansmen repose on the rush-cover'd floor,
The deer-hounds in idleness doze at the door;
The funeral flags in the great hall are hung,
The chambers are silent, the harp is unstrungThe Seanachies, stretched on the lawn's grassy bed,
Tell many a weird legend and tale of the dead;
And they whisper, in secret, how fair Eveleen,
With the King of the hills, at Knocfeirin, was seen.
In his state chamber sate the bereaved Mac Con Mara,
Sternly wrapt in the deep, sullen gloom of his grief;
And, near on a couch, lay the proud Lord of AraEvery feeling, but life, all extinct in the chief.
And there, since the dark night of wonder and dread,
Unconscious of being, the mighty one lay;
Strength, speech, sight, and all vital energy fled,
Leaving nothing behind but the mere breathing clay.
And the skill'd leech attends, but his skill hath no power
To adjust the life-springs of the darken'd machineStill and pulseless he lay, as a frost-bitten flower
That the mild, dewy May-sun hath nourished in vain.
On a silken-lined cushion, Mac Curtin the bard
Of Clan Cuilen, sat close by the Lord of the Rock;
And he wept for the generous son of the sword
That ne'er turned back from the battle's red shock.
But he bent towards his master and spoke in his ear,
And the Chief's haughty brow blazed with ire, as he spoke,
And he writhed, as if an assassin drew near,
And gave his proud bosom a death-dealing stroke.
"Then who," said the Chief, while his eyes shot a flame,
" Saw my Swan of Clan Cuilen at cloudy Knocfeirin?
By the great Loghlin Laidir,f but tell me his name,
And, whoever he be, I'll pursue him through Erin!"
* Historians or story-tellers. Every family of note had its Seanachie.
+ Donn Fearneach, the Fairy King of Munster, is supposed to holdhis
court at Knocfeirin, in the county Limerick.. Loghlin Laidir, i.e., the strong Mac Namara, was Prince of Clan Cuilen
in the fourteenth century. -He was styled the Hercules of Thomond. Traditiop relates that no man of the Dalgais of his time was able to poise his
n     *rield his battle-axe, or wear his armour. Quin Abbey was founded
by one of his sons in 1402.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


147


"'Twas Horan, the Wizard!" Mac Curtin replied,
"Who knows all the mysteries of Fairyland well;
He dwells by the wild banks of Maige's foamy tide,Bring him here, and the tale he'll not falter to tell!"
The Wizard was brought to the great Castle-hallWeird was his aspect and gloomy his eye;
Like the hill's blasted pine-shaft, his figure was tall,
But thin as the arm of a cloud in the sky"What of my daughter?" the angry Chief cried,
Or how has this wild Fairy fiction gone out?
Tell me, dark Wizard of Maige's woody side,
Did the many-hued story proceed from thy mouth?"
"Proud Lord!" said the Spellman. " I'm author of all
Thou hast heard of thy snow-bosom'd child, Eveleen?
'Twas but yester-eve, as the night's solemn fall
Spread its mantle of shadows, thy daughter was seen!"
"Where, and by whom?" said the Chief, growing kind,
While the big tear extinguish'd the fire of his glance;
"By me, at Knocfeirin!" the Wizard rejoin'd,
" I saw her trip light, with King Donn, in the dance!"
A chill shudder ran thro' the warrior's frame,
He bent his proud head, like an oak in the wind,
And his soul thro' his eyes seem'd to leap in a stream
That burn'd a track on the cheek where it shined."Man of dark Spirit-lore! tell me all that thou know'st!"
Said the Chief, "and I swear by the steel of my sword!
That, for all the knowledge thou kindly bestow'st,
Half my lands and my treasure shall be thy reward!"
"Thy lands nor thy treasure I dare not accept,
Else ruin were mine!" said the Wizard of lore;
" But the secret I'll tell thee, with faith must be kept,
'Till the tenth starry night of the Maytime be o'er!
"I sat on the crest of the cairn of Knoc RueThe pearl-edged moon, in her night-walk, look'd still9
On the black firs that peep'd from their couches of dew,
Thro' the mist's floating silver that curtain'd the hillAnd I saw in the blue west a blood-colour'd cloud
That assumed the dimensions and state of a car,
Such as Conn of the Battles, triumphant and proud,
Drove to Asoil begirt with the terrors of war!
And in moonlight array, from the east to the west,
Tall horsemen and footmen troop'd swift thro' the air4.
And I scann'd the cloud-chariot around which they press'd,
And I saw Eveleen with the Fairy King there!
Then I gather'd the seed of the hill-fern green,*
And proceeded, at once, to Knocfeirin's Air-Towers,
* It is superstitiously believed that any person who is lucky enough to
find the fern-seed, can possess the power of making himself invisible.




148          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And there, in my mantle of magic unseen,
I watch'd the descent of the great Fairy powers!
On the hill they alighted, more numerous than leaves
In sylvan Adare of the silver-toned flood!
When the chill, dreary blast of October's bleak eves
Sweeps them out from the deep, golden heart of the wood!
Eveleen was received by three hundred white maids,
Whose lily-cheeks look'd, in the moon's pensive beam,
Like mushrooms seen 'mid the dewy grass-blades,
When Autumn is kindling the clouds into flame!
And they held in their hands jewell'd vases of flowers,
Blue-bells and snow-drops, and crimson lusmore,
Which they wantonly scatter'd, in glittering showers,
On Eveleen's way to the grand palace-door!
The King took her arm, and led her along,
And she stepp'd with such ease on the bright flowery bed,
Her foot-fall seem'd breathing a low, moonlight song,
And no blossom was broken nor crush'd by her tread!
Oh! had you but seen her high look, at that hour,
With her locks, like a spring-cloud of splendour, uncurl'd,
You'd say that her eyes had some meaning of power
To command the great tribes of the bright Fairy world!
She was led to the high Airy Chamber of State,
Where the wond'rous gems of a thousand mines shone;
Which seem'd a compound of light, beauty, and heat,
Created to brighten some sphere of their own!
Young suns seem'd to burn on the rich sapphire-walls,
Where the wonders of God's great Creation flash'd brightWithin the small space of the azure-roof'd halls
Countless worlds, contracted, blazed out on the sight!
A miniature universe, awfully grand,
Shone radiant in dreamy magnificence there;
As if the Great Architect's world-making hand
Sketch'd his works, in one picture, and hung them in air!
In the midst stood a throne so resplendent, that all
The starbeams of heaven seem'd blended in one
Brilliant structure of glory, and set in the hall,
To rival, in beauty and brightness, the sun!
Joy beam'd in the mild face of sweet Eveleen,
When she saw white-wing'd spirits around in its beams;
Like heavenly things in her infancy seen,
At midnight, when angels were painting her dreams!
"She mounted the throne amid wild acclamation,
And sounding of "crotels" and pealing of bells,
And waving of garlands, whose floral carnation
Was fresh with the spring-drops of heaven's pure wells!
And a myriad lamps made of the essence of light,
O'er her lily-head form'd a rainbow-hued zone;
Like a diadem of white stars encircling the night,
When crimson-cheek'd eve falls asleep on its throne




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


149


The floor of the rich hall was sanded with gold,
And its canopy beam'd, like the new crescent-moon,
With amber-hued mists round her yellow face roll'd,
On the verge of the planet-gemm'd night-sky of June!
And I saw the Ard Fileas of puissant King Donn,
With their minstrel-band, in rich costume of green,
Strike their bright-jewell'd clarseachs before the high throne,
Sweetly singing, " All hail to Knockfeirin's new Queen!"
Of all the wild melody ever was known
To pour on the soul of a mortal its spell--
Chaining all the hot fountains of life in its tone.
That night, on my ear the most rapturous fell!
I have oft heard those harps in the woods of Adare,
When sunset's red pencil was painting the sky,
And the liquid perfumes of the rich summer-air
Seem'd floating in song on the gale's honied sigh!
I've heard them by moonlight in leafy Tirvoe,
Breathing their notes in the vernal retreats
Where maiden-flowers open their hearts to the dew,
And give in return a tribute of sweets!
But never, 0 Chieftain, did mortal or spirit
Hear such music as greeted thy child, Eveleen!
And only my ear was accustomed to hear it,
I never-oh! never would hear it again!
The King is so proud of his beautiful prize,
That, each eve when the Day God's red glory goes down,
And the last aerial rose-blush departs from the skies,
He takes her to dance on the mountain's blue crown!
But Mava, the partner and Queen of his reign,
Has deserted the court, with wild jealousy fired,
She pass'd, in dark mist, from the hill to the plain,
And to steepy Knoc Greine, in a whirlwind, retired!
She is gone on a mission of vengeance, and soon
Knocfeirin shall witness division and spleen,
For half the great tribes that acknowledge King Donn,
Will rebel, and espouse the just cause of his Queen!
And the Fays of Clan Cuilen are biding the hour
To retrieve their lost prestige and rescue the maid!
One stroke is sufficient to shatter his power,
And restore thy fair child to thy roof's honour'd shade!
And now to confirm all that I declare,
Let the grave be reopened, and then shall be seen
Wither'd fern and broom, in the coffin laid there,
Instead of the corpse of the fair Eveleen!"
Like one agonized in some terrible dream,
The Lord of the Rock heard the wonderful tale;
Dark clouds on his angry face vanish'd and came,
Like storm-mist passing a bleak winter-vale,




150


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND


'Till the tempest of passion, that gathered so long,
In his burning heart, burst in a whirlwind of ire;
Each rising vein peer'd thro' his neck, like a thong,
And he look'd as if changed to a demon of fire:
" Eveleen! Eveleen!" in wild frenzy he roar'd,
While the hissing foam burst in white flakes from his lip,
And hung in a mass on his brown, wavy beard,
Like spray on the prow of a wave-beaten ship;
"My child! my white Swan! oh! by heaven-my swordI'll go to Knocfeirin, nor demon nor Dane
Shall save the base King, 'mid his wild Fairy-horde,
And I'll root his curst hill from the top to the plain!
My daughter, thou darling young dove of my heart!
My lily of brightness! my glory! my boast!
I'll pursue thee and find thee, wherever thou art,
Tho' a thousand brave lives in thy rescue were lost!'
As the hurricane clutches a weak willow wand,
He snatch'd a huge gold-hilted sword from the wall
And, whirling the quick-flashing steel in his hand,
He leap'd, with a shout, to the door of the hall!
The stunn'd menials flew in amaze and alarmThe matrons, half-fainting, knelt sudden to prayAs before the fierce sweep of his foot and his arm,
Each thing that opposed him was brushed from his way;
Mac Curtin rush'd forward, all reckless of harm,
In the path of his master his person he flung,
And fixed as a tree clings to earth in a storm,
To the breast of the wild-raging chieftain he clung.
"My Lord! my Protector! thou noblest and best
Of the sons of Clan Cuilen, the flower of our Isle!
Oh' quench this hot furnace of wrath in thy breast,
And listen to wisdom and reason awhile!
Bright head in the council, strong hand in the field!
Flower of stainless repute in the garland of fame!
No boon to thy Bard thou refuseth to yield,
Since a child to thy high, honour'd mansion I came!
I've lull'd thee to slumber, with legend and lay,
At thy side, in the hall and the camp, was my place!
Thy chivalrous deeds were my theme, night and day,
'Till the Lords of Mononia all envied thy praise!
Oh! hear my entreaty, brave heart and high head!
Be the brain-scorching fire of thy passion resigned!
Let it not in the halls of a Norman be said
That the Lord of the Rock went to war with the wind!
If thy fair Swan of whiteness can e'er be restored,
Thy rage will but ruin her chance of release!
'Twere wilder than madness to lift thy vain sword
Against the strong, bodiless Spirits of space!"




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


151


The furious Chief heard, and stared vacantly round,
And his dark face assumed an expression more mild;
He dash'd by the falchion, and sank to the groundThe lion was changed to a weak, sobbing child.
Tall Horan went forth to the heart of the wood,
And pull'd three green herbs, in the Fairy Queen's name,
And a smile on his desolate brow boded good,
As back to the couch of O'Brien he came;
In his thin, bony hands the soft leaflets he bruised,
'Till their drops in the press of his palms became warm;
In the Chief's ears and eyes the sour juice he infused,
And mutter'd, in silence, some spell-breaking charm;
Slowly the eyes of the warrior unclosedTo a sitting position he 'rose on the bed,
But sunk back again, in deep slumber composed,
Assuming the white-rigid look of the dead.
"Soon the hour shall arrive!" said the Master of Spells,
"When the dark Powers of Air from their thrones shall be
shaken,
Then the bride shall escape from the King of the hills,
And then-not 'till then-shall the bridegroom awaken!
Now gather bright wreaths to adorn his pillowLet the chamber be drest in the dark pomp of death!
Bring the scarlet " lusmore "* from the marge of the billowBring each dew-spangled bud from the moorland and heath!"
And now the tenth night of the flowery-faced May,
Round the blue hills in silent sublimity lay;
And star wink'd at star in the azure abode,
As Earth wept in dreams at the feet of her God.
Heaven's bosom with all its vast jewell'ry blazed,
And in wrapt adoration the mountains seem'd raised;
In breathless delight wind and water stood still,
And the clouds, in white ringlets, lay close on the hill.
The spirit of silence round Carrig's dark walls
Is asleep, for no harp song is heard in the halls,
Tho' the chambers are lighted as brightly as when
Clan Cuilen's high chivalry feasted within.
The bolts of the great Castle-door are withdrawn,
And two lofty figures stepp'd out on the lawn;
One is tall Horan, the wizard of power,
And one is MacCurtin the Bard of the tower!
Thro' the mist-cover'd woods their dark journey they take,
Towards the wild, gloomy hill of the cloud-curtain'd peak,
Knocfeirin of dark. Fairy legions and spells,
Where awful King Donn in his Air-Palace dwells!
* "Lusmore," the great Fairy herb.




152          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
They arrived at the grove-belted base of the mount,
Where fresh from its rocky heart danced a young fount;
The cean-a-bhans dotted its banks, with their snow,
And the water-cress drank of its crystal below;
The tall, nodding fox-glove and red-headed broom,
In its dreamy wave mirror'd their crownlets of bloom;
And the wild brier, with delicate blossoms all white,
Richly sweeten'd the calm spirit-breathings of night.
In the vale where the gray Druids worshipped of oldBut the stones of their altar lay mixed with the mould,
And the oaks that grew round it were blasted and gone,
Tho' their roots in the hoary soil still lingered on,
There, on a jagg'd rock, with deep-yellow moss crown'd,
Sat the raven-hair'd Wizard in silence profound;
And he look'd to the north where the dim streamers blazed,
And theh to the west's starry portals he gazed.
The horn of the waning moon, dismal and dim,
Through the gather'd mist, gleamed on the horizon's rim;
Two red starry gems o'er her silver head burned,
And her white, weeping face from the earth was half-turned!
The pale Wizard watched her slow march in the sky,
And beckoned the wondering Bard to come nigh,
As thrice to the zenith he pointed his hand,
And circled the spot, with his spell-working wand.
" There are signs in the heavens of coming dismayThere are omens on earth of a Spirit-affray!
The stars, o'er yon mountain, are quench'd one by one,
And the genius of rest from the waters is gone!
In the north's ambient fields the pale meteors shoot brighter,
In the east's lurid sky the white moon waxes whiter!
The south holds the fire-fiend asleep in its breast,
And a black-bosom'd cloud-world floats in the west!
It bodes to the Air-King affliction and sorrow,
And triumph and joy to thy house, Mac Con Mara!"
As the Wizard thus spoke, a grim raven flew round
An old pine that tempests half-cast from its mound;
Three times o'er the gray Druid-circle he flew,
And then to the shade of the old pine withdrew;
In his black beak he carried a murderer's bone,
Bleached fleshless and white as a summer brook-stone;
"'Tis the bird of Queen Mave!" said the Wizard upspringing,
" A token of wrath to this Fairy hill bringing!
And in that dark signal I read and can see
That mischief and evil shall fall upon me!
Now, child of the harp, thou wilt see in the skies,
A sight that shall freeze the blue wells of thine eyes!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND


153


But quail not, 0 Bard! thou hast nothing to fear,
Nor danger nor evil can come to thee here (
Be a watchful spectator of all that goes onThe veil of the ghost-world now is withdrawnt!
They look'd towards Knoc-Greine-a red cloud was there,
Like an uplifted slaughter-field hanging in air;
And lurid-edged lines spread their fringes on high,
Like a network of crimson and gold in the sky;
And behind, in the thick, dingy scud of the south,
The engines of warfare glared fearfully out
Where the wings of a mighty host, marshalled for fight,
Through the haze-fields of heaven, marched swiftly and
bright,
The shrill clang of steel to fierce music was ringing,
As if the big thunder a war-song was singing;
While the vanishing stars seemed to run from their place,
And hide farther up in the temples of space!
O'er the hills of green Thomond dark shapes 'rose and grew,
Like air-cities sketched on a ground-work of blue;
With mist-spectres set on their vapoury walls,
Floating on, towards Knocfeirin, thro' heaven's veiled halls.
Sudden the fire-flashing terrors they nurst,
Like a volcanic blaze, from their cloud-castles burstA moment the firmament broke into light,
As if day had leaped into the dark lap of night.
CANTO III.
The dawn's yellow glory was bursting on Ara,
And gilding the highlands of wild Glenomara;
And gemming the bosom of Shannon's great river,
That in music and majesty rushes for ever:
On Cratloe's bleak hills the blue night-shadow hover'dAnd their green zones of wood with its darkness were cover'dFrom Coonagh's broad marshes the winding mists flew,
And shook in the cool air their ringlets of dew;
Each star, by degrees, shut its cold, sleepy eye,
As the purple-winged daylight stole into the sky;
A soft, dusky radiance o'er Nature was gleaming,
Like the first-born light on the new world beaming
When the Lord fused the power of his word into one
Radiant sphere of effulgence, and call'd it the Sun!
From gloomy Camailte the eagle was winging,
Thro' amber-fringed curtains of ether upspringing,
And scattering the haze, in the pride of his flight,
Where the thunder-fiend groan'd on a cloud-couch all night.
Sweet honeydew breathings pervaded the air,
From bowery Tirvoe to romantic Adare;
And night, with its phantoms, and shadows, and dreams,
Made a lazy retreat from day's gold-shafted beams.
11




154          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Who moves, like a dew-mist, on Carrig's gray lawn,
And glides thro' the deep, silvery shade of the towers?
Like a spirit of dreams, 'mid the silence of dawn,
Floating over the green-pillow'd sleep of the flowers!
'Tis the Swan of Clan Cuilen-the snow-handed bride
Of the chieftain of Ara, the lofty and grand;
In her wild, queenly brightness of beauty and pride,
She returns, like a moonbeam, from gay Fairyland.
And her eye hath a clearer and lovelier light,
And her cheek hath a fresher and livelier red;
And her locks seem, as if the dark shadows of night
Were spun into substance and placed on her head.
She gazes around, in the wildest surprise,
And speaks to her soul, in soliloquy deep,
Like one that hath open'd her wondering eyes
From the spell of some vision that charm'd her sleep.
"Where art thou, my lord, and where art thou, my sire?
Oh! why have you fled from your Eveleen's side?
And where are the guests, and the banquet, and lyre,
That lately rejoiced in the home of the bride?
A vision came o'er me, enchantingly sweetI dreamt I was queen of a kingdom unknown,
Where the homage of millions was paid at my feet,
But here I've 'wakened, deserted and lone!
'Twas a halo of magic-an essence of joyThat sunn'd, for a moment, my soul with its light!
'Twas the summer-lit glory of sleep's phantom sky
Showing bright angel-pictures of bliss to my sight! "
With a step, like the May breeze, she flew to the hall,
And enter'd a chamber, with flowery wreaths spread;
There, wrapt in the shade of a sable-fringed pall,
The proud Lord of Ara lay seemingly dead.
A chill dimness swam o'er her eye's azure beam,
And darken'd the high marble arch of her brow;
She stood-as if life had suspended its streamCold, silent and white as a statue of snow.
Then, with sudden emotion, she stoop'd o'er the pall,
And her locks flung their shadowy rings on the shroud;
Like the half-darkened beams of the moon when they fall
On the soft, shining folds of a white winter-cloudHer chain'd spirit broke from its freezing eclipse,
And her eyes gleam'd, like stars on a dark night of rainHer soul in wild melody rush'd to her lips,
And melted away in a beautiful caoine.
Her Death-Song.
" Shall the cold, dreary tomb
Be the place of thy bridal?
Did death steal the bloom
From the cheek of my Idol?




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND,
Have I dreamt but of joy,
And awaken'd to sorrow?
Did the fountain run dry,
That gave beauty to Ara?
My heaven is shadedMy spring-flowers are blasted!
My summer is faded
Ere its May sweets were tasted!
The Flower of thy hall,
And thy stem, Mac Con Mara,
Shall wither and fall
With the King-Tree of Ara!
Has the Norman drank deep
At the life of our Nation?
Since there's none here to weep
For my comely Dalcassian 1
Oh! the black frost of grief
Has pierced into my marrow,
O'er the corpse of the chief
That gave glory to Ara!
How bright was the wave
Of thy sunny locks round thee,
When the eyes of the brave,
In the battle-van found thee!
And quick was thy spear,
'Mid the combat's wild farrah,
As the eagle's career
When he sweeps over Ara!
Oh! thy white foot was swift,
As the North-wind bestriding
The gloomy hill-drift
Where the cloud-ghosts are gliding!
And no chief in the land,
From green Thomond to Tara,
Could measure his brand
With my eagle of Ara!
Thy love-looks I felt
In the veins of my bosom!
Like the spring-dews that melt
In the heart of the blossom!
I slighted, for thee,
The high prince of Clan Carrha!
And you, Love! for me,
The white queen of Glenara!


155




156           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Mighty pillar of swordsFalcon-eyed! regal-hearted!
Gentle mouth of sweet wordsHas thy music departed?
The woods shall grow bright
In the gold of the morrow,
But the sun hath no light
For my Idol of Ara!
Oh! brightness and joy
Of my spirit, awaken!
Why did'st thou die, Love!
And leave me forsaken?
I'll go to the gloom
Of thy bed deep and narrow!
Let ours be one tomb,
In Clan Cuilen or Ara!
I'm left, like a ship
In a desolate haven,
To murmur and weep
For my glory bereaven!
No kind ray to cross
The bleak waste of my sorrow,
Or lighten the loss
Of my sunbeam of Ara!
Come, clouds of the sky
With your downy-wing'd whiteness!
Come, sun-rays that lie
In yon mansion of brightness!
Come breezes that play
In the vales green and narrow!
Bear my spirit away
To my loved one of Ara!"
The weird harp-like tone of her wild requiem broke
The spell of his trance, and the sleeper awoke;
To his lips, eyes, and cheeks, life's meridian returned,
And his blood, like loosed streams, thro' its hot channels
burn'd.
Brighter and brighter his countenance grows,
Lighter and lighter his breath comes and goes;
Nearer and nearer his reason floats back,
Clearer and clearer it shines on its trackLife shoots through his frame-like a working machine,
When all its strong parts in full action are seenAnd the mind, to her functions upspringing within,
Arranged her bright web of ideas again.
With uplifted hands, Eveleen felt amazed,
Starting back from the couch, in dumb wonder she gazed,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


157


While the haughty chief looked on the pall and the shroud,
And sprung from his coverings, and muttered aloud,
"What means this false show, that around me appears,
As if death has been mocked, and my lady in tears?
By the Spirit of Heber! I'll wreck my hot ire,
On the author of this, if it were thy proud sire!
A prank has been played, and by heavens, he'll see
That he knew not his man when he practised on me!
Believe it, his humour may have a red end,
If such be the honours he pays to a friend i"
But now the great hall of the tower was alive,
With the echoes of life, like the hum of a hive;
The inmates half dressed, in wild haste and dismay,
Repaired to the room where the mimic corpse lay.
The Lord of the Rock was the first to rush in,
And clasp to his bosom the bright Eveleen,
Delirious with transport, he vented a cry,
As he kissed her, all trembling with passionate joy.
Such a wild scene of giddy excitement appearedSuch loud exclamations of rapture were heardThe proud Lord of Ara, bewildered, looked on,
And thought that the thread of their reason was gone.
Pale-faced Eveleen, as if solving a doubt,
Gazed around on the scene, with her heart in her mouth,
And she drew her white fingers, in speechless surprise,
O'er her brow, as if clearing a spell from her eyes!
O'Brien glanced thrice o'er the group and the pall,
And rushed, with an oath, from the room to the hall;
"By the blood of Clontarf, they have broken away
From all reason, and I am the fool of the play!
Good heavens! what jests upon honour they keep,
To make a buffoon of a prince in his sleep!
Ho! bring me my chariot-I'll off to my court,
And never revisit this bedlam of sport! "
Mac Con Mara flew after the chief to the gate,
And drew him aside to a shady retreatUnravelled each thread of the story's dark clue,
And the chiefs, reconciled, to the Castle withdrew;
He called on the swiftest and best of his clan,
And issued an order to every man,
"Fly quick to green Thomond, o'er valley and dale
Ere the sunbeams have melted the silver of morn!
Go to the proud ladies and lords of Clan Tail,
And tell them the news of my daughter's return!"
They obey'd, and before the red evening withdrew
Its drapery of gold from the woods of Tirvoe,
The high halls of Carrig resounded aloud,
With the voices and steps of the mighty and proud.
Care fled from the Castle-joy swam in the bowl



158           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TH6MOND.
Like a May-morning song was the mirth of each soul;
The harp, so long silent, now flung from its strings
The glories of Erin's high Chieftains and Kings!
The wine-wasting revelry lasted five days,
And five nights the tall ramparts all seem'd in a blaze;
The gates were thrown open-full tables for all,
Strangers and strollers, were placed in the hallSuch roasting of sirloins-such slaughtering of kineSuch breaking of bread and such drinking of wineWas never yet seen since the days when King Brian
Feasted all the descendants* of great Heber Fionn.
And now the fifth sun on the golden hills burn'd,
Since sweet Eveleen from Knocfeirin return'dOn the lawn of the Castle the chieftains appear,
Prepared for the chase of the wolf and the deer;
Spear, cutlass, and dagger, and wild hunting horn,
Skein, arrow and bow, from the fortress are borne;
Deerhound and wolfdog bound, snuffing the gale,
And the slender-limb'd steeds prance with joy in the vale.
The ladies are there, in their hunting array,
To follow their lords in the sport of the day;
Each high-born dame her white palfrey rein'dBut the gentle-soul'd bride at the Castle remain'd;
She thought of the sick and the coldly-lodged poor,
As she stood, like an angel of love, at the door,
And kiss'd her small hand to betoken farewell
To the gay-laughing group as they rode down the hill.
Then she call'd her attendants, in number a score,
And exhausted the treasured-up wealth of her store,
And order'd each servant a portion to take
To the orphan, the widow, the sick and the weakWheaten flour, cleanly sifted, sweet flavoured and fine,
Gold, silver, and garments, beef, mutton, and wine;
On three ample cars the rich presents were laid,
And safe to the homes of the lowly conveyed.
Oh! what a sweet radiance of happiness play'd
In the bright seraph-face of the kind-hearted maid,
As she tripp'd to her bridal-room, warbling a song,
And plied her light work, all the summer day long.
'Tis eve, and the deep-yellow breast of the glade,
Is barr'd with the splendour of sunshine and shade;
And the calm, hazy gold of the verdure slid on,
As the shadow stole into the place of the sun.
The chase-wearied lords from the wild-woods arriveUp the steep plain of Carrig, like whirlwinds, they drive,
* At the coronation feast of Brian Boru, two thousand of the nobility of
Munster sat to dine in the great banquet-hall of the Palace of Kinkora -
Tradition.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


159


All reckless they gallop o'er brushwood and stone,
As if striving to break their steeds' necks or their own;
The ladies rein'd up and fell back to the rere,
And their light, silvery laugh made love to the air;
When they saw the gay heiress of rich Corofin,
Whip her steed up the rough steep, outstripping the men.
On the lawn they dismount, and well pleased, turn round,
To assist the fair dames to alight on the groundTo partake of the banquet they hurry away,
Discussing the sportive events of the day.
When the gray twilight ushered the night's starry fall,
A hundred lights flamed in the great Castle hall,
And the echoes of mirth and wild music peal'd out
On the sweet, summer night-airs slow roving about.
Round the boards, richly laden, the guests took their place,
With the spirit of pleasure enthroned on each face;
Robes sparkled, with gems, like rich star-gilded skies,
And eyes telegraphed the soul's language to eyes.
In a chair of bright silver sat fair Eveleen,
Her proud, lordly sire and her husband between;
And Mac Curtin sat near, by the side of his lord,
Quaffing deep of the wine-flood that foamed on the board!
"Come, Bard of my house!"* said the chief of the feast,
"Strike thy clarseach, and fling us a song from its wire!
Let it be the Ross Catha,t and play it with haste,
'Till our souls, like dry wood, catch the blaze of its fire!
Or rather relate how my white-bosomed Swan
Was rescued and saved from the dark Fairy throng!
Come, weave the wild story-a wonderful oneAnd spangle its web with the flowers of thy song!"
The Bard paused, awhile, o'er his instrument grand,
Like a spirit of melody born of its frame,
And his kindling eye gleamed, like the point of a brand,
As he touched the bright cords with the fire of his theme.
First came a sweet prelude, then note after note,
In melting vibration, harmoniously rung,
'Till the harp and his voice through the hall seem'd to float,
In a double-toned strain, as the gifted one sung;
* There were many of the Mac Curtins, Bards of Clare, and attached to
the Mac Namaras, O'Briens, and other distinguished families in Thomond.
The Mac Donnells of Kilkee and Killone were also very conspicuous in patronizing those native Sons of Song.
t PronouncedRoss Caha, i. e., " Eye of Battle," an inspiring martial
tune played by the minstrels of ancient Erin.




160         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Mac Curtin's description of the Fairy Battle fought at
Knocfeirin, for Eveleen.
I stood on a mound by a stream's wild soundKnocfeirin 'rose darkly before me!
And the lightning's blaze fired the dingy haze
That shadowed the star-fields o'er me!
And I saw, 'mid the shrouds of the torn clouds,
War-phantoms tremendously riding
In burning cars, like meteor-stars
O'er the wreck of a universe gliding!
And their steeds flash'd on, as if every one
In harness of fire was tighten'd,
And their flaming might, like a river of light,
The hall of the angels brighten'd;
For their panoply shone, like fire-sheets thrown
From the throat of a plague-cloud horrid;
And each awful plume seem'd to shake the gloom
Of the grave on the wearer's forehead!
The gleaming forms, in countless swarms,
Were mingling hither and thither,
As if to oft place in the bosom of space
All the planets were rushing together;
And a deadly noise fill'd the moaning skies,
Like a battle-field's dread commotion,
Or the angry roar of a thunder-shower,
When it leaps on the dancing ocean!
The moon look'd back on the gathering wreck,
And swoon'd on a vapoury pillowLike the sea-bird white, when with sudden fright,
It dives in the tumbling billowFor she wrapt her head in a floating shade,
And threw off the star-zone that bound her,
And quench'd in the damp her dusky lamp,
Leaving heaven in darkness 'round her!
A yellow cloud fell near the haunted hill,
The grove with its dim haze lining,
As if some Sprite, in his hasty flight,
Dropp'd his robe on their green tops shining!
And from the fold of its swimming gold,
Queen Mave, in her glory appearing,
Stood forth and gazed where the fire-flags blazed
On the crown of the dark Knocfeirin!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


161


Her garment glow'd, like a sun-barr'd cloud
On the young blush of morning tender,
When the snow-spirit spreads on the hills' white heads,
The wings of his wintry splendour!
And her eye, like a well in a haunted dell,
Flash'd with a brightness all-seeing,
And eternity's dreams were alive in its beams
Reflecting her grandeur of being!
The future and past on her brow were cast
In a halo of meditation,
Like an angel's thought embodied and wrought
Into beautiful contemplation,
For her dim face seem'd as if she dream'd
Of some earthly, perishing grandeur,
As she paused, like a ray that had gone astray
From some heavenly world beyond her!
The Wizard stepped out in the vale's green mouth,
And fell on the plain to adore her;
And he pray'd a prayer, on the cold sward there,
In prostrate homage before her:
"Resplendent Flower of ethereal power!
In beauty and glory excelling
The sun-star's sheen on the blazing plain
Of the Maker's infinite dwelling!
"Attend my prayer, bright daughter of Air!
Be thy queenly resentment disarm'd!
And return again the fair Eveleen,
To the house of her father unharm'd!
Let not the gall of thine anger fall
On a blossom so lovely and tender!
Oh! do not harm one radiant charm,
But graciously deign to defend her! "
She raised her hand, with a gesture grand,
And flung back her tresses bright'ning
The silvery glow of her neck's smooth snowLike a stream of autumnal lightning!
While her twilight-face a shadowy trace
Of benevolent thought discloses,
As when Spring appears, shedding night-fall tears,
O'er the couch of her early roses!
She shot thro' the night, and the woods grew bright
Where she pass'd o'er their dancing bowers,
Like a spirit of day, on a showery ray,
Bringing light to the dreaming flowers.




162          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And the plain of shade where the Wizard pray'd,
For a moment, grew radiant and sunny;
And the mist that lay on the grove-tops gray,
Dissolved in a dew-fall of honey!
Then the cloudy vest of the hill's huge breast
Was suddenly dash'd asunder,
Wide opening a gap in its sable lap
For the birth of the coming thunder;
And I saw King Donn, like a darken'd sun,
His army of terrors preparing
To hold his own, and defend his throne,
On the summit of wild Knocfeirin!
And above, as far as the farthest star,
The hosts of his foes were gather'dThick as the snow when the woods below
With its fallen flakes are feather'dAnd down they came in a column of flame,
And the back of a hurricane bore it,
As if heaven's blue floor, with a mighty roar,
Fell and drove them to earth before it!
The horsemen swept in the van, and leapt
O'er the couch of the raving thunder;
And the lightning fled from its flaming bed,
In a dance thro' the dark woods under!
While the slogan-note of its parent's throat,
Shook heaven and made earth rattle;
And its fiery flags split the bursting crags,
In the sweep of their burning battle!
Then I saw in fierce fight, 'mid the winged light,
The terrible Spirit-hosts toiling,
And the clash, and the clang of their onset rang,
Like a sea o'er an earthquake boiling!
Sound struck sound thro' the sky around,
And the sky to the earth seem'd to rain them,
For their echoes fell, with an angry yell,
As if space had no room to contain them.
The heath was burned, and the groves o'erturned,
Where the flame-shod steeds were dashing,
And each chariot swung, like a meteor hung
On wings, o'er the black waste flashing,
For each bright wheel spun, like a flying sun
Thro' an abyss of shadows diving,
While the vanquish'd wind paused, and cough'd behind,
Outstripp'd by their headlong driving!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Long fire-snakes broke thro' the night's black cloak,
The sky with their forked tails splitting,
And hissing about, with their red tongues out,
Blue lights thro' the dark air spitting;
While the clouds seem'd to throw on the war below,
New wrath in a lightning-vomit,
As if the tall pines from the hill's ravines,
Leap'd on fire to its blazing summit!
The dread light died and the gloom spread wide,
As if night had a tenfold missionThen a sound tore the air, as if volcanoes there
Met and smash'd in tremendous collisionAnd rolling down from the hill's black crown,
The powers of King Donn were routed,
While the thunder beat a loud retreat,
And the charging hurricane shouted!
Have you seen the lake when its white waves break
On its margin of rocks resounding,
When they run to hide, on the bleak shore-side,
From the wrath of the night-squall bounding?
Thus thro' the cloud-spray of the aerial sea,
Whole armies were driven, and riven,
Like forests hurl'd from a ruin'd world,
Rent, scattered and toss'd thro' heaven!
The Wizard look'd up to the dark hill's top
Where the gloom of the war was clearing,
But a hell-hued cloud from its summit bow'd,
Like a dungeon in air appearing,
And down it swung, like a garment flung
From the back of a demon, o'er him,
And off, with the speed of a desert steed,
Thro' the fields of the tempest bore him!
The whirlwind cheer'd, as he disappear'd
Where a chaos of cloud-hills tumbled,
Like the torn robe of a phantom-globe
In stormy fragments jumbled,
And a meteor sped, with its beam dark-red,
Before him thro' night's arch leaping,
Like a speck of blood on a sable flood
To a fathomless whirlpool sweeping!
There's a dismal calm, and the white mists swam,
Like foam on the star-vault painted;
And the storm expired, as if Nature, tired
From her awful convulsions, fainted;


163




164            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And the last deep growl of the thunder's roll,
With a drowsy echo, resounded,
As it sunk to rest in the sky's dark breast,
With its curtain of clouds around it!
I look'd on the hill where, solemn and still,
Deep dreamy shadows were blended;
While a victor-throng, with a heavenly song,
Thro' the slumbering haze descended,
And away thro' the air, in grand career,
Towards Carrig's* high Castle they wended,
With fair Eveleen, like an angel seen,
In the midst of their circles splendid!
THE WAIL OF ERIN FOR THE DEATH OF
W. S. O'BRIEN.
THE yellow-zoned morning was chasing night's gloomLike our glory-crown'd God, when he rose from the tombAnd the mountains of Erin put gorgeously on
Their helmets the gems of the new-risen sun;
But a shadow roll'd up on the eyelids of day,
And melted to tears in the gold of their ray;
For the soul-wringing wail of a nation's wild grief
Had burst o'er the land for her lately lost Chief.
Where the towers of Kinkora 'rose proudly of oldWith their royal halls blazing with falchions of goldA bright Spirit-essence descended in tears,
And appear'd half in gloom-as the day-dawn appearsShe stood on the shadowy Rath of the Kings,
With a harp in her hand, bearing rust on its strings,
And her eye, like a rain-star, was weeping in fire,
As her wild dirge 'rose blent with the sound of the wire.
* Carrigogunnell was purchased by Donogh O'Brien, Prince of Thomond,
A.D. 1214, from King John, for the sum of 60 marks; its original proprietors were the O'Kearwicks, who were its real founders. Its name
signifies the " Rock of the Candle," on account of a demon-light which
appeared there every night, immediately after sunset, in the old pagan
times. Tradition says that this light proved fatal to the person or persons
who looked directly at it, for they did not survive to see the returning day.
When St. Patrick came on his Christian mission into the district, he was
told all about this awful light and its deadly influence. He, having
remained until he saw it, repaired directly to the rock, and after praying,
challenged the Demon to appear before him. The Evil One did appear, and
began a stubborn discussion with the saint, who finally banished him from
the rock, where the death-light was never more seen. Carrigogunnell was
reckoned to be one of the strongest fortresses in Munster, and many a
fierce assault did it withstand during centuries of invasion and violence,
until it was entirely dismantled and blown up by an immense quantity of
gunpowder, in 1692,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.            16
" Oh! the last of my Dalcassian Eagles is gone,
My regal-soul'd, high-minded, bright-hearted one!
Another black grief-drop is flung in my bowl,
And another affliction-sword plunged in my soul!
I look thro' the death-cloud that darkens my land,
I gaze on the book of my fate in God's hand,
But no name, in the future or past, can I see
More dear to my people-more faithful to me!
" Oh! thy spirit was pure as the dew on the bough,
And no base foreign tinsel e'er shone on thy brow!
And the star of thy princely race-long in the waneIn thee seem'd to blaze with new brightness again;
Thy proud eyes were turned towards my dim horizon,
Where my glory had left but a spark of its sun;
And thy brave hand was lifted to bring back its ray,
And change the night-cloud of my tears into day!
" And thine was a mind, as an orient sky bright,
Where each thought, like a sunrise, was bursting in light;
And thy high Celtic soul, like a golden harp strung,
In a flame-gush of eloquence burn'd on thy tongue!
Thy heart was a chalice of jewels that blaz'd
On every high altar to freedom's cause raised;
And thy hand-like a harvest by genial suns blest,Was full of rich gifts for the poor and oppress'd!
" Last Prince of green Thomond-my heaven-gifted child!
For me thou wert slander'd, mock'd, tortured, exiled!
Tho' thy high spirit felt, yet it dashed off the sting,
As the proud eagle shakes the cold rain from his wingEnvious clouds may arise on the Day-god's red beam,
But nothing can quench the bright fount of his flame;
So the rays of thy soul shone resplendent above
The malice of foes-in its glory and love!
"The patriot unbending-the statesman so shrewdThe hero disarm'd, but never subduedThe philanthropist noble-the orator primeThe scholar exalted-the poet sublimeThe husband devoted-the father sincereThe lover of justice-the bosom friend dearThe Exile, the Martyr-for country and kindGodlike virtues-all, all in thy heart were enshrin'd!
"Man's race, like a spring-tide, shall long come and go,
Bearing great namep in its ebb and its flow;
But what patriot-name on its dark wave shall shine
So purely-so brightly-so grandly as thine?




166           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Thou'st borne the cross of my sorrows and wrongs,
And thou would'st have changed all my tears into songs
Of freedom and joy, could each drop in thy veins
Heal the wounds of my anguish or melt off my chains!
" I weep-but tho' darkly my sad tears may runMy soul bounds with glory to name thee my son!
Yes, Erin's beloved-whose veins' warm springs
Flash'd red with the fire of the blood of my Kings:
The proud eagle-flight of their spirit was thine,
But thy heart-gushing love and devotion were mine!
For no chief of thy race ever loved me more true,
Since the grand, golden days of my Kingly Boru!
"Thou art gone to repose, with the brave patriot-band
That strove, bled, and suffer'd, and died for my land!
They've welcomed thee now to their star-bowers of rest,
Where the flowers never die in the fields of the Blest!
And thou'lt gaze on the world-lighting fire of God's face,
With a prayer on thy lips for my heart-stricken race;
And when the dark veil of my fate is withdrawn,
Thou'lt watch for my day-star and welcome its dawn
' Oh, Poland! my sister in bondage and woe 1
The champion and friend of thy cause is laid low!
1Jho' his mighty soul wept fiery blood-tears for me,
He'd a voice and a heart for thy sufferings and theeFar-far o'er the seas shall his requiem be borne,
And sunny-eyed Greece and Columbia shall mournThou'lt sigh for my son, 'mid the battle's career,
With the gore of thy savage foes red on thy spear!*
"In my soul, on the throne of my bosom I'll write
His dear name and memory in letters of light!
And when the now living shall moulder away,
And the tongues of his slanderers melt into clay,
His name shall shine out, with new splendour all bright,
Like a planet appearing more radiant at night!
And his tomb, where repose his dear ashes, shall be
The hallowed haunt of the faithful and free!"
JOHN MITCHELL IN EXILE.
DOES Erin hear her Mitchell sigh, when o'er her wounds I
weep?
Did Erin see her Mitchell chain'd-and did her spirit sleep?
* The Poles were grappling with the Russians, at the time of his deoah.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


167


I loved thee then-I love thee now-tho' far away from thee,
My heart, my soul, and life are thine-my Erinn Oge
Machree! *
As the lion from the desert in strong iron fetters borne,
So from the spirit of thy cause thy faithful son was torn!
But craven-hearts and traitors stood between thy cause and
me,
Thy freedom would be bought with blood-my Erinn Oge
Machree!
Oh 1 the hungering grief of exile!-oh, the weary long delay
Of retribution's coming, gnaws my heart and soul away!
Oh! my spirit's thirsty craving to behold thee great and free,
Has turned my blood and brain to fire-my Erinn Oge
Machree!
I kneel, imploring heaven to hurry on the lagging hour,
When Fate shall sound the death-knell of the pirate's bloody
power!
When thou shalt rise all glorious, as an angel 'mid the sea,
Earth's Rose and Beauty's Paradise-my Erinn Oge Machree!
Oh 1 for ten thousand fiery Celts to act at my command,
Oh I for a field and hill-side camp within my native land!
Oh! for a day to meet thy foes-how glorious would it be
To die, or   chase them from   thy shore-my Erinn Oge
Machree!
But God has turn'd away his face, and 'tis his heavenly will
To bend the yoke of servitude upon his Israel still;
And well art thou chastised, my love! but lift thine eyes and
see
The day of thy release is near-my Erinn Oge Machree!
The clouds of death are gathering fast o'er Babylon's strong
towers,
And desolation's night shall fall upon her guilty powers;
And those that scourged thy noble sons and persecuted thee,
Will yet lie trodden in the dust-my Erinn Oge Machree!
Then dry thy gloomy tears, dear land, and lift thy virgin eyes,
Thy crown of thorns will turn to flowers, for heaven has heard
thy cries;
When she-whose adamantine foot trod down thy brave and
freeShall gnash her teeth in fire and blood-my Erinn Oge
Machree /
* Young IErinn of my heart,




168         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Oh! thou know'st that I love thee, with a love like raging
fire,
That, like a sleepless serpent, eats away my heart entire!
Ever longing-ever craving, thy bright shore of saints to see,
Free from the alien scourge and curse-my Erinn Oge Machree!
I've formed a crystal temple in my burning, loving heart,
And there in all the majesty of freedom's dawn thou art!
There in thy queenly glory I behold thee great and free,
My own, my brilliant, beautiful,-My Erinn Oge Machree!
I know thy Mitchell's name is shrined within thy soul of
songsI published to the wondering world the story of thy wrongs!
And a day of bloody reckoning draweth near thy foes, and
thee,
When they shall weep and thou shalt laugh-my Erin Oge
Machree!
TO ROBERT D. JOYCE.
On the Publication of his Poems.
BOLD master of the Irish lyre! sweet mouth of song, all hail!
Feardana of the lofty verse! Ard Filea of the Gael!
As joys the thirsty traveller when a pure spring warbles near,
So burst thy living numbers on my soul's enraptured ear!
The silent, cloud-robed grandeur of the mountain solitude,
The bowery vale, the flowery plain, the emerald-vested wood;
The gaping breach, the 'leagured town, the reckless battlethrongAll glow before my spirit, in the pictures of thy song!
The mystic Spirit-world, with its fairy splendour gay,
Thy daring genius has unlock'd, with Poesy's magic key;
The sun-ray'd jewels of Romance, with all their pristine light,
Burst, flashing from thy wizard pen, upon our charm'd sight!
Sweet Ollav of the golden lay! oh! would my simple praise
Add one bright floweret to the crown of thy immortal bays,
And place thy brilliant page-a gem-in every Irish handFeardana of romantic song were honour'd in our land!
Then pour upon thy country's ear thy harp-notes wild an
strong,
And melt into our burning hearts the jewels of thy'song;
And let thy eagle Mbwse tower up to heaven, on flashing wing,
'Till Erin, with a4iifring soul, delights to hear thee amg I




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


169


Here, by old Shannon's noble flood, I drink thy tuneful lore,
And, as my spirit sips thy strain, I thirst and long for more!
Back, on the spring-tide of thy verse, I float to olden times,
And bathe my fancy in the rays of radiant Fairy climes!
THE WOODMAN'S DAUGHTER.
THE dawn was blushing on the streamsDark frown'd the woods on Cratloe's mountains;
Thro' wavy mist the crimson beams
Stole o'er the silvery fields and fountains;
The clouds Were bright'ning in the east,
With many a shade and sun-gemm'd curl,
When by the river's azure breast
Stood, all alone, a weeping girl.
The rose was faded on her cheek,
And all that wild despair expresses
Was in her eye-her voice was weakThe dew was glistening on her tressesUpon a grassy mound above
The amber bosom of the waterThe victim of an ill-starr'd loveThere stood the woodman's poor, lost daughter!
"I weep at my own wake!" she cried,
" My own sad funeral I'm attending!
My bier and shroud this silent tideMy plumes the green reeds o'er me bending!
Oh! love! is this my bridal bedIs this the wedding-day you've brought me?
Have all the golden vows you made,
But dark disgrace and ruin wrought me?     -t O U
"No more, by wild Blackwater's grove,   7O.          -   i
I'll wander thro' the sunny meadows,     /     N
Where first I own'd my timid love,A.. D
Beneath the hazel's dewy shadows!
Oh! heart deserted and deceived--
Oh! you whose artful words betray'd it-        C.
You for whom that fond heart livedBehold the ruin you have made it!
"Ah! false one! why was I so blind
To love thee-listen, and believe thee?
Oh! broken heart were you less kind,
He never-never could deceive me!
Hide me, O Death! let foe and friend
Erase me from their recollection!
O love! O love! is this the end
Of all my fondness and affection?
12




170          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
" My shame is known-my father weepsThe village maidens shun our dwelling!
My lonely mother seldom sleeps,
For day and night her tears are welling!
But I will hide my early shame,
Deep-deep beneath this gloomy water I
The eye of scorn-the voice of blameNo more shall reach the woodman's daughter!
"My babe unborn, ah! must you share
Your mother's doom and tribulation?
Ere you have known your mother's care,
Or smiled amid the bright creation!
But I shall never give you birth,
Tho' dear as life and soul I prize youA thing forbid by heaven and earthYet never shall the world despise you!
"Death's sleep is stealing on my eyes!
My weary day of life is over!
Where are my dreams of wedded joysAnd where are you, my faithless lover?
Ye virgins of the bowery vale,
No more, with downcast eyes, you'll shun me!
Forget my name and hush the tale
That brought the stain of shame upon me!"
Her ribbon'd bonnet she untiedWith gaudy silk and flowerets gleaming;
Her homely scarf she cast asideHer eyes, with grief's last tear-gush streaming,
Look'd wildly towards her rural homeThen turning to the trembling river,
She plunged amid its whirling foam,
And sank in death's cold sleep for ever.
They sought her, all the live-long day,
In glen and grove, but no one found her;
Deep, deep in Shannon's flood she layThe silvery fishes gliding round her!
They sought her in the dark-blue tideIn wild distraction shrieked her mother,
And on the river's lonely side,
With tears of vengeance, wail'd her brother.
They raised her body from the flood,
And in a rural grave they laid her,
While many a burning curse pursued
The heartless villain that betrayed her.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


171


The village girls, for many a day,
Bewailed the woodman's blue-eyed daughter,
The loveliest corpse that ever lay
Beneath the Shannon's crystal water.
THE L1LY OF SUNVILLE.
Is the beautiful Lily of Sunville no more,
Ere the bright-flowering bloom of her springtime was o'er?
Woe is me, that the grave and the pale, winding-sheet,
Have wrapt, in their shadows, the gentle and sweet!
I witness'd your bridal, as splendid and bright,
As ever the church sanctified with a rite!
And a thousand lips praised you, and breathed a prayer
On your pure virgin-spirit-oh! graceful and fair!
There was pleasure around you from morn 'till night,
For you touch'd every heart with a glow of delight!
And the generous house of your kind-handed sire,
Was gay as a banquet-harp strung with gold wire!
That house was a heaven while you were the sun
Which shed brightness around it-oh! beautiful one!
While the rich feasted there-the forlorn and poor
Ne'er turn'd with a cold, empty hand from the door!
Sweet words of compassion and kindness were there
For all who would come with a tale of despair!
And the full, friendly hand was held forth to redress
Each poor bashful neighbour and child of distress!
There the music that 'neath your fair white fingers rung,
Seem'd to borrow its wild syren tones from your tongue!
And your smiles made me think of the angels above,
When they throng round the Lord, with the songs of their
love!
I have seen a snow-cloud on Camailte's blue height,
But your brow was as fair, and your bosom as white!
I have heard the May-song of the river-breeze sweet,
And I thought of your voice and your light-treading feet!
I've marked the Spring-stars, in the deep twilight skies,
Looking kindly towards earth, like your calm, gentle eyes,
When your fair hand was reached with a boon of relief
To some creature of want or a victim of grief,




172            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
I have watched the new summer-moon stealing from view,
'Mid the fire-isles that blaze in the dark, aerial blue,
'Till her pale ring was lost in the foam-bosom'd waveSo you, oh! beloved! have sunk to the grave!
Aye, sank to the grave the foul worms amongOh! my bosom would burst if you lay there unsung!
For I bless your loved name, when I think of the days,
When your sweet voice gave music and grace to my lays!
Yes, the tears of my heart on your tombstone would burst,
If they'd soothe your dear spirit or warm your dust!'
And oft have my thoughts climb'd the heavens to see
If thy angel companions were lovely as thee!
THE DEATH OF KING CRIMTHAN.
A.D. 378.
This illustrious Irish King, of brilliant achievements, at home and on
the Continent, was poisoned by the hand of his own sister, Mongfinne,
(fair tresses) in the bright career of his splendid triumphs. Her object
for the committal of so base a crime, was to have her son elected to the
supreme throne in Crimthan's place. But her wicked project was never
consummated, for not one of her descendants ever came to the throne of
ancient Erin, except Roderick O'Connor and Torloghmore, two of the most
fatal monarchs that Ireland ever saw. On presenting the poisoned cup to
her brother, she tasted it before him, in order to allay any suspicion that
might arise in his mind. She soon expired from the effect of the dose, but
the King continued his march thro' the country until he arrived at the
hill of Ballykinnanein the county of Clare, about three miles from Limerick.
There, in the midst of his sorrowing army, he was seized with horrid spasms,
and he expired on the summit of the hill. He was buried where he died,
and a large cairn was raised over his remains to mark his grave. A few
months ago I went, accompanied by another lover of Irish lore, to see this
remarkable grave. All the stones which composed the great Cairn were
taken away by the landlord to build fences on his land, but the principal
grave-stone which'covers the monarch's ashes is still there unmolested.
The peasantry of the district are quite familiar with this grave and its
strange history. They call the hill Knoc Righ Crimthan, i.e., King Crimthan's HilL He was succeeded on the royal throne of Ireland by the celebrated Niall of the Nine Hostages.
KING Crimthan has marched to the land of the South,
Taking hostage, and tribute, and spoil on his route;
At the head of his glittering battalions he rode,
With the pride of a victor and pomp of a god.
And his ringletted sister came forth, with feign'd joy,
From her bright-royal halls by the waves of the Moy,
And she stretch'd her white arms her brother to greet;
Who could think there was guile in a bosom so sweet?
Her eye was the crystal that gleams on the flower
When morning looks down thro' the mist of a shower;
And she look'd like the white cloud that gleams on the hill,
When summer is bright and the breezes are still.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


173


With her rich tresses bound by a diadem-band,
She gave to the monarch her bright-jewell'd hand;
And he sprang from his grand, golden car to the ground,
And embraced the fair dame while her virgins stood round.
Three days hath he tasted the festive delights
Of her high banquet-hall, with his chieftains and knights;
But when he arose his brave march to resume,
And braced on his armour, gold helmet and plume,
She moved to his side while her right hand held up,
With affection's dear semblance, a death-bearing cup,
And she spoke in his ear, like the song-bird of Spring,
"Take this sweet, parting drink from thy sister, 0 King!"
To lull his suspicions, if any, to sleep,
She tasted the draught but she tasted too deep;
Then he shook her soft hand as she stood in the hall,
And he heaved up the bowl till he emptied it all.
Away on his journey the monarch is gone,
And his murderess has fled to her chamber alone,
Where the blood of her heart, like a furnace, dried,
And, with hot bursting eye-balls, she writhed and died.
Thro' Galway and Thomond brave Crimthan has march'd,
And there's death in his heart and his vitals are parch'd;
But when he reach'd Ballykinnane's gloomy hill,
His warriors and Brehons, and Druids stood still;
And they laid their sick king on a heather couch down,
And their murmur arose, like the winter wind's moan,
For the voice of their anguish was awful and loud,
When they saw the death-pangs of the conqueror proud.
The mists of the West round the sun's face are roll'd,
And the heather seems sheeted with crimson and gold;
While high, 'mid the haze, on the summit's blue ring
The warriors are making a grave for their king:
With their broad swords they shaped it, and down in its bed
Was many a hot drop of their hearts' sorrow shed;
While the Druids, white-robed, with their brows to the sun,
Stood unmoved on the hill till the ritual was done.
They placed him deep down in that grave's silent hall,
His shield was his pillow, his war-cloak the pall;
His bier the wild heather, his plume the hill-cloud,
The helmet his napkin, the armour his shroud.
And there thro' long ages the mountain winds sing
Dreary requiems of grief o'er the sleep of the king;
And his gravestone is fringed with the bright rosy stain
Of the red broom that made the sweet bior* of the Dane.
* This heath, from which the Danes brewed a delicious liquor, is entirely
different from the common heath. It is quite short and thin and is adorned
with a beautiful rose-coloured blossom. It is called in Irish, Freik an.anee, which means, Ale of the Liver, on account of its medicinal virtue fo'
ouring liver complaint.




174        LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND,


THE BATTLE OF CROOM.*
A.D. 1599.
LORD Essex is coming-and deep is the gloom
Of his banners o'ershading the borders of CroomUp-up ye fierce men of the mountain and glen,
And raise your loud war-shouts of freedom again!
Like the dark mists of winter o'erspreading the vale,
The plumes of the Saxon float proud on the gale;
Like the waves of the river, when lit by the sun,
The steel-sheathed ranks in their splendour move on.
The war-fires are lighted-oh! princely Mac Caura!
Haste-sharpen thy sword for the combat to-morrow!
Let thy proud banner wave o'er the battle's red brow,
And hurl thy clan on the ranks of the foe!
Arise to the contest, ye brave Geraldines!
Array the fierce war-horse, and marshal your lines!
Come- forth to the field, like the dash of the sea,
When the tempest-cloud bursts upon stormy Kilkee!
The red sun is bright on the hills of Clan CarrhaThey sweep to the fight, like the death-winged arrow;
The wild battle-slogan, tremendous and stern,
Swells fierce, on the wind, from the ranks of the kern.
The blaze and the clash of the combat began,
And God's burning terrors seem'd wielded by man;
From the Gael to the Saxon one flame-deluge burn'd,
And fiercely the Saxon his vengeance return'd.
As the mountain-cloud, chafed by the wind-spirit's ire,
Spits the red-winged flash from its black mouth of fire;
So furious and fast did Clan Carrha's fierce sons,
On the proud Saxon host pour the blaze of their guns.
The mail'd phalanx bursts where the wild Gallowglass,
With his ponderous axe, thro' the ranks hew'd a pass;
While the armour that guarded their hearts' purple wells,
Rang loud, as the clashing of iron-tongued bells.
Have you heard, at deep midnight, the sea-surges rave,
When the tempest-king dances in fire on the wave?
So dire was the fury of axes and spears,
As they plough'd the strong mail of the tall cavaliers.
* A large division of Lord Essex's army, on its way to invade the North,
was attacked near Macroom by the O'Mores and Mac Carthys, and routed
with great loss. The place was called the " Pass of Plumes," on account
of the large mass of plumes shorn from the helmets of the English cavalry.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.


175


Like reeds on the river-bank, trampled and strown,
Lie footmen and horsemen together o'erthrown;
Hark! the wild cheer of victory-Lord Essex has fled,
And the flower of his legions behind him lies dead.
There's triumph and joy in the homes of the Gael,
There's wailing and woe in the towers of the Pale;
The Saxon is swept from the plains of Clan Carrha,
And Desmond is free as her wild Gougane Barra.
THE MISER'S GRAVE.
IN silence I gaze on the dust where you lie,
But my breast feels no throb, and my heart heaves no sigh;
In Memoriam, above you, appears the cold stone,
Sure, while living, your heart was as cold as its own!
You might be below or you may be above,
But I'm sorry you died, without no one to love!
The' your gold, in a shower, on your gravestone would glare,
'Twould not purchase one tear to your memory there!
You were cold to the poor, to the sick, and distress'd,
But why you were so, your Creator knows best;
You spurn'd the friendship that links man to man,
Alas! that too many are following your plan!
Cold moans the bleak wind o'er the grass and the dew
On your grave-yet I know 'tis not moaning for you;
Tho', like your drear life, 'tis unfeeling and cold,
Yet it sighs not, with pity, for you and your gold!
On the side of your mound, a young daisy appears,
Its pure snowy fringe is besilver'd with tears;
I'll kiss off those sun-gems--from Nature they grewFor I know the sweet flower is not weeping for you!
A wild bee's weird hum, 'mid the silence, I hear,
He's gone-for a moment he only came nearTo some sweeter part of earth's bosom he flew,
For he knows that he'd gather no honey from you!
From yonder hawthorn's white vest in the sun,
A red-breasted bird all the morning sings on;
You cared not for song while life's throbbings you knew,
Then the sweet thing is singing for Nature, not you!




176         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
A grass-spider has woven his web at your head,
To entangle some poor, winged victim 'tis spread;
He has just merely done what you often did do,
For many a victim was tangled by you!
If the treasures of earth were all circling your brow,
You'd not open your cold eyes to look on them now;
While travelling through life little mercy you knew,
Yet I hope our dear Saviour has mercy on you!
You lived for yourself, and for no one you cared,
You saw friends in want while your money you spared;
You left it behind you-what more could you do?Then no one-ay, nothing! should mourn for you!
THE HEROINE OF THE BREACH.
A ROMANCE OF THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK.
ON the city of heroes the night-shadow lay,
And her brave sons reposed from the toils of the frayTower, bastion, and wall, with the cold mists are wetThe gates are secure and the sentinels set.
The morrow's fierce work in the council is plann'dThe troops are arranged and the ramparts are mann'dThe guards keep their eyes on the dark plain below,
All lined with the tents of the dread foreign foe.
But who is yon maiden by Shannon's calm tide?
And who is that tall, comely youth at her side?
'Tis Con Mac Namara, from Cratloe's brown highland,
And Mary O'Connor the Rose of the Island!
He, graceful and proud as a Prince of the Gael,
She, blue-eyed and amber-haired, pensive and pale;
But love never knitted, in joy or in sorrow,
More fond souls than Mary and Con Mac Namara!
"Alas! my young heart's best beloved!" she cries,
With a sigh on her lips and a prayer in her eyes,
" Perhaps from this night, our fond meetings are o'er,
'Till we meet yet, in peace, on eternity's shore!
To-morrow's fierce combat will prove to the world
Our glory or shame, when the Green is unfurled!
But, Con! I implore you! whate'er may befall,
Retreat not, but die ere you move from the wall!
And if heaven wills that I meet you again,
Let me see you a victor, 0 gallant youth, then!
If not-may my eyes in the grave's silent rest
Be closed, with the cold, weeping turf on my breast,
Ere I live to behold the dire ruin and sin
That shall ravage our town if the Dutchmen come.in!"




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


177


The youth gazed around him, and pressed her white hand,
Pointing towards the grim ramparts so fearlessly mann'd;
"By the blood of my father who fell at the Boyne,
I'll wed thee a victor or never be thine!
Behold this brave sword!" and he held up the blade
Gleaming brightly before the pale face of the maid" This hard-temper'd steel to a cedar shall grow,
Ere you see haughty Luimneach possess'd by the foe!
Oh! Mary! I think while I gaze on your charms,
'Tis Erin herself that inspires me to arms!
And to-morrow, please heaven, this brave sword shall teach
Dutch Billy a lesson, at yonder gray breach!
He deems he has nothing to do but walk inIf he does, by the Cross, he'll be slash'd out again!"
He laughed, and the pale maiden smiled as he spoke,
But a sigh of regret from her heaving heart broke;
" I know you are brave, and your actions have proved
How faithful and well you deserve to be loved?
Forgive your own Mary for daring to show
How a youth of your valour should rush on the foe!
Oh! do not be reckless the danger to seek'Twas love for our country that forced me to speak!
Be bold in the battle, but dare not too far,
Cool valour, not rashness, is safest in war!
You know that my father and brothers are deadTogether they perish'd in Shannon's deep bed,
When the troops, from Killeely, in rapid retreat,
Found at Thomond-gate's draw-bridge one treacherous fate.*
Oh! Virgin of mercy!-I stood on the strand,
And I saw the white flood swallow down the brave band,
And their hoarse, horrid drowning shrieks rang to the sky,
As the surges leap'd o'er them, with wild, savage joy!
The swift rolling water a moment seem'd chain'd,
And its ridges of silver with blood-streaks were vein'd;
While thick o'er its bosom the foam-circles flew
Where the heads of the doom'd ones sank deep from my view!
I heard yonder rapid Fallt gurgle and wail,
As if death, overgorged, became choked with the meal!
But the sun seem'd to die, and my eyes saw no more,
For the sight left their balls, and I swoon'd on the shore!
* It is stated that an officer named Clifford, who commanded the garrison
that guarded Thomond Bridge, was bribed to destroy a division of the Irish
army, by opening the drawbridge before them, on their retreat from Killeely
fields, where they were foraging their horses, when attacked by an oarwhelming force of the Williamites, who drove them into the snare prep-rA
for their destruction.
+ The Fall of Curracour, which signifies " Help! Help /" the ory of the
drowning men when they fell into the current.




178           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Since that blood-freezing scene of disaster and dole,
Gloom-visions'of horror have haunted my soulI'm alone in the world, but while heaven spares thee,
There's yet a sweet flower in life's desert for me!"
He smiled and replied, in a low-breathed tone,
"Dear Mary! my heart and my life are your own!
When the combat is o'er and the victory ours;
And the Spirit of Freedom enthroned on our towers
I'll make you the happiest, loveliest bride
That e'er blushed, in her joy, by a warrior's side!
And I'll bring from the battle some rich golden prize,
As bright as my sunny-hair'd darling's blue eyes!
And-oh! glorious hour-when our city is free,
Believe it, my sweet one! I'll hasten to thee!
Weep not, love! be calm-this is no time for tearsHark! the roll of the drum!-see, the morning appears!
All hail! fatal day of contention and death!
How radiant thy beams, and how peaceful thy breath?
From the east's yellow bosom thou lookest as bright,
As if banquets, 'rot blood, were to hallow thy light-!
Oh! day of destruction! oh! calm-breathing morn!
In storm and lightning thou should'st be born!
Since the great God hath called out of darkness thy ray,
It never gave birth to so deathful a day!
The drums beat to arms-the towers are alive
With troops, gathering thick as the swarms of the hiveLook yonder-a.god to the ramparts has come'Tis Sarsfield! I know the proud wave of his plume!
Return to thy home, O dear Mary I and pray
To the great God to give us the victory to day!
Towers, walls, gates and all, shall be blown in the air,
Ere we yield the brave city while Sarsfield is there!"
She wrung her white hands, and cried bitter and loud---
He kiss'd her-departed, and rhsh'd thro' the crowdTo the ramparts he bounded, with wind-winged feet,
And left the sad maiden to weep in the street.
'Tis noonday-the sun his hot zenith-beams threw,
In rivers of gold, round his palace of blue,
And, in mimic fire, blazed on sword, musket, and mail,
Where the foreign hosts cover'd the plain of Singail.*
One roar of the cannon-one roll of the drum--
One blast of the trumpet-and forward they come;
On they drive, like a sea gathering wrath in its track,
With the foam on its breast and the squall at its back,
* Singleland, the ground of many a hot contest, for centuries, between
the natives and the invaders.,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


179


Rising, whirling, and boiling 'till stopp'd by the shore,
In madness it breaks and, laps back, with a roar,
Thus check'd at the breach by the valour within,
Surged and burst the fierce torrent of horses and men;
O'er ditch, fosse, and rampart one hurricane broke
Of fire,, steel ahd iron, and thunder, and smokeOne dread crash of swords-the defenders are downOne mad push of hosts-they are into the townOne cheer, and one dash of the women and menAnd back through the breach they are beaten again!
But who is he, first in the grim battle-van,
'With the arm of a god and the breast of a man?
S'Tis Con MacNamara from Cratloe's brown highland,
The darling of Mary-the Rose of the Island!
"-There's a wound iii his side from the Williamite shot,There's blood on his brow-but he matters it not;
On the heads of the foemen his rapid steel falls,
And piles of their dead are heap'd under the walls!
Have you seen, 'mid the.hill-clouds, red-fiery shafts gleam,
When the storm-fiend puts on his armour of flame,
While the rain-deluge sweeps thro' the glens, with a roar,
From the heath-crested summits of Cappantimore;
Thus flash'd thro' the war-cloud the steel of brave Con,
Driving ghosts from their clay, as the wild rout rolls onClang, clang goes his sword, and a dead, hollow sound
Replies, at-each blow, there's a corpse on the ground!
Death stalks, in a billow of gore, at his side,
And his pathway of slaughter is fearful and wide;
Towards yonder tall knight-the vast blood-surge he stemsWhose helmet of silver is circled with gems.He promised his amber-hair'd Mary a prize,
He sees it, and headlong to win it he flies;
And he thinks how resplendent those rays of the mine
In the rich, flaxen locks of his fair one would shine.
The eye of the haughty knight mark'd his advance,
And swift, at his bosom he aim'd his long lance,
Bit the sword of the Celt broke the spear's winged force,
And dash'd it aside from its blood-thirsty course.
S They rushed on each other, with falchion in hand,
And in quick, tangled flashes, brand leap'd upon brand;
Like two dancing sunbeams, around their high crests
The-circling steel glitter'd, and blazed at their breasts.
Brave Con, with a foot like the wild mountain-roe,
Changed ground and frustrated the aim of his foe;
'Till the foreigner, blinded by fury and hate,
Grew weak-dropp'd his guard and commenced to retreat-.With the spring; of a wolf-hound, Con follow'd-one clash
Resounds--a4d the bleeding knight sinks, with a crash.




180          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The rich-jewell'd helmet he stoop'd to unbind,
When a Dutch Cavalier, from the trenches behind,
Dash'd on him, unseen, and his spear-like a flame
In the whirlwind's grasp-had been plunged in his frame,
But Mary O'Connor rush'd in on his path,
Like an angel of God on a mission of wrath;
There's a stone in her hand, and the wave of her hair,
Like a sun-cloud of heaven, is spread on the airCrash flies the crag in the face of the foe,
And prostrate and powerless he falls at the blow.
Her brave lover tost the plumed cap from his head,
And the knight's silver helmet plac'd on in its stead;
And never did helmet of silver or steel
Become the high brow of a hero so well.
He turns to the maiden-" 0 Mary! retire!
See the foes from yon battery have open'd their fire!
Soon the mine will be sprung and that tower shall be driven,
In a whirlwind of terror and ruin, thro' heaven!
But she stands at his side, 'mid the thick-flaming hail,
And bares her white breast to the bullet and steel;
He shields her behind him-she walks in his tread,
And follows his steps o'er the wounded and dead.
Now the Williamites swept thro' the breach, like the wind,
To escape the hot vengeance that press'd them behind;
And the fire,-the wild tumult,-the groan and the yell,
Outrivall'd the deep, fiery horrors of hell.
Like the MEelstrom that swallows and vomits the wreck,
The red-mouthed breach spewed the broken host back,
And Mary is swept, from her young lover's side,
In the surge of the throng-like a flower on the tide.
"Mary! Mary!" he cried, with a wild, thrilling screech,
As she pass'd, 'mid the rout of the foe, thro' the breach.
Like a fire-spirit rushing in flames thro' a cloud,
With his raised sword, he plunged thro' the heart of the crowd;
He hollows a road thro' the mad, driving throng,
And his steel carries death where he dashes along;
O'er the red fosse he bounded, and headlong away
He darts 'mid the flying host's wild disarray;
Before him they widen-behind him they,reelAs the broken flood tumbles and sways at the keel.
Oh! he sees her-she struggles and screams in despairA savage Dane drags her along by the hair;
All on fire, at the sight, on the stranger he flew,
And clove, at a blow, skull and helmet in two,
He clasps the glad maiden, and turns on his track,: Teo' th e flying steel-forest he fights his way back;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


181


But the helmet of gems to the foemen is known,
And the blaze of their swords hemmed him round, like a zone;
Mary springs from his arm and wrenches a spear
From the cold stony grasp of a dead cavalier;
Like a goddess of war, the long weapon she plies,
And stands at his side, with her soul in her eyes;
He guards her-she guards him-the spear she extends
'Twixt his head and each merciless sword that impends;
But so fast shower the numberless strokes of the foes,
They escape from the blows intercepted by blows.
His strength fails-lie staggers-the hour of his doom,
And her ruin-oh! angels, avert it!-is come,
A flood of fire roars from the ramparts* on high,
Like the abyss of hell leaping into the sky;
The sun seemed to whirl from its sphere, like a wheel,
As if God's judgment-thunders had burst in one peal;
Earth seem'd, from her axis, to dance at the sound,
As if heaven's artillery roll'd to the ground;
Rocks and fragments of bodies fell, showering amain,
And the fugitives reel'd, as if drunk, on the plain;
And a shout from the city 'rose, furious and shrill
As the yell of an earthquake engulfing a hill;
The black demon-shadows of ruin pass'd by,
And the frantic sounds died in the breast of the sky;
And the sun thro' the melting haze gave back his beam,
As if 'waking, rejoiced, from a horrible dream.
On the fields of Singail there is silence and gloom,
Death, havoc, and wreck, have deformed their bloom;
No foemen, save dead ones, are seen on the plain,
But Con and his Mary uninjured remain.
He's weary and weak, for the wound in his side
Has emptied his veins of the strength of their tide.
On her white waxen shoulder his cheek is laid down,
And slowly together they enter the town;
Within the cleft ramparts he sinks to the ground,
And she tears off her 'kerchief and binds his raw wound.
Sarsfield clasp'd her fair hand, with a victor's delight,
And gave her a golden ring costly and bright.
She nurst her young chief, in his illness and pain,
'Till the spring of his vigour return'd again;
And he led to the altar the heroic maid,
And took her to France, with the Irish Brigade.
* The blowing up of the Black battery, the noise of which was heard at a
distance of twenty miles.




182        LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND,


LAMENT FOR EDWARD WALSH.*
ON silver-bosom'd Avon Dhu
Soft shone the rosy morning beam,
And many a leaf, impearl'd with dew,
Hung weeping o'er the gentle stream;
On shaded rock and misty dell
The sickly hue of Autumn hung,
When by the river's pensive swell
I heard this plaintive requiem sung!"From wild Glengariffs fairy strand,
To Avon Dhu's romantic side,
From gentle Banna's amber sand
To Liffey's darkly winding tide,
From Shannon's border to the seaFrom Suir's bright springs to crystal Nore,
Ye sons of song, come mourn, with me,
The bard of legendary lore!
"Ah! gentle star of genius dear,
Where is thy beam of beauty gone?
Tho' clouded in thy kindred sphere,
Thy ray with sweetest splendour shone!
As springs the modest mountain-flower
Beneath mild April's dewy rayAs smiles the wild rose on the brier,
Thy genius smiled and passed away!
"Thy country's eyes have tears for thee!
Thy country's soul embalms thy name!
Thy talent grew, a fragrant tree,
Fann'd by the genial airs of fame!
Amid a nation's tears and gloom,
The thrilling sweetness of thy lyre
Awoke her greatness from its tomb,
And stirred her heart's blood into fire!
"What human heart can read, unmoved,
The record of thy dying hour,
When she, thy partner so beloved,
Bent o'er thee, like a weeping flower?
Alas! that souls so sweetly twined,
Should from each other's love be torn!
Alas! that hearts so pura and kind
As hers, should sigh and weep forlorn?
* Edward Walsh was one of the sweetest contributors of Irish song to
Duffy's Nation. He was a national teacher, and he died at a young age in
1850. He is buried in the Botanic Gardens, at Cork, where his admirers
have raised a neat monument over his remains.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


183


"By silver Avon's misty wave,
He won the treasure of her love;
And noble was the heart he gave
Unsullied as the skies above!
And gentle as Loch Sheeling's swan,
Was she, his spirit's worshipp'd bride,
And love and beauty round her shone,
With youth and virtue at her side!
"The breathings of his lofty soul
Were turned to music in her praise!
His heart was Love's own banquet bowl,
And she the bright wine of his days!
For Erin and his Bridghid fair,
His wild harp's notes were pour'd aloneFor Erin and his Bridghid dear,
His spirit thrill'd with one sweet tone!
"Ye hills and moors, and ferny dales,
By fairy Avon's silent tide!
Ye groves and banks, and shamrock valesNo more he'll hail your vernal pride!
His sorrows and his toils are o'er,
And keen privations suffer'd longHis gentle heart shall feel no more
The genial powers of love and song!"
TO THE MEMORY OF AN ENGLISH FRIEND.
LONELY by the sounding Shannon,
All day long I mourn'd and sigh'd,
For my friend and loved companion
Who in manhood's beauty died,
Noble, manly feelings moved him
Ireland's griefs to understand;
And I loved him-fondly loved himFor he loved the dear Old Land!
All her beauties lay before him,
Like a feast before a king;
But her sorrow's cloud came o'er him,
Like the melting mist of Spring;
And I blest his generous nature,
And I press'd his gallant hand,
When he curs'd the legislature
That oppress'd the dear Old Land.
STyrant autocrnt a ats he hated,
With a free-born Briton's pride;
SBut the toiling poor he treated,
With respect he would not hide.




184          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Spurned he every courtly bauble,
Princely sham and gilded throne;
And his toast was-" Here's the People!
May the People win their own!"
Oh, lost friend, I feel a burning,
In my soul, that grasps my breathLonely by the river mourningMourning for thy early death!
While the lark from heaven's shadows,
All his heart in love-songs pours
To his sweetheart, in the meadows,
Keeping house among the flowers.
Often on the hill's dark heather,
When the days were bright and long,
Have we sat, in joy together,
Listening to the wild-bird's song:
Still he's soaring, warbling, sighing,
Near the gold-fringe of the cloud;
I am here, and you are lying
In the shadow of your shroud!
Like a plant, you grew and flourished!
Like a pearl, your heart was bright!
Like a flower, you fell and perished,
Ere your May saw half its light?
Summer's beauty all is lonely,
Gloom is o'er the sunshine spread;
Summer's bloom brings sorrow only,
Since my friendship's flower is dead!
For your voice I calmly listen,
As the dreamy field-breeze sighs;
While my heart's hot crystals glisten
On the wet fringe of my eyes;
Yet this softening grief grows dearer,
As the summer's bloom wears on;
For it steals my spirit nearer
To the heaven where you are gone! -
Every bird's song round me swelling,
'Wakens some sweet memory;
Every bright wild-flower seems telling
Some dear anecdote of thee!
And my fancy stops to hear it,
With a fond responding tone,
Just as spirit speaks to spirit,
Language to this world unknown.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             185
There's a-spirit-world around usYes, I feel its mystic sphere!
Ties of dust have merely bound us
Fnom the glorious freedom there!
We are dead-the dead are livingWe're in prison-they are free;
Time, our keeper's daily giving
Notice of our liberty!
THE BARD OF THE BARROW.
AIR.-" The Wounded Hussar."
SADLY sings the fond Bard of the deep-rolling Barrow,
From whose loving bosom his Mary has flown;
He met her in joy, but she left him in sorrow,
And now he complains to the wild waves alone.
Ah, ne'er did I dream we were fated to sunder,
As we stray'd on thy wild banks, sweet river, by thee!
Ah, ne'er did I dream she was destined to wander,
So soon, o'er the dark, awful ocean, from me!
Oh! breeze of the West, o'er the broad billow sighing,
Have you kiss'd her white brow, as she stood on the deck?
Have you play'd with the silk of her fair tresses flying,
And courted the snow of her soft lily-neck?
Have you brought me a word from her pearly mouth, naming
The name of the dear one left pining behind?
Have you brought me a wreath from her fair ringlets streaming?
Oh! give it to me, and I'll bless thee, sweet wind!
As in the green heart of some rich garden flushing,
All radiant in flower, grows a young apple-tree;
With bright honey drops on its morning leaves gushing;
Oh I such in my heart were you, darling, to me!
But the thoughts of the soul than the west wind are fleeter,
And those shall pursue and caress you afar!
The pulse of affection than honey is sweeter,
And its fond thrill shall follow wherever you are!
YOUNG LOVE
I REMEMBER the day I first greeted my love
In the shade of yon bank's summer bowers;
When sweetly we linger'd along the wild grove,
And sat in its bright lap of flowers.
13




186          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The light of her beauty and spell of her looks,
Still the eye of fond mem'ry enhances;
Could the moralist teach, with his school-craft and books,
The sweet language I learn'd in her glances?
Her ringlets of darkness were darker than streams
Flowing blackly thro' snow-sheeted heather;
And her eyes were as sun-gems that shoot their young beams
From a cloud's showery wing, in Spring-weather.
And her small foot was light as the Cean-a-bhan's plume
On a fairy bank's sunny moss lying;
And her voice, like a gale in a garden of bloom,
O'er a bed of sweet strawberries sighing,
Confiding and soft was the press of her handMy heart ask'd me how would I leave her?
Oh! no, I replied, for a prince's command,
Would I harbour one thought to deceive her!
The thorns of care on our life-path may grow
Yet while beauty's light is about her;
I'd rather reside in a cot poor and low
Than dwell in a palace without her!
The mild blush of bashfulness, lit by a smile,
O'er her cheek's berry freshness was stealing;
The Spirit of light that presides o'er our Isle,
Could not look such sweet language of feeling.
Her loveliness fill'd me with beautiful dreams,
And I think, when the eve-winds are shaking
Their winglets, in song, o'er the blossoms and streams,
'Tis her lips' fairy music that's speaking.
THE BEAUTIES OF QUINSBURGH.*
ROUND Quinburgh's wildlandscape andgrove-skirted meadows,
Beams the blue, cloudy zone of the grand mountain-shadows,
When the yellow-brow'd sun, to his sea-palace going,
Leaves his crimson-fringed scarf on the silent hills glowing.
How oft, when the Spring-evening's glory was fading,
And the wind in the woods its weird melody breathing,
Have I sat 'mid the deep shades, wild love-pictures framing,
Of Heavens, and Edens, and Star-worlds dreaming?
And the grandeur of night, as it deepen'd around me,
With a wilder delight to the fairy spot bound me;
For each scene with a magical halo seem'd teeming,
And spell-visions 'rose round my weird fancy beaming!
* A beautifully wooded landscape near the river Shannon, in the county
C:are, one mile from Limerick.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


187


O Quinsburg! bright queen of sweet landscapes, I love
thee!
For the golden sky always looks sunny above thee!
There the spirit of summer brings verdure the brightest,
And incense the purest, and dew-falls the whitest!
There radiant and rich in thy splendour, for ever,
Transcendently fair, by the blue-gleaming river,
Thou seem'st as full of enchantment embowering
Thy green, airy lawns and thy gardens all flowering!
How sweet-from the frigid-eyed world retiringTo gaze on the beauty of Nature inspiring!
To freshen and feast, with her heaven-bright charms,
The soul, 'till it melts into love in her arms;
Oh! the heart that would coldly neglect or forsake her,
Is alike dead and cold to the love of its Maker!
There are many who look on his glorious creation,
Without one loving throb of the soul's adoration!
The humblest flower in the sunny fields blowing,
Is a jewel that dropp'd from his gracious hand glowing!
See the beautiful gem-from its mossy throne take itView it well, son of Art! can you paint it or make it?
Philosopher, gaze on yon broad heaven bending!
Can thy science tell were 'tis beginning or ending?
How far is the light of yon fire-worlds flowing?
How long will those night-walking splendours be going?
Can you number those orbs in the ambient sky glancing?
Or reckon the leaves in the Summer-woods dancing?
Or May's vestal flowers and the dewdrops that feed them?
Yet what of thy love for the Spirit that made them?
Round Quinsburgh's wild landscape, when Summer is singing,
For the love-child of Nature, what glories are springing?
What magic-toned harmony bursts from the bowers,
As if Spirit-tongues spoke in the leaves and the flowers?There often the night at her solemn noon found me,
With her ghost-haunted shades and her starry robes round
me!
Grand pictures from high, Angel-worlds she brought me,
And the God-praising hymn of the rolling spheres taught me I
Enchanted I stray'd by the shore's moonlit margin,
Near the foam-bosom'd Falls o'er the weedy rocks charging,
While my wild spirit danced, like a bride in her gladness,
To the weird monotone of their war-shout of madness!
As they tost from their white battle-plumes, in their fleetness,
Pearl-showers o'er the vernal shores sleeping in sweetness;
While the helmet of night, with its vapour-crest hoary,
Blaz'd, o'er the dim earth, in a fire-gush of glory;




188         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And the streamers danced out o'er the aerial expansion,
Like golden spears shot from the North's icy mansion;
And the meteors red-eyed, o'er the hazy woods springing,
Seem'd spirits of flame thro' the Star-palace winging!
How wildly romantic looks Quinsburgh, when over
Her bosom of flowers falls the eve's cloudy cover?
When the lightning's blue pinion emblazons the highland,
And the angry flood raves round St. Thomas's Island;
When the dark towering crowns of the elms are swinging,
While the tide and the tempest in concert are singing;
And the fairies, that in the wild hills are residing,
On circles of flame, round the wood-tops are riding;Red fire-globes which gleam o'er the grove's sylvan barriersLike helmets of gold on the dark brows of warriors;
While the river-mists stream, like the sea-maidens' ringlets,
Curling round the tall bowers, on the blast's rushing winglets.
Oh! many an eve, 'mid those spell-wreathed shadows,
When the May-sunset pour'd its red flood on the meadows;
Have I stray'd by that shore where the flower-buds were
drinking
Their first twilight-draught, while the Day-king was sinking.
And the brier-rose and meadow-sweet, fragrantly blooming,
With their spirit of odour the lawns were perfuming;
And the hawthorns, clouded with white blossoms tender,
Look'd like Fairy-queens wrapt in their mantles of splendour.
As a wizard, I sat by the deep-sounding torrent,
'Till Day's yellow banner stream'd forth in the orient;
Like the first bright-eyed dawn, its resplendence unsealing,
Creation in all its new grandeur revealing.
Then rich was the flow of the forest-birds' numbers,
As Nature, in music, awoke from her slumbers;
I thought of the hymns of the angel-choirs splendid,
When the Lord from his work of Redemption ascended.
How lovely is Quinsburgh, when morning is blushing
On her dew-bathed groves, with their honey-tears gushing;
And their boughs, like glad minstrels, singing and dancing,
With the sun's golden flame on their leafy heads glancing.
With her lawns of mixt silver and emerald shiningWith flowers, dropping sweets, in her gardens recliningWith her odour-wing'd zephyrs thro' fairy-shades flowingWith her bright orchard-treasures luxuriantly glowingWith her woodlands reposing in sunbeams serenestWith her parterres the sweetest and meadows the greenest.
There the Bard's spirit, melting in grand inspiration,
Would dream itself into some beauteous creation:
There the saintly soul, kindling with holy emotion,
Would soar to her God, in a trance of devotion.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


189


Oft, when morn, with her love-songs and diamond-bright
showers,
Was walking in joy o'er this Eden of flowers;
The eyes of my soul on her beauty were feasted,
'Till her last drop of dew in the noon-flame was wasted.
The crystal-edged clouds-the bright sapphire hills cresting,
Leant their bosoms of gold on their sunny thrones resting;
Whilst flinging young gems, from their fringes of whiteness,
On the flowers in the vales laughing up at their brightness;
Then weaving their tints of soft-shadowy vermilion
And yellow, and green-o'er the Day-god's pavilion,
In a grand glistening crescent of glory extended
They shine-making heaven's sun-splendours more splendid.
How radiantly then-when the summer has crown'd itLooks Quinsburgh, with Nature's enchantments around it;
Before it the blue-bosom'd river extending,
Behind it the purple-brow'd mountains ascending;
Beside it rich pastures redundantly flowing
With sweet milk and honey, and golden fruits glowing:
While the Shannon's clear waves, in their beamy dance
bright'ning,
Flash down by the scene, like a conflict of lightning.
THE HILLS OF BALLYCARR.*
'TWAS morning, and the sweets of May
Enrich'd the balmy-scented air;
When pleasantly I took my way
To see the hills of Ballycarr;
The bright sky's beamy summer-blue
Hath not a cloud-frown, near or far,
To dim its glorious, glistening hue
Above the hills of Ballycarr.
Green are the vales of Ballycarr!
Bright are the plains of Ballycarr!
And wild, and grand as fairyland,
Appear the hills of Ballycarr!
Amid the purple-blossom'd broom
I rested on the mountain-heightBelow me Nature slept in bloom,
Above me heaven was steep'd in light.
The winds' sweet dewy-breathings seem'd
The whispering of a maiden's prayer,
Or spirit, that of Eden dream'd,
Upon the hills of Ballycarr.
Green are the vales of Ballycarr, &c.
* Those romantic hills form a grand outline to the scenery of Quinsburgh.




190          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
I gazed along the valley's shade,
O'er glistening rings of sun-bright dew;
When, lo! a stately peasant maid,
As fair as morning, met my view.
Her brow was like a cloudlet white
That crescents day's majestic star;
Her hair, like winter's moonless night
Upon the hills of Ballycarr.
Green are the vales of Ballycarr, &c.
As some wild vision of delight,
I look'd upon this rustic queen,
Who seem'd, before my dreaming sight,
The Angel of the mountain-scene.
An Empress, with her courtly train,
Hath not, 'mid all her pompous glare,
The grace and state of step and mien
That mark'd this maid of Ballycarr.
Green are the vales of Ballycarr, &c.
Fair are the maids by Lee's green side,
With silken ringlets dark and brown;
And bright as May, by Avon's tide,
Appear the girls of Mallow town,
But Beauty on a golden throne,
To Fancy's eye, ne'er look'd so fair,
As did this simple, lovely one,
Among the hills of Ballycar.
Green are vales of Ballycarr!
Bright are the plains of Ballycarr!
And wild, and grand, as fairyland,
Appear the hills of Ballycarr I
THE CITY OF THE KINGS.*
SCENE.-The Dalcassians and Eugenians, assembled at a feast
in the Palace of Kinkora, join in the following war-song,
anticipating the battle of Clontarf.
STRONG are the towers of Almhaint-and Emaina's+ halls are
grand!
But Cormac's radiant palace~ stands the glory of the land!
Thro' Eire her richest tribute to Imperial Tara brings,   '
Yet valour's royal house is in the City of the Kings.
* Cashel.    + The Palace of Fionn and the ancient Fenians.
t Palace of the Red Branch Knights in Ulster.  1 The Palace of Cashel.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             191
The Red Branch Knights were fierce in war, as Saimer's
bursting waveThe Clan-a-Morna* mighty in the combats of the Brave;
But, like eagles in a lightning-cloud, the Clan-a-Deighat
springs,
Impetuous to the battle, from the City of the Kings.
Unsheath your flaming brands of death! the Dane is on
our shoreRise, glorious race of Cormac Cas and Royal Eogain More!
Hew down the pirate, while the bard the "Eye of Battle"
sings,
And return with new glory to the City of the Kings!
Then draw your golden-hilted swords,"and lift our Sunburst
high!
Let the mountains to each other shout your dreadful battlecry;When Brian sets in fierce array his legions' fiery wings,
Who dare withstand Kinkora and the City of the Kings?
We have war-steeds, like the fire-wings of the tempest in
its flight,
We have bosoms, like the hill-crags in their solid mountain
might;
We have hearts within those manly veins a well of valour
springs,
When fighting for Kinkora and the City of the Kings!
We love Mononia's sunny vales-we bleed to right her
wrongsOur bounding souls are shared among her daughters and her
songs!
We have graves for the Invader whom the thirst of rapine
brings
To the bright plains of Kinkora and the City of the Kings!
We love our Chiefs and Princes, Priests and Brehons, Bards
and all
The heroes that assemble in our noble palace-hall;
We have kine and silken mantles, festive-bowls and golden
rings,And swords to guard Kinkora and the City of the Kings!
On, like torrents, to the combat-sweep the spoilers from
our fields!
Hurl the lightning of your axes on the Northmen's iron
shields!
Let your javelins, thro' their armour, plunge into their hearts'
red springs,
And shout ye for Kinkora and the City of the Kings!
* The Knights of Connaught.  + The Knights of Munster.




192          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Oh! to see our axes shattering the broad targets of the Dane,
As if a shower of meteor-stars were falling on the plain!
Oh! to hear-when victory o'er our ranks has spread her
crimson wingsHow our war-songs shake Kinkora and the City of the Kings!
KATHLEEN.
BLUE are the eyes of my Kathleen,
Bright are her long yellow ringlets;
Airy her steps on the village-greenLight as the May-zephyr's winglets.
Warm as the sun on the mountain-lawn,
Sweet as the heath of Knocfeirin;
Tender and soft as the Cean-a-bhan,
Fleet as the breezes of Erin.
Loving and kind is my Kathleen,
Constant and true to her duty;
Faithful and fond is my little-queenHumble yet matchless in beauty.
Pure as the lights that adorn
The cold starry nights of NovemberChaste as the calm beam of morn
Upon the snow-hills of December.
All day, by the rushing blue river,
I dreamt of my Erin and thee, love!
For you are the beautiful giver
Of many a sweet thought to me, love!
I'd rather live poor in my Mother-land,
With thy dear young smile at my side, love!
Than reign a high prince in another land,
With an heiress of crowns for my bride, love!
Soft is the voice of my Kathleen,
Her song is a love-thrill of sweetness;
Like a spell-breathing harp of a fairy queen,
Touch'd by the wind in its fleetness.
To me thou art honey and wine, my love!
Girl of the blue eye of brightness,
My spirit is tangled in thine, my love,
Queen of the swan-neck of whiteness.
She is so gentle and dutiful,
Heaven is smiling about her;
She is so bashful and beautiful
Earth hath no idol without herAll around Shannon's green, sunny shades,
Summer's bright hours'I have squander'dFor she was the rose among many maids,
To whom my heart's longings hath wami*r'd.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


193


SOUL-ASPIRATIONS.
SPEAK kindly, oh, my loved one! for thy kindness is to me,
Like the honied voice of morning in the flowering appletree;
And my craving heart has hunger'd for thy loving accents
long,
With a poet's burning rapture when he feels the fire of song!
I have painted glowing glories in imagination's hall,
But thy heaven-surrounded portrait was the sun that lit
them all;
And my thoughts of earthly splendour, and my dreams of
worlds above,
Were but things of desolation to the beauty of thy love!
My heart was as a worm, when it wander'd from thee first,
Immersed in scenes unhallow'd, and in love with gilded dust;
And my garden knew no sunbeam, and its weedy springs
were mute,
For its Maytime brought no blossoms and its harvest-time
no fruit!
Oh! let thy love-light sun it into buds and odours sweet,
'Till my gushing spirit melts to liquid crystal at thy feet;
And I'll hold thee in the chamber of the palace of my soul,
As the lily holds the dew-pearl in its tender snowy bowl.
And I'll seek thee in the temples where thy banquets of
delight,
With the glory-breathing presence of thy loveliness are bright;
'Till my soul, steep'd in the beauty and the radiance of thine
own,
Shall be as a sun-kiss'd blossom, with no cloud-shade o'er
it thrown!
Lonely strayed I in the desert, in the fiery noontide-hour,
But its waters were all bitter and its dying fruits all sour;
And my heart was parch'd to ashes, like the grass that
round me lay,
Where the flaming eye of heaven had consumed its green
away.
And my thirst was as a furnace, and my dreary soul was
black
As the inky cloud of winter on the mountain's frozen back
But thy glowing love pursued me, where all desolate I
stray'd,
Like the golden-footed morn weeping o'er a blighted shade.




194          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Then the fountains of thy beauty flash'd before my spirit's
eyes,
And the brightness of thy vineyards where the summer never
dies;
And thy gorgeous palace-gardens where the snow-pure virgins
rove,
With the stainless airs around them fresh with breathings of
thy love!
Ay! when Midnight's burning crescent o'er the silvery blue
of space,
Was shining in the shadow of the glories of thy face;
I floated on the pinions of the angel of my dreams,
Into the glowing Eden of thy pastures and thy streams!
And I saw, or thought I saw thee in thy dazzling bower of
light,
With eternal sun-worlds round thee, that were never track'd
by night;
And thy face was as the rainbow in the sapphire arch of day,
And thine eyes had living heavens, throng'd with spirits, in
their ray.
And the star-halls of resplendence, where thy lightning-throne
is placed,
Are built of myriad planets on unbounded ether basedBut the floods of grandeur faded o'er my vision's darken'd
wings,
And I 'woke on earth's black bosom where the worm is king
of kings.
DEATH-SONG OF THE BARDS OF TYRONE AND
TYRCONNELL.*
AFTER THE BATTLE OF KINSALE, A.D., 1602.
S   THE red stars flash'd in the cold blue sky,
And the ghostly moon look'd sad and dim;
And the cloudy haze of the midnight hills,
O'er the darken'd vales began to swim;
And a tear of blood from each red-eyed star,
On night's gray bosom, seem'd bursting forth;
For famine, and pestilence, and war,
Had done their grisly work in the North.
The herds were slaughter'd-the bawns were burn'd,
And keep and castle lay overthrown;
Wherever the startled vision turn'd,
Wreck, and ruin, and death were strown* This Death-drama was written with a view to the dire and devastated
state of Ireland, after the death of Red Hugh O'Donnell, and the surrender
of Hugh O'Neill to Lord Mountjoy. The resistance of these two great
ehiefs against English'power lasted for thirteen years. They fell by native
teachery, and this6tfaake of the Spaniards' landing at Kinsale.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Havoc and vengeance, fire and sword
Had ravaged the blacken'd valleys round;
The living fed upon the dead,
And every spot was charnel ground;
For the demon-hand of the fierce Mountjoy,
Had done the mission of England well;
And he swept the plains of Green Tyrone,
Like the burning fury and wrath of hell.
The soul of a Nation was strangled there,
And its mightiest sons dispersed or slainO'Neill was crush'd in his lion-lair,
And the brave O'Donnell was dead in Spain.
The Judgment Day of Eire was come,
And the Angel of death stood on her shore;
And the lips of tyrants proclaim'd her doom,
" Eire of the'Kings, a Nation no more!"
'Mid the deep-dark woods of Glancolkeane,*
Sat two gray bards on a rock moss-grown:
One was Tyrconnell's minstrel old,
And one the Ard Filea of high Tyrone.
Far from their Chieftains' plunder'd towers,
They shunn'd the Invader's sword of blood;
Their refuge was the forest-bowers,
Their food the berries of the wood.
The moonbeams thro' the rocking boughs,
Gleam'd fitful on their coluns white,
That, round their solitary brows,
Flow'd on the wailing winds of night.
With trembling hands their harps they strung,
For one last tribute to the BraveWith burning tears, by turns, they sung
A requiem o'er their Country's grave.
BARD OF TYRONE.
The glory of Tyrone is fledThe splendour of her Prince is goneThe regal birds of Eire are deadWeak is the race of Nial and ConnThe sword of death is in our valesThe hand of ruin blots our homesOur hills resound with grievous wailsOur fields are fill'd with reeking tombs!


195


* An inaccessible mountain fastness in O'Kean's Country of Araghty, to
which Hugh O'Neill, with the remnant of his clans, retreated after his
defeat at Kinsale.




196


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
The Banshee chants her churchyard song,
In Hugh O'Donnell's roofless hall;
And desolation sits among
The broken towers of Donegal!*
Tyrconnell of the shields of light,
And royal feasts and golden bowls!
Where are thy flaming arms of might?
Thy fiery swords and valiant souls?
Thy comely prince lies distant far,
A withering corpse, in Spanish clayOur guard-tower in the day of war,
Our guide-star of the battle's sea!
BARD OF TYRONE.
Oh! burning grief and galling woe!
That I should live to see the time
That laid our country trampled low,
Beneath the heel of foreign crime!
Accursed be thy plain, Kinsale!
There may no blade nor blossom bud,
But every field, and dell, and vale,
For ever wear the hue of blood!
May herb and tree to ashes rot,
And heaven draw a veil of gloom,
For ever, o'er that bloody spot,
Where Erin's freedom found a tomb!
God's awful midnightt thunders spoke
The doom of Erin, o'er thy plain;
His lightning wrote, with fiery stroke,
Our Nation's sentence, "TO BE SLAIN!"
The mountains heard the dire decree,
And bow'd their heads, with echoing groansThe tempest told it to the seaThe angels wept upon their thrones!
BARD OF TYRCONNEL.
Would I had fall'n in freedom's fight,
Brave battling by my Chieftain's side!
Would! I had never seen the light,
Or in my mother's arms died!
* The once magnificent Castle of Donegal, the residence of Red Hugh
O'Donnell, was demolished by the Chieftain himself, before embarking for
Spain, in order to prevent the English from turning it into a garrison."Four Masters' Annals.
+ The annals also say that for several nights before the battle
of Kinsale, the most awful thunder, lightning and tempest prevailed. It
seemed to be a union of the elements chanting a requiem for the approaohing death of Ireland's National Independence.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


197


Would, that my sight was pluck'd away,
By ravens, from each bleeding ball,
Ere I had lived to see the day,
That seal'd my wretched country's fall!
BARD OF TYRONE,
May Freedom's God curse Thomond's landMay every hill-side be a grave,
Dug by a foreign tyrant's hand,
To wrap a vile, degenerate slave!
May plague and famine, sword and fire,
Consume her to the rotten heart,
And burn her lords who, false to Eire,
Espoused the godless spoilers' part!
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
The fierce O'Donnell swept the plains
Of Thomond's Earl, and slew his men;
And loaded with degrading chains
The shameless traitor, Inchiquin!
Alas! that the illustrious blood
Of him who scourged the heathen Danes,
Should turn, a vile corrupted flood,
In his apostate offspring's veins!
BARD OF TYRONE.
'Twas not the cruel Saxon sword
That wrought my Chieftain's overthrow;
Clontibret, or the Yellow Ford,
Had not the glory of the blow!
'Twas native treachery and guile,
And Munster's weakness, traitor-sown;
That vanquish'd on his fathers' soil,
The gallant Chieftain of Tyrone!
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
'Twas not a foreign foeman's hand
That laid in dust my brave Hugh Roe;
Tyrconnell's champion, great and grand,
Would never yield to mortal foe!
A bleeding heart for Erin's woe,-*
A burning soul to rive her chain,
Consumed his life, and laid him low,
Far in the golden land of Spain!
S"King Philip was so deeply touched by Red Hugh's appeal, that he gave
orders to have another armament got ready to sail for Ireland; but this was
countermanded, owing to false reports of O'Neill's surrender. The fery
O'Donnell was on his way again to the King to urge his request, but his
great heart broke, and he died suddenly. He was buried with royal
honours; and the Chapter of Valladolid holds the bones of as stout a
warrior as ever wielded the wand of Chieftaincy, or led a Clan to battle"''John Mitchell.




'498          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
BARD OF TYRONE.
Fierce Hugh O'Neill, in armour clad,
Was like an ice-isle on the deep,
Directed by the wrath of God,
To cleave in twain some guilty ship!
His rage was like the fiery blast
That burns and eats the springing corn;
His glance, like heaven's first sun-ray cast
Into the golden heart of morn!
BARD OF TYRcONNELL.
O'Donnell, in the day of fight,
Was like Loch Saimer's headlong surge
When, rolling in its reckless might,
It tumbles on the shore's white verge!
His sword was like the awful light
That reddens heaven before a storm;
The eagle, in his wildest flight,
Hath not the vigour of his arm!
BARD OF TYRONE.
Rich were my hero's beamy locks,
Soft curling on his marble neck;
Like wintry mist on mountain-rocks,
Where lies the snow without a speck
His brow was like a summer-cloud,
Asleep in morning's arch of light;
The eagle's gaze was not so proud,
The bow of showers was not so bright!
BARD OF TYRcONNELL.
The towering pine of Donegal,
That spurns the vengeance of the storm;
Was not so graceful, strong, and tall,
As Hugh O'Donnell's princely form!
The Autumn, with its yellow store,
Was not more generous than his soul;
The torrent, in its dashing power,
Would tamely brook as much control!
BARD OF TYRONE.
My Hugh O'Neill was like the sun
Of a spring evening, soft and clear,
When round the mountain's yellow throne,
Thin, silvery dew-mists fill the air!
His voice was as the gentle fall
Of waters in a floral shadeHis soul was like a regal hall,
Where gold and brilliant gems are laid!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


199


BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
O'Donnell's hair was bright and fine,
As ringlets of a fairy girl;
His cheek was like rich-blushing wine
Pour'd newly in a bowl of pearl!
The spirit of the wintry deep,With ocean's sceptre, dark and grand,
'Waking the billows from their sleepHath not his proud glance of command!
BARD OF TYRONE.
The day when Niall's Red Right Hand*
Stream'd brightly from Dungannon's tower,
To 'rouse the vengeance of the land,
'Gainst foreign treachery and power;
I saw the fierce and mighty Hugh
Surrounded by his warrior clan,
Awful, as if the War-god threw
His fiery mantle o'er the man!
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
I mind the day when proud Red Hught
With all Clan Connaill at his back;
O'er Connaught, like a whirlwind flew,
While fire and ashes mark'd his track!
The war-flames thro' the vales blazed redAnd Bingham's cruel brigand-horde,
Like stricken bloodhounds, headlong fled
Before the vengeful Chieftain's sword!
BARD OF TYRONE.
My soul dreams back the glorious hours,
When from Blackwater's winding shore,
The brave O'Neill swept-walls and towersThe frowning fortress of Portmore!
And with his line of battle set,
All strong to do and brave to dare,
Smash'd Norrey's host, at Clontibret,
And trampled England's banner there!
* He crossed the Saimar and swept through Connaught, like a hail-storm,
and put to death every man who could speak no Irish. Bingham, the cruel
governor of the province, flewbefore him and shut himself up in his fortress
of Sligo.
ft "At len th the day arrived when the country, with stern joy, beheld the
Red Right Hand of O'Neill, streaming from Dungannon's towers, waving
deface to the Saxon Queen."-John Mitchell.




200        LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
Thro' Annally's broad region flamed
The stern Hugh Roe's destructive brand,*
'Till one black-rolling smoke-cloud stream'd,
O'er heaven, from the burning land!
And never did the wrathful Conn,
Or Niall, in his deadliest ire,
More fiercely o'er a realm sweep on,
With such dread wreck of sword and fire!
BARD OF TYRONE.
The ghost of many a Saxon Knight,
Has sigh'd o'er Drumfluich's reeking plain;t
Where, in the crimson surge of fight,
The flower of England's host was slain;
Proud Lord De Burgh and stern Kildare,
And Vaughan fierce, and Waller brave,
Sank in the battle's furnace there,
Where half their army shared their grave!
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
I saw Tyrconnell's Prince, that day,
Begirt with waves of flame and blood,
Like some dread spirit of the sea,
Fierce striding 'mid the stormy flood.
The columns waver'd where his steel
Its cleaving blows of vengeance struck;
Like pine-woods on the desert-hill,
By dark November-tempests shook!
BARD OF TYRONE.
As fire devours the wither'd grass,
Of Autumn, in a sultry vale;
So sank the battle's reeling mass
Before the strong sword of O'Neill;
And Avon Dhu's gore-purpled wave,+,
Retiring from his crimson banks,
To Loch Naigh's dancing billows gave
Red tidings of the slaughter'd ranks!
* He entered the Annallys where O'Farrell was living under English
domination, and so fiercely did he ravage and devastate that country,
that the heavens became black with the smoke of his burnings.
+ "The Battle of Drumfluich, in which O'Neill gained a great victory
over Lord Kildare and the English army."-John Mstchell.
t " The River Blackwater, which flows into Lough Neagh. It was called
'black, on account of the many disastrous defeats which the English
suffered there at the hands of Hugh O'Neill and his intrepid clansmen."Moryson's Hist.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


201


BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
Stern Clifford of the bloody spears,
In Corsliabh mountain-glen lies dead;On his fierce host of musketeers,
The greedy wolves and eagles fedThere haughty England's iron might,
By Red Hugh's fury was consumed;
The mouldering bones of many a knight,
In bush and fern, lie there entomb'd!
BARD OF TYRONE.
The red plain of the Yellow Ford,
Shall long a tale of slaughter tell;
Where, by Tyrone's victorious sword,
The mighty host of Bagnal fell!
Dark centuries shall renew the tale,
And future Irishmen shall say,
"Great was the triumph of the GaelGod send us such another day!"
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
Grand, god-like, glorious were the Brave,
In all the terror of their armsThe winter's wrath, the mad sea-waveThe angry heaven convulsed with stormsThe whirlwind, with its crest of flameThe river tearing thro' its banksTo them were harmless things and tame,
When charging on the Saxon ranks!
BARD OF TYRONE.
And has their star of victory set?
And has their sun of glory fled?
And will their fallen country yet
Remember how they fought and bled?
Oh, proud O'Neill! oh, princely Celt!
Oh   would to God! I saw you die!
Ere you in low submission knelt,
Before that bloody fiend, Mountjoy!*
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
My heart is like a serpent's nest,
All full of bitterness and stings;My soul is troubled and distress'd
For thee, O'Donnell, son of Kings!
* "A.D. 1603. Hugh O'Neill, now sixty years of age, worn with care and
toil, and battle, and in deep sorrow of soul for the miseries of his faithful
clansmen, met the Lord Deputy Mountjoy, in peaceful guise, at Mellifont,
and there, on bended knees, tendered his submission. But if O'Neill had
known that the Queen was dead, he probably would have adopted some
other policy instead of surrendering, as he afterwards bitterly repented his
act when he heard of her demise."-John Mitchell.
14




202          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And tho' no Irish hymn, nor prayer,
Was breathed o'er thy winding-sheet
I'd rather see thee lying there,
Than kneeling at a tyrant's feet!
BARD OF TYRONE.
O'Neill's high, kingly soul was proud,
And towering as his Red Right Hand;
'Twas for his people's sake he bow'd,
To stay the spoiler's murderous brand!
When heaven's face is all on fire,
From east to west, from south to north,
The haughty eagle must retire,
For refuge, to the hateful earth!
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
Oh! had the brave O'Donnell lived,
O'Neill would still be nobly great;
And bleeding Ireland would be saved,
Despite of England, hell, and fate!
The key-stone of her cause was gone,
The proud arch could no longer stand iGod, for the race of Niall and Conn,
Holds some black destiny in hand!
BARD OF TYRONE.
Yes, he has made a ruthless scourge
Of the relentless and unjust;
The crimson sins of Eire to purge,
And bow her glory to the dust!
The brothers' blood by brothers shed,
For ages on her reeking plains;
Hath roused his anger, burning red,
To brand our country's brow, like Cain's!
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
Now on her bier of slaughter dead,
In ashes, stark, deform'd, she lies;
The grandeur of her proud face fledQuench'd is the glory of her eyes!
Oh, Lady of illustrious seed!
Resplendent, queenly Innisfail!
Art thou, at last a broken reed,
Accurst, beneath a monster's heel?
BARD OF TYRONE.
We weep for thee, 0 fallen One!
For thou hadst many virtues bright!Thy faults, like spots upon the sun,
Were halo'd with a glow of light!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                   203
Thy open, hospitable hand
Was filled with plenteous gifts for all!Oh! bright-soul'd, golden-hearted Land!
How dark and dreadful is thy fall?
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
Within her once gay palace halls,
The purple-crested thistle springs;
And o'er the chilly, oozing walls
The raven shakes his ebon wings;
The spirit of the past is there,
Dark, weeping o'er the ruins gray;
Even silence seems to shed a tear
Upon the shroud of their decay!
BARD OF TYRONE.
Our noble forests ar,      cl downOur lordly Castl., -r stand;
And hill and hamlet, vale and town,
Show death-marks of the spoiler's hand!*.Our bright plains into graveyards turn'dThe altars of our God defiled;Our virgins stain'd-our dwellings burn'dOur warriors murder'd or exiled!
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
I saw the grim wolves o'er their meal
Of grisly trunks their white tusks gnash;
I saw gaunt children, in the vale,
Devouring their dead mother's flesh!+
*" Tyrone was so dreadfully ravaged by fire and sword, that no tongue
or pen could depict the terrors which swept that fair region, with devastating vengeance. The horrible excess of burning and slaughter which took
place there, in the summer of 1603, under Lord Mountjoy, Carew, and Chi.
chester, infinitely surpassed the worst excesses of the heathen Danes or of
the Bastard Norman, himself."-John Mitchell.
t This thrilling circumstance is mentioned bylJohn Mitchell in his "Life
of Hugh O'Neill." He also quotes the remarks of Morrison, on the awful
condition to which the people of the North were reduced: "No spectacle
was more frequent in the'ditches of towns, and especially of wasted countries
than to see multitudes of the poor people dead, with their mouths all coloured
green by eating nettles, docks, and all things they could rend up above the
ground, &c." A new mode of warfare planned by artful Cecil and carried
out by Lord Mountjoy. They employed their soldiery to burn and trample
the growing crops into the earth, and slaughter the cattle in the fields and
on the hills, leaving the carcasses to rot and breed pestilence. By this
diabolical process they created a wide-spread famine which ravaged the
country so dreadfully that a thousand dead bodies could be counted from
Toom to Tulloghoge, reduced to gaunt skeletons, and many of the living
fed upon the corpses, until Ulster became one horrid charnal-house to man
and beast.
Thus ended a war that cost England nearly 200,000 men, and twenty
millions of her treasure, and from the face of Ireland swept away more
than one half of the population.




204          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
I saw, around the desert wastes,
Women, and half-expiring men,
Crawling on knees and hands, like beasts,
To feed on grass and herbage green!
BARD OF TYRONE.
Near yonder ravine's gloomy mouth,
Six lovely maidens famish'd lie;
The ravens pluck'd their blue eyes out,
And hardly gave them time to die,
Before they dipt their black beaks foul
Into those starry orbs, once bright,
Where purity's own seraph soul
Was swimming in their wells of light!
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
Every dismal wir '  3 hear,
Is pregnant with.,.ne dying breath;
Every sound that strikes our ear,
Echoes the awful moan of death!
Methinks the stars are dead men's eyes,
Red-peering thro' the ghastly gloom;
And every black-cloud, in the skies,
Appears a harbinger of doom!
BARD OF TYRONE.
O God! by whose mysterious will,
Our perished country thus lies low,
We pray to thy great mercy still,
To break the sword that gave the blow!
To look, with pity from thy throne,
Upon our anguish and our fears,
And hear a martyr'd Nation's groan,
Prostrate in ashes, blood and tears!
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
O God! who cleft the deep Red Sea,
And open'd, thro' the mighty mass
Of waves, a safe and solid way
To let thy chosen people pass!
Look on thy faithful, bleeding Eire,
With worse than Pharaoh-bondage bow'd!
And o'er the gloom of her despair
Show thy fire-pillar thro' the cloud!
BARD OF TYRONE.
O God! whose vengeful arm o'erthrew
The crime-stain'd city's gilded towers!
O God! whose wrathful angel slew
The dark Assyrian's legion-powers!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


205


O God! who succours the oppressed!
Behold our country's misery!
Powerless and stricken in the dust,
She turns her dying eyes to Thee!
BARD OF TYRCONNELL.
O God! whose lightning-anger blaz'd
Down in a flood of fiery rain,
And, with dire vengeance, wrapt and razed
The guilty cities of the plain!
Oh! bounteous and unbounded God!
Behold our country reeking red!
Oh! let her agony and blood
Weigh heavy on the oppressor's head.
BARD OF TYRONE.
O God! whose bleeding shoulders bore
The cross to save man's worthless race!
O God: whose sacred flesh was tore
By mockers and blasphemers base!
Pity our torn, tortured land,
By renegade apostates slain!Oh! stretch thy all-redeeming hand,
To raise her from the grave again!
EILEEN'S DREAM.
ON the wild, breezy banks of the murmuring Lora,
The crimson-tinged banner of sunset was thrown;
When the Flower of Glencarrig, sweet Eileen MacCaura,,, By the echoing river, sat weeping alone.
No more in the halls of her father delighted,
She joined in the dance of the light-footed dames;
For grief-and the image of him whom she slighted,
Had darken'd her spirit and clouded her dreams.
Her fair bosom rivall'd the dark river's sobbing,
And the twilight blast sigh'd, like a dirge, in her ears;
As she press'd her white hands on her sad temples throbbing,
And bent her pale face in a passion of tears.
She mark'd not the shades growing denser and deeper,
As the gray wings of eve turn'd black in the west;
For the shadow that lay on the soul of the weeper,
Was dark as the ghost-cloud that mantles night's breast.
"My Owen!" she cried, "there was never a raven
Show'd a plume to the sun, like the rings of your hair!
And there is not a beam on the star-brow of heaven,
More pure than your heart-than your bosom more fair!




206           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
"Return, oh! return to thine Eileen MacCaura!
'Twas my pride, not my heart, that was cruel to thee!
And while I pretended to smile at thy sorrow,
The keen shaft recoil'd with a vengeance on me!
"I'knew you were faithful-I felt that you loved me,
And have I rewarded thy fondness, with pain!
But, oh! could the tears of a wretched heart move thee,
Thou would'st forgive me, and come back again!"
Her voice became faint-for a wild blast rush'd shrieking
Thro' the shrill-whistling briers, like a lost Spirit's sigh;
And the waves, in their foamy march, dismally breaking,
Seem'd to sink to their caves, with a hoarse, ghostly cry.
The black, heavy clouds o'er the firmament drifted,
Like islands of gloom in the ocean of space;
And the sad, sullen moon, as they lazily shifted,
Thro' their wind-torn bosoms half-show'd her white face.
Who stands on the bank near the desolate maiden?
'Tis Owen-the night-shades seem'd bound on his browAn angel, eternally banish'd from Eden,
Could only appear like her sad lover now.
A moment the winds ceased their monotone weary,
A moment the voice of the waters was still;
And a faint, transient gleam from the night-lamp, so dreary,
Lit his cheek, like the white freezing haze of the hill.
'Tis he-but she feels a cold trembling of terror,
Like frosty wind, over her heart-fountains creep;
'Tis he-but he breathes not a word, nor moves near her,
And his face, like the moon, seems in silence to weep.
"Oh! speak, dearest youth!"-half in sorrow and gladness,
"Forgive me, and pity my folly!"-she said;
'But he only replied, in a strange tone of sadness,
"Farewell! 'till we meet in the land of the dead!"
Again the bleak wind's dreary whistle resounded,
And the clouds, like black spectre-ships, swam o'er the sky;
And the waves, with an angry shout, sullenly bounded,
And the lonely owl shriek'd 'mid the darkness on high.
Affrighted she gaz'd on the brow of her lover,
And death in the gloom of its shadow was there;
A moment around her his form seem'd to hover,
Then wasted away, like a vapour in air.
As the wind-spirit's wrath blights the young summer-willow,
Or the dark-tassell'd reed by the marge of the lake;
Young Eileen sank down by the surf-cover'd billow,
As powerless, defenceless, as slender and weak.




LAYS AND` LEGANS OF THOMOND.
LAYS AND LEGtiN1S OF THOMOND.


207


The purple-robed morn was radiantly looking,
With warm tears of joy, on the death-throes of night;
And the sun in his diadem'd grandeur was walking
The clear, crystal hall of his palace of light.
And Eileen awoke, with a wild look of wonder,
And a prayer on her virgin-lips blessing God's name;
For the morn, in her own downy couch, laugh'd around her
And her nightly adventure was all a dark dream.
"Now surely!" she murmur'd, "'Twas God sent the warning,
SI'll take it-away thou false demon, dark pride!"
And ere the sun pencill'd another bright morning,
Young Owen and Eileen were bridegroom and bride!
KING MAHON AND OEBHINN, THE BANSHEE.
A LEGEND OF CRAIGHLEA.*
WHEN the glory of eve in the red west was dying,
With its last yellow sheet on the mountain's breast lying,
King Mahon ascended Craighlea's rocky height,
Where the black heather slept, half in darkness and light;
The ebony clouds spread their curtains of gloom,
O'er the wild, dreary desert of fern and broom;
And no echo was heard on the plain or the hill,
For all, save the deep-sounding river, was still.
But why does the monarch, unarm'd and alone,
Climb the tall, misty crags of the hill's airy throne,
At this weird, solemn hour when the spirit of light
Lies dead at the desolate portals of night?
None knows-for he stole unobserved from the hall,
When the red twilight shades were beginning to fallBut his clansmen believed that he often went there,
At night, to commune with a Spirit of air.
There's a gray rock that rests in the deep heather-brown,
Like a huge jewel set in the mountain's high crown;
And there the old Bards and the Seanachies said,
White Oebhinn, the Banshee, her wild dwelling made.
And there, when the night-silver gleam'd on the heath,
She dismally chanted her anthem of death;
But more ominous still, on the eve of a fray,
Was the soul of grief's language express'd in her lay.
The dark, topmost summit King Mahon has gain'd,
Where one dim streak of twilight yet faintly remain'd;
And he faced the gray rock where a white figure shone,
Like a queen's marble bust seated tall on the stone:
* On the summit there is a large Iock, called Oebhinn's Chair. See
note, p. 41.




208         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
A cold, thin-blue drapery of mountain-haze roll'd
Round her form, which dimly appear'd thro' its fold;
But she look'd indistinct as the dull, wat'ry rim
Of the moon, when around it the rain-vapours swim.
Her gossamer-mantle behind her flow'd light,
As a snow-veil flung loose on the shoulders of night;
And her eyes, thro' the wave of the mist-shadows gray,
Seem'd starlight reflected on clear, frozen spray.
A moment the King on the White Spirit gazed,From his proud brow his eagle-plumed barrad he raised,
And said, in the sweet-sounding tongue of the Gael,
" Hail! Queen of the Hill! gentle Oebhinn! all hail!"
" To-morrow we go on a mission of blood,
To feast our red swords on the plain of Sulchoid;
The Invaders against us have gather'd their powers,
From the forts of Ath Cliath* and Luimneach's towers.
And tell me, 0 mournful herald of fate!
How many proud chieftains shall enter death's gate?
Or who in the field are destined to prevailThe Race of the Hillst or the Tribe of Clan Tail?The hero ceased speaking, and Oebhinn replied,
In a voice, like the wind on the winter hill-side,
"Ere the eve of the morrow shall blush o'er the wave,
Thy fame shall be great, 0 King Mahon, the brave!
The Raven shall fall, and the tribe of Clan Tail,
'Gainst the sons of the hills, in the field shall prevail;
And now, since the fate of the morrow is known,
Retire, O King Mahon! and leave me alone!"
Then the mists gather'd deeply and cover'd the spot
'Round the cold, gloomy stone where the White Spirit sate;
And the warrior retreated, and heard, in the wind,
Low moans and deep sighs from the summit behind.
With the eye of an eagle and foot of a fawn,
He traversed the hill to the wide palace-lawn;
And enter'd the hall where the sons of the sword
Were feasting their souls with the joys of the board.
Then the nobles all 'rose, with full bowls in their hands,
And they hail'd the high Prince of the gold-hilted brands;
And he proudly demanded the sons of the lyre,
For a song on the valorous deeds of his sire.
From the regal orchestra of minstrels the first,
A hundred wild harps into melody burst;
And they sang the brave triumphs of mighty Clan Tail,
O'er the fierce Ocean-kings on the plain of Singail! ~
* Dublin.
t The Northmen or Danes were called by the Irish "The Sons of the
Hills 1 "
t The Dalcassians often assumed this cognomen.
I i.e., Singland near Limerick City, where Kennedy, the father of Brian




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


209


But a strange white-hair'd minstrel appear'd 'mong the rest,
And six radiant colours adorn'd his vest;
His face and attire were unknown in the hall,
Yet his harp spoke the loudest and sweetest of all.
When he sang of the field and the glory of kings,
The clang of the battle burst fierce from the strings;
And the chiefs felt a martial blaze burning their souls,
And they shook their broad swords o'er the bright banquetbowls.
Then the battle-hymn suddenly changed to a wail,
Like the Banshee's wild dirge for a prince of the Gael;
The gray swans of Lir, in their watery retreat,
Ne'er chanted their night-song so mournfully sweet.
And the listeners grew pale, and sat still, as if death
Had flung on their features the frost of his breath;
For an accent was heard in each grief-speaking string,
Saying, " Short is the date of thy glory, O King!"
Like an insulted god, 'rose the royal Dalcassian,
His lordly brow black with the cloud-gloom of passion:
"Bring that minstrel to judgment before me!' he cried,
"Spare thy judgment, O Monarch!" the minstrel replied;
" Red victory shall sit on thy helmet to-morrowA morning of joy and an evening of sorrow;
But if thou would'st live, take the warning I bring,
Go not to the feast with the yellow-hair'd King! "
Hie waved his thin hand to the guests, and withdrew,
Like the mist of a river dissolving from view;
And a pensive sheen spread, like the lustre of snow,
As each chief made the sign of the cross on his brow.
The Clarseachs were hush'd, and the banquet was o'er,
And the sound of the dancers' feet died on the floorThe warriors and princes retired for the night,
To take brief repose and prepare for the fight.
THE BATTLE OF SULCHOID.
(A. D. 968.)
THE morn was red on Camailte's head,
And the woods in the spring-gale trembled;
When the Danish powers, from their raths and towers,
On the plain of the battle assembled;
And their hostile shout thro' the skies rang out,
As their squadrons rapidly muster'd;
And their flame-like spears were as fire-crown'd stars
O'er the blue brow of midnight cluster'd.
Born, aided by Callaghan, King of Munster, O'Riordan, O'Malley, O'Neill,
Creagh, and several other great chiefs, defeated the Danes of Limerick, and
slew their principal commanders in single combat.




o10              LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
There was Muiris the Dark, like his own tall bark*
Moving proud on her sea-kiss'd pinionThere was Torrell as fierce as the fire-eyed shark
Seeking prey in his briny dominion:
There was Teithill, black-brow'd as a hailstone cloud
O'er a frozen desert impending;
And Bernard, as tall as a castle wallWith his locks to his girdle descending.
All giants grim, in body and limb,
Mighty, and stern, and fearless;
Train'd and skill'd in the red war-fieldIn arms and actions peerless;
The pride and boast of the pirate-host,
As leaders and champions daring;
Whose Raven-wingst were the terror of kings,
Save the chiefs and the kings of Erin.
Like rav'nous beasts, they slew monks and priests,
And their banquets were flames and ruins;
And wherever they trod, the burning sod
Told a fiery tale of their doings:
Their pond'rous mail was of hardest steel,
And steel gloves did their hands environ;
For the strength of their bone was as flinty stone,
And their sinews as rods of iron.
From the golden plains of their bright domains,
All Thomond's fierce clans, with their leaders,
Like the headlong sweep of their hill-floods deep,
Are coming to meet the invaders;
And King Mahon strides on in the shining van,
With his Three Yellow Lions- before him;
And his battle-vest on his towering breast,
And his proud eagle-plume nodding o'er him.
His helmet's blaze was like the rays
Of the sun on a stormy even',
As he haughtily trod, like an angry god
'Mid the clouds of a burning heaven:
And the fiery sheen of his host was seen,
Like morn on the white surge glancing,
When the wave-array of the wrathful sea,
Is in terrible majesty dancing.
* "The four Danish leaders mentioned in this stanza, were lords of Limerick, Waterford, Cork, and Dublin, men of great personal strength, bravery,
and military skill. The field of Sulchoid lies about nine miles north-east of
Limerick."-Keating's Hist.
t The Danish Banner. A raven with extended wings.
t The Banner of the Dalcassian Kings. Mahon was, at the time of the
Battle of Sulchoid, King of Leath Mogha, i.e., the entire southern half of
Ireland.,His brother Brian, the future hero of Clontarf, was then Prince
of Thomond. It was the great importance and brilliancy of the victory of
Sulchoid that inspired the Eugenian chiefs with envy against Mahon, which
ultimately led to his murder. "-Annals of Thomond




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


211


The holy Mass for the race of Cas,
In the pale-ray'd dawn was offer'd;
And the fierce Northmen to their God Odin,
Their prayers for victory proffer'd:
While the war-bards strung their harps and sung
The bold Ross Catha inspiring;
And every man to the charge rush'd on,
With vengeance and vigour untiring.
They swept o'er the ground, like the mighty sound
Of floods from a hundred mountains;
And the mad steel tore, with a thirsty roar,
To the depths of their hearts' red fountainsThe wound-floods swell'd and the armour knell'd,
As the spears, like fire-serpents, assail'd it;
And each broad shield fell, like a broken shell,
From the quivering arm that held it.
The gleaming blades danc'd and quiver'd, like reeds,
As if-with their red edges bluntedThey reel'd up drunk from each cloven trunk,
To grasp the fierce souls which they hunted:
And the helmets strong groan'd a horrid song,
O'er the shrill war-slogan, uproarious;
While the " sparths" mock'd the croon of the storm's tune,
And the swords shriek'd an iron chorus.
King Mahon first through the centre burst,
The steel-clad chiefs o'erthrowing;
And he swept them away, like the dark-brown hay,
When the harvest sons are mowing;
And the crash of his stroke, like a falling oak,
Was heard o'er the furious clangor,
As he broke thro' the ranks, like a flood thro' its banks,
In the strength of its wintry anger.
Fierce Torrell came, like a column of flame,
To oppose the Dalcas leader;
And his mountain-height o'er the wave of fight,
Was seen, like a desert-cedar:
And shield to shield, on the smoking field,
They met, like two night-demons rending
The fiery-gloom of the storm-cloud's womb,
For the rule of the lightning contending.
As things of light, in their aerial flight,
Flash'd their arms in ringing collision;
And their spears hiss'd loud for a drink of blood,
As they leap'd on their deadly mission;
But the shafts fell down, with a surly groan,
From each sounding buckler's centre;
As if each strong spear refused, with fear,
Those terrible shields to enter.




212          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Then they drew their " sparths," and, in riven parts,
The shields to the plain flew sounding;
And the chiefs sway'd back from the fierce attack,
Like waves from a cliff rebounding.
But the King, with the bound of a fleet wolf-hound,
His ponderous war-axe winding,
Drove its fiery edge, like a cleaving wedge,
Thro' the Dane's stout armour grinding.
His blood wet the plain, as a shower of rain,
And he reel'd, with his broad breast sever'd;
And fell, like the fall of a granite wall,
By heaven's artillery shiver'd;
Then the Northmen raged, and the hosts engaged,
With a fiercer and deadlier fury;
And the broad swords clash'd, andthe shields were smash'd,
And the battle-flood roll'd more gory.
By a moss-brow'd crag, near his Raven-flag,
The ruler of Luimneach, Muiris,
Cast his lightning-gaze thro' the red war-haze
Where the swords of the Dalgais raged furious;
And his fierce appeal to his men of steel,
Was heard, like a tempest, among them;
And wild, as the ire of a river of fire,
On the men of green Thomond he flung them.
King Mahon prepare, for the storm of war
By thy bravest must now be borne!See those spears rushing bright, as the flames of night,
And thick as tall ridges of corn;
Place thy boldest in front to oppose the brunt
Of those headlong iron-billows!
Let your axes cleave this desperate wave,
Else thy legions shall fall, like willows!
Up march'd to his side, with lion-pride,
Young Brian his regal brother;
Like a wintry tide down the mountain's side,
Fierce, rushing to join another.
And the men of Cas, strong as towers of brass,
Stand, like brown hill-cliffs in the vanguard;
And, like fire-globes, shined their helms behind
The wave of their glittering standard.
As two seas meet in a narrow strait,
By a thousand tall rocks riven;
When the surge-fiends call on an angry squall
To give them a fling towards heaven;
While the clouds look down with a dark'ning frown,
On their billowy war-dance whitening,
And toss, thro' the gloom, on their helms of foam,
Blue-quivering plumes of lightning.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Thus on, with the sway of the frantic sea,
Charged the Danes, with the Raven o'er them;
While, as rocks in the flood, the Dalgais stood,
In terrible might, before them;
Then the axe and sword the hosts devour'd,
And the armour was shivered to splinters;
And ten thousand blows in one hurricane 'rose,
Like the howl of a hundred winters.
As the pine-wood bends when the tempest rends
Its branchy lords gigantic;
As ships are toss'd on the roaring coast,
By the wrath of the mad Atlantic;
So the ranks were wreck'd, and hew'd, and hack'd,
And the field with their fall resounded,
Like the deep, hoarse voice of a lake of ice,
When the sleighs are driving around it.
At the head of his band, by Brian's hand,
Fierce Teithill was cleft asunder;
Like a crag dash'd down from its steep hill-throne,
By the fiend of the midnight thunder;
And a bank of slain 'rose o'er the plain
Where the cloven chief was lying;
And, as red grapes crush'd in the wine-press, gush'd
The gaping wounds of the dying.
'Mid the iron surge of the mighty charge,
By a deluge of blows surrounded,
Luimneach's lord, with his sweeping sword,
On the king of Leath Mogha bounded;
But Mahon broke, with a crashing stroke,
His casque where the black crest curl'd,
And down he was cast, like a stately mast
From a sea-riding war-ship hurl'd.
Then a panic ran from man to man,
And the rifted phalanx was scatter'd;
As a sand-built isle by the mad turmoil
Of the tide and the tempest shatter'd:
Thus the pirate-throng madly roll'd along,
As if hell-dogs rushed to hound them;
Or as wild beasts dun all roar and run,
When the wood is in flames around them.
Tall Bernard stood and call'd aloud
On his flying band of hewers,
To stand, and brave the headlong wave
Of their fiery and fierce pursuers!
But the war-tide swept him down and leapt,
With the bound of an avalanche, o'er him;
And he mangled lay on the bloody clay,
As if hungry wild beasts tore him.


213




- 214             LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
On roll'd the rout, with a hurricane-shout,
S Towards'Luimneach's flood-girt towers;
And the plains were lined with ruin behind
The mass of the flying powers:
They enter'd the town, and the forts tore down,
And flames thro' the buildings revell'd;
And ere day sank to rest in the yellow west,
The city in fire was levell'd.
THE BANKS OF AVONDOUN.*
SEPTEMBER'S sun is bright upon
The briary banks of Avondoun,
Whose wavelets run from stone to stone,
Each playing with its silvery crown;
The yellow plains are silent round,
On bush and tree the leaves are brown;
I sit alone, and hear no sound
Save thine, blue-streaming Avondoun!
Oh! many a day, in June and May,
I rested on this winding bank;
And mark'd each bud that kiss'd thy flood,
And beauty from its freshness drank!
Delighted with thy mountain-song,
Thro' broom and fern, sweet-warbling down,
I lay thy moorland flowers among,
And hymn'd thy praise, wild Avondoun!
The red trout's spangled armour gleams
Beneath thy crystal-shaded curls,
As darting playful thro' thy streams,
They seem like radiant, living pearls!
The green-furze hangs along thy side,
The yellow star-gems of its crown;
The slender fox-glove, crimson-eyed,
Shakes its bright bells o'er Avonoun!
The fields are in a sunny dreamHeaven's gemlets glow on bank and bush;
And in the hazy, humid beam,
The ruby haws in clusters blushThe darkly glist'ning berries peep
Between the leaves, half green and brown;
Like gray old chiefs, the thistles sleep
Beside the winding Avondoun.
* Brown River-a poetical name given to a mountain stream with wild
and winding banks. It flows from the hills of Cappantilnore and empties
itself into the Shannon, a few hundred yards below the Lax Weir.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


215"


The summer glads the heart and eye,
When all looks fresh and young, and green;
But let me feel the dreary joy
That haunts the soul 'mid autumn's scene.
The fallen leaf, the naked tree
Rock'd by the gale's wild rustling wing,
Impart a weird delight to me,
That summer's glow could never bring!
Away, ye shadows, wealth and power!
Away thou stony-hearted town!
I'll dream alone, one pleasant hour,
By gentle-flowing Avondoun!
Oh! would I were a bird to sing
All day around thy lonely floodA flower, or any guileless thing,
Save wretched human flesh and blood!
The curlew's solitary scream,
From yon wild morass rises shrill;
The mists are weaving, in the beam,
A blue robe for the naked hillThe song-birds fly round crag and broom,
With sun-gold glinting'on their wings;
The pale reed, with its dusky plume,
Hangs trembling o'er the marshy springs.
Gray winter's polar blasts are near,
The scenes look gloomy, grand and wild;
Thou shalt more frequent see me here,
Than when gay summer's beauty smiled!
When round yon sterile summits hoar,
The angry-swelling snow-clouds frown,
I'll hail thee then, and love thee more,
Child of the dark hills, Avondoun!
THE LIVING SKELETON.
A        of tle.'amine Year, 1847.
THE wintry evening's gloaming
From the cold, blue east was coming,
O'er the sombre mountains looming,
Withthe night's first solemn frown;
Where November's snow lay lightly
On their foreheads, beaming whitely,
Through the clouded twilight brightly
On the dark glens glancing down;
And the blast, with spectral moanings, thro' the frozen valleys
raved,
And the bare woods, stark and dreary, with a dismal murmur,
waved.




216          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
From the angry sky fast showering,
Leap'd the hail-stones, pattering, pouring,
In the black wind hoarsely roaring
O'er the frigid scene of gloom;
And I listened to its rustle,
And its solitary whistle,
As its wild strength seem'd to wrestle
With the four walls of my room,
Where, darkly, sadly pondering upon wretched Ireland's
doom,
Sat I weaving scenes of horror in dark Fancy's wizard loom.
'Twas in ruthless Forty-Seven,When the plague-fraught air was riven
With the sound which harrowed heaven,
Of a famished people's cryWhen the famine fiend was formed,
All with tenfold horrors arm'd,
And our godless rulers, charmed,
Saw their Irish victims die j
While Europe, all alarm'd, heard the wail that tore the sky
A dying Nation's death-groan, ringing up to God on high.
Then Fancy's wizard mirror
Show'd me many a shape of terror,
As my heart lock'd deep in horror,
Heard the living wail the dead;
While raging hunger stung them,
And the plague-fiend stalk'd among them,
And, like autumn's sick leaves, flung them
In the dust's unhallowed bed,
Where, grappling with the demon, they fiercely howl'd for
bread,
As their raving souls turned maniac ere from earth accurs'd
they fled.
Thus to see my country lying,
Like a helpless infant dying,
I wept in anguish, crying,
God has lost his love of right!
Yet, 'twas but a mad temptation
That with quick revibration
Cross'd my soul's black desolation,
Like the red flash of the nightAs the lurid-pinioned lightning smites the ghastly face of
night,
Making darkness still more awful with the terror of its light.
Sick and heart-sore from my weeping,
Back I lay, o'erwearied, sleeping,
Gloomy thoughts and sorrow steeping
In a pensive dream of rest;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND,


217


As a day which clouds deform
With alternate rain and stormAt its sinking, calm and warm,
Slumbers in the silent West;
Pillow'd on the crimson'd ether-thus I lay., in quiet rest,
When a vision, strange and dismal, tore the spirit from my
breast.
In a place of shadows sunless,
Barren, sombre, treeless, tuneless,
Weird, sepulchral, starless, moonless,
Yet not wholly wrapt in gloom;
For some cold, unnatural glimmer,Like a March night dim, and dimmer,
Or a wintry moonbeam's shimmer,
Through a crevice in a tombGlinted on this realm of terror-this dreary land of dole,
And grisly spectre-shadows-where the vision led my soul.
All my heart, with horror shrinking,
On a thousand dread things thinking,
I advanced-each footstep sinking
In the corpse-befatted ground;
Where, uncoffined and unshrouded,
Lay the blacken'd bodies crowded,With a pall of blue flies cloudedIn the festering graves around;
While meagre birds of darkness, and lank-sided beasts of prey
From the putrefying members tore the livid flesh away.
And amid that fearful legionIn this pestilential region,
Like a spirit of contagion,
Sat a woman all alone;
Clad with robes of faded splendour,
Tall, dark-haired, large-eyed, slender,
With a brow by grief made tender,
And white as polished stone;
And she wrung her lean hands, wildly, venting many a doleful
shriek,
With gaunt famine in her dark eye and the plague-spot in her
cheek.
Tho' my bosom seemed to fear her,
And my sad heart wept to hear her,
I softly ventured near her,
With respectful look and bow;
And she ceased her funeral ditty,
Shaking back her ringlets jetty,
And with a look of pity,
Fix d her wild eyes on my brow;
15




218           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Oh! that burning glance of anguish made my full heart overflow,
For it told a thousand sorrows in her breast that raged below.
"Mourner!" said I, faintly, slowly
Bowing down my person lowly,
"Why in this place unholy
And contagious, dost thou weep?
Has the dark fiend's deadly malice
Flung his poison in thy chalice;
And is there left no solace
For the draught that pains thee deep?
But fly-I must implore thee-from     this plague-polluted
sphere,
For death, in all his grisly shapes, is winging round us here!"
As gently I address'd her,
And with mild entreaties press'd her,
I thought my words distress'd her,
For she shrank, as from a blow;
In her hands her face she buriedAnd-oh! sight most dread and horridThe flesh from off her forehead
Thaw'd away, like melting snow,
And her long, dark-tangled ringlets fell around her livid feet,
And the robe dropp'd from her bosom, like a mouldered winding-sheet.
Backward shrank I from the Spectre,
With many a strange conjecture,
Gazing on that awful picture
Of horror and affright,
Which now stood starkly, dimly,
In its hideous outlines grimlyGaunt, grisly, and unseemlyBefore my tortured sight;
While thro' gaping joint and sinew wax'd the silky-glaring
light,
The eyeless skull frowned on me, and the gumless teeth
grinn'd white.
Then from the cloud-gloom stooping,
Foul birds, on black wings swooping,
Round the skeleton came trooping,
With strange screams and iron claws;
And long necks bare and meagre,
For the charnel-banquet eager,
And eyes which glared the rigour
Of keen hunger-bitten maws;
While they tore the bluish tendons from the long disjointed
bones,
The Spectre writhed with torture and faintly utter'd moans.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             219
Then its fleshless brow upturningWhile the big round drops of mourning
From its sightless eyes fell burningIt vehemently cried,
"Oh! Thou, once tortured, torn,
And spat upon with scorn,
Deserted and forlorn,
And scourged and crucified!
Take this poison-bowl of misery from my trembling, dying
hand!"
And a voice said, "It shall pass from thee, oh, wretched,
suffering Land!"
Thro' my soul the words went ringing,
Every pulse to fury stinging,
And the startled blood upspringing,
Seem'd to burn with agony,
While I cried, in fearful madness,
"Oh! dismal thing of sadness!
Is there ought of hope or gladness,
In God's Book of Fate for thee?"
But the Spectre only answer'd, stretching out its fleshless
hand,
"Behold the Dead yet living! child, I am thy Motherland!"
"Oh! wond'rous thing of feeling!"
Said I, passionately kneeling,
"By thy cries to God appealing,
By thy wounds, and pains, and tears I
By the many pangs that harrow
Thy forlorn heart of sorrow,
Tell me-tell me, if thy morrow
Of Redemption yet appears?"
But the Spectre thrice repeated, and still waved its trembling
hand,
"I'm the Lost One of the Nations, thy forsaken Motherland!"
Then a ray, all pure and splendid,
O'er the brightning sphere descended,
And, in middle air suspended,
Fill'd the dusky mist with light!
And I saw red sun-stars blazing
O'er a blood-hued arch, upraising
Its bow, with angels gazing
From its fiery crescent bright;
And the clouds became emblazon'd with a glistening crimson
dye,
As they hung, like battle-banners, in the fiercely-flaming sky.
Then their burning folds divided,
Where the spirit-band presided,
And a monster eagle glided
Thro' the glowing, crimson flood,




220          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And his wings, with star-plumes splendid,
To each horizon extended,
As his downward flight he wended,
Where the bony Spectre stood;
And his eyes were as two comets shooting war-presaging rays,
And the sun seem'd but a meteor to the glory of his gaze.
And before this flying wonder,
All the black graves burst asunder;
And the corpses that lay under,
Started into living forms;
And their faces wore a passion
That no painter's art could fashion,
While their wild eyes seemed to flash on,
With fierce scorn, the hideous worms;
And they hail'd the mighty eagle, with a world-ringing cry,
Like the war-song of the ocean when the wind-god rushes by.
Then those fierce men troop'd together
Round the winged king of ether;
And each bold man snatch'd a feather
From the glorious, royal bird;
And they stood all bravely arm'd,
With one martial ardour warm'd,
For each plume became transform'd
To a glittering battle-sword;
And they rush'd, with desperate fury, on the birds and beasts
of prey,
And cut them all in piecemeal, and trampled them to clay.
Now from earth's black bosom stealing,
Rose a radiant sun-cloud swelling,
The gaunt Skeleton o'erveiling,
With a drapery of red;
Each joint and bone enfolding
With a symmetrical moulding!
While a garment, rich and golden,
O'er her growing shoulders spread,
And a glory o'er her features, like a grand spring morning stole,
Andher eyes blazed with the newly-kindled lightning of her
soul.
Then a great host march'd before her,
With bright banners flaunting o'er her,
As the mighty eagle bore her
To a throne of gorgeous sheen;
And there in state elated,
'Mid applauding millions seated,
Was the proud, regenerated,
And enduring Ocean-Queen;
And her face grew fair and fairer, and her sceptre-hand grew
strong,
'Till o'er her brow of splendour hung no shadow of a wrong.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


221


And a heavenly sunburst crown'd her,
And the crystal seas around her,
Seem'd to burst in joyous thunder
On her diamond-sanded shore;
And great ships of trade unfailing,
To her royal ports were sailing,
And the voice of woe and wailing,
On her plains, was heard no more;
And her Angel of Deliverance thro' the climes of Earth proclaim'd,
'Return, ye weary exiles! Lo! your country is redeemed!"
THE ROSE OF THE GLEN.
(A LEGEND OF CRATLOE.)*
BENEATH the deep shadows of Cratloe's wild mountains,
Where the birchen-boughs wave o'er a hundred blue fountains;
And each crag's granite forehead is wreathed with broom,
With the dew-crystals set in the bells of its bloom;
There the wing'd minstrels, throned on each sweet-buddingspray,
'Mid sunshine and fragrance, sing love-hymns all day,
While the gale from the lap of the mountain sublime,
Steals away the sweet soul of the rich-scented thyme;
And there, 'mid those glories, secluded from men,
Dwelt Eily O'Donnell, the Rose of the Glen!
No bright-flowing garments had Eily to wear,
Nor gold.n her fingers, nor gems in her hair;
But simply the beautiful maiden was dress'd,
In plain peasant attire, which suits loveliness best.
From Luimneach's walls to Bunratty's gray towers,
From Meelick's wide woodlands to Derra's dark bowers;
From Cratloe's tall Castle to Carrigogunnell,
No peer had the beautiful Eily O'Donnell.
Her eyes were as violets embedded in dew,
Or May's sunny heaven, as pure and as blue;
She smiled, like the primrose by Coonagh's brown rills,
She blush'd, like the berries on Boola's dark hills;
And she moved on the plain, in the clear summer noon,
Like the sunray that floats o'er the meadows in June.
In her cottage, all day at her distaff and reel,
She sang, like a seraph, the songs of the Gael;
And when winter's snow-carpet lay deep o'er the land,
The grateful birds knew her, and fed at her hand..* tatloe Castle was built, in 1610, by Donogh M'Namara and Margaret
Barry, his wife. After the Siege of Limerick, Cratloe was confiscated, and
the Castle dismantled. It was, in 1651, for several weeks besieged by Ireton,
but it successfully resisted all his efforts to reduce it. The last of the
Cratloe MacNamaras left it on the day that the battle of Bunker Hill was
fought.




222            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
How sweet fell the eve-mist on valley and lawn,
When she stray'd o'er the hills, with her loved Owen Bhan!
How joyful the soul of her lover was, when
He met, in the twilight, his Rose of the Glen!
Tho' no lord of the soil, and no chief of the sword,
He was brave as a hero, and look'd like a lord;
Tho' a plain, humble youth, without titles or gold,
His bosom was proud and his spirit was bold.
For his was a lineage of glory traced down
From the Lords of Leath Mogha, whose swords of renownFor ever victorious o'er Norman and DaneCrush'd the insolent robbers, on land and on main.
But the Saxon prevail'd thro' long ages of blood,
He conquer'd with gold, for his sword was withstood;
And the noble Dalcassian tribe fell by degrees,
Like a forest despoil'd of its beautiful trees;
And Owen, tho' born to a chieftain's command,
Was robb'd of his ancestral honours and land;
And doom'd, thro' the round of the season, to toil,
On those plains where his fathers were lords of the soil.
In Cratloe's tall Castle a chieftain resided,
By all the wild spells of a wild passion guided(For Cratloe had chieftains, high halls, and gay bowers,
Ere the hell-harden'd Cromwell dismantled her towers)A lord of the noble Sil Aedha,* whose name
Shines illustrious in Thomond's grand records of fame;
The stern MacNamaras, whose strong swords alone,
For ages, secured the O'Briens on their throne.
O'er Thomond's rich soil lay their lordly domains,
From Killeely's dark woodlands to Scariffs wide plains;
From Coonagh's broad fields to where Fergus divides,
With the deep-rolling Shannon, his blue mountain-tides.
From Bunratty of battles and wild warrior-men,
To the white crags of Burren, and dark Inchiquin.
O'er those sway'd the chiefs of the Clan MacNamara,
Ere the crown of proud Tara was worn at Kinkora;
And in every fierce conflict their standard appear'd,
And their war-shouts for Erin and Freedom were heard.
Their power made princes and raised them to reign,
They built abbeys and castles, and burned them again;
The Danes, and false Saxons, and fierce Norman lords,
Were cut, like dry grass, by their axes and swords.
* Sil Aedha was one of the tribe names of the MacNamaras of Clan Cuilen.
They were the field marshals of Munster since time immemorial. They
built twenty-eight castles in Thomond, together with several fine abbeys
(Quin being the principal), which they largely endowed. In their power
lay the sole and safe election of the native princesto royal authority. How
this mighty and warlike tribe lost their immense possessions, in so short a
time, is a matter to cause surprise; but reckless extravagance had a strong
hand in it; together with the confiscations of Cromwell and James I.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


223


How weak was O'Brien! how fallen was his pride,
If the brave MacNamara was not at his side!
And the grand House of Thomond had little to boast,
Were it not for Sil Aedha's strong war-cleaving host;*
A terrible race, to the battle-field given,
Proud, tameless, and wild as the eagles of heaven.
Yet O'Brien, forgetful of kingly renown,
At the feet of the alien his honours laid down;
And the high eagle-nest of magnanimous souls,
Became the cold dwelling of spiritless owls;
Self-quench'd was that great flame which burned so long,
And the fierce torrent died while its billows were strong;
The proud Tree, whose high boughs such glorious fruit bore,
Bow d its head to the vile dust, and blossom'd no more.
Yet, tho' o'er green Thomond the foreigner sway'd,
With the arms of her chiefs round his standard array'd,
The stern MacNamaras, unconquer'd, unbow'd,
On their own royal mountains stood chainless and proud,
While their eyes flash'd contempt on the weak-hearted race
Who barter'd a crown for a yoke of disgrace;
But the cancer had eaten their spirits so far,
They dash'd from their brave hands the strong swords of war
And sullenly, slowly conformed to the laws,
Like lions indignant deprived of their claws.
But back to our story of Cratloe's gray castle,
Where now the owl moans and the dreary winds whistle;
And the hawk o'er its ivy-zoned turrets is screaming,
Where once the proud flag of Clan Cuilen was streaming.
I sat on its war-worn battlements hoary,
And sigh'd o'er the tomb of its long-perish'd glory;
I gazed on the banquet-hall, dismal and drear,
And the red-blossom'd wall-flowers waved silently there.
The spider's frail web spread its wind-torn screen,
In the nooks where the dreary bat slumbers unseen;
The mountain-bee hums thro' the shadowy hall,
And the snail leaves his gray, silvery trail on the wall.
How changed from the old, splendid days of its pride,
When its chieftains lived free, or for liberty died;
When its rocky halls echoed with revel and lay,
Sounding high on the wind, at the close of the day;
When the daughters of beauty moved light o'er the floor,
In the maze of the dance, with the wild sons of war;
While its huge hearths blazed brightly, with bogwood and oak,
And the rich banquet scented the hall with its smoke;
* Fireball and his brother, the Major, who seconded O'Connell in his duel
with D'Esterre, were the last who represented the valiant blood of the
chieftaincy. With them died all that was chivalrous and noble of the longdreaded and illustrious Clan Cuilen. The late Colonel MacNamara, of
Ennistymon, was another scion of the warlike and historic race, " Alas!
for the sons of glory!"




224          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And the loud laugh of mirth, as the revelry grew,
Rung gay from the heart of the reckless Seaan Rudh*
Seaan Rudh MacNamara, bold lord of the tower!
Who scorn'd all danger and spurn'd all power;
At love-feats, and banquets, and combats of steel,
Unrivall'd and wild as Shane Dymas O'Neill,t
Love, feasting and battle, his spirit's delightA combat all day and a banquet all nightA-wooing some damsel, embroil'd with some lordFor ever engaged with a love-suit, or sword;
Each day saw him bound for the plain or the hill,
A lady to meet, or a rival to kill.
One calm harvest-morn he chased a wild deer,
O'er the brown mountain-peaks, with his sharp hunting spear
Thro' dark gorge and green heath the frighted beast flew,
But fix'd in his flank was the steel of Seaan Rudh:
Thro' the gloom of the forest the fainting deer fled,
And fern and blade, with his life-drops grew red;
To the glen, where young Eily so long lived retired,
The child of the desert rush'd down, and expired;
The maiden went forth from her home in the shade,
And moved to the spot where the wild deer was laid;
'Tis her own favourite roebuck that lifeless lies there,
And she rung her white hands, with a scream of despair.
MacNamara dash'd down, with his green-attired men,
And beheld, with amaze, the fair Rose of the Glen;
Like a young mountain-hazel, majestic she stood,
While the chief felt a sudden flame kindling his blood.
"Young Queen of the valley and green birchen-shade!"
Thus spoke the fierce Seaan to the delicate maid;
" The glance of thy blue eye has pierced like an arrow,
The steel-tempered heart of the proud MacNamara!
Come, come to my mansion, thou angel serene!
And there thou shalt live, rule and reign as a queen!
And Cratloe's broad lands, woods, and hills, shall be thine,
And Coonagh's rich meadows, well stored with fat kine!
In my house and my heart, high command shalt thou bear,
And the gems of a princess shall blaze in thy hair;
And men of proud bearing, and maids, light and gay,
Shall defend thee all night and attend thee all day;
And no bride in the land shall be like my young bride,
With grandeur, and treasure, and pleasure supplied!"
" Proud lord of the forests and mountain-rocks brown! "
Thus spoke the young maid, when the chieftain was done;
* led John, supposed to be the son of Donogh who built the castle.
Owen Bhan was one of his kinsmen, and he merely carried off Eily to the
castle for the purpose of trying Owen's ancestral courage.
t Shane the proud. For an account of this wild and warlike Chief, see
John Mitchell's " Life of Hugh O'Neill.'




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


225


'Thy generous offers no maid could deny,
But my heart with those offers can never comply!
Persist not, brave chief!-I'm defenceless and lone,
And my heart-vows are pledged to the young Owen Bhan!
Nor the splendour of power nor the smooth tongues of men,
Shall win from his bosom the Rose of the Glen! "
The dark chieftain frown'd and the blaze of his eye
Wax'd red as the lightning, when tempests are nigh,
From his silver-rein'd hunter impetuous he sprung,
And the terrified maid on the wild steed he flung,
And he bounded behind her, and dash'd from the bower,
Like a hawk with his prey, to his tall, rocky tower.
'Tis evening, and Cratloe's gray Castle is ringing,
With harping and feasting, and dancing and singing;
And the dim, hazy crimson of sunset is thrown
Thro' each stout-shafted casement of rough-chisell'd stone;
The guests are assembled, in gorgeous attire,
And cheeks of bright rose-hues, and eyes of soft fire,
Surround the gay board all with radiant cups starr'd,
While the martial Ross Catha was sung by a bard!
And the cheers of the warriors exultingly rung
Thro' the spacious arch'd hall, keeping time with the song;
And they 'rose, as if rushing to fight round the boards,
Pealing out their dread war-shout and clashing their swords.
There were princely O'Brien of famed Lemeneagh,*
O'Loughlin of Burren, and gallant O'Dea;
O'Hehir, O'Halloran, O'Grady, O'Hearn,
MacMahon the strong, Maclnerney the stern;
The valiant O'Donnell, from Luimneach's rich city,
MacNamara, fierce lord of the towers of Bunratty;
MacNamara of Ayle, MacNamara of Quinn,
And the proud MacNamara of green Corofin;
O'Neill, haughty chief of the long yellow hair,
O'Callaghan, lord of the borders of Clare;
All fearless and true men, bold, generous and bright,
And these are Seaan Rudh's brother-revellers to-night!
Like bright, pleasant dreams, the gay hours fled away,
Ere the banqueters mark'd the brief date of their stay.
Their reckless enjoyment was full at its height,
And no bosom was sad in the Castle that night;
* " This noble mansion,'the seat of the ancestors of the Dromoland O'Briens,
was taken possession of and garrisoned by Ireton's troops, under General
Ludlow, in 1651. They compelled the widowed Lady O'Brien (whose husband, Connor, was slain, defending the Pass of Inchicronan against the
Parliamentary troops), to quit her residence, with her orphan son, and seek
refuge elsewhere. The brigands cut down and burned a great portion of the
fine old ornamental timber of the demense, besides doing other injuries to
the grand mansion, which was abandoned by the family in future. The
interesting ruins of this historic castle are still standing."--Memoir of the
O'Briens.




226          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
No bosom was sad, oh, fair Eily, but thine!
Tho' around thee ran fountains of music and wine!
She gazed on each proud dame, and high-crested chief,
And the joy of their eyes mock'd the soul of her grief;
In secret she call'd on her lover, with sighs,
From the wells of her heart, bringing streams to her eyes;
And sadly she wept-oh, ye gay warrior-men!
Bear her back to her own humble home in the Glen!
A stranger appears 'mid the festival throng,
His stature is comely, but lofty and strong;
In the hall's brilliant centre he takes his bold stand,
With a dirk at his side and a sword in his hand;
And the quick, steely glance of his eye flash'd on all,
As the angry youth frown'd o'er the guests in the hall.
Then up stood Red Seaan, with a bowl amply fill'd,
And that high-flowing bowl to the stranger he held;
But the stranger refused-with a wave of his brand,
And the gallant chief flung down the bowl from his hand;
"By the soul of my father!" he cried, with a sneer,
"You are a black Saxon churl!-say what brought you here?"
"I'm come!" said the youth, "and my mission is strange,A deed of disgrace on your head to avenge!
Yet I am no serf of the Sassenach line,
For the blood in my veins is as Irish as thine!
You are valiant in action, and mighty in word,
Your clan fears your power, and your foes feel your sword
But I scorn your clan, and your sword, and your power,
Tho' here I'm alone, in the hall of your tower!
Was it valour or honour inspired you to-day,
To force a poor maid from her shieling away?
Now I say to your beard, mighty madman, bewareFor, by heaven! if violence has harm'd one hair
Of her dark, silken locks! this good sword you shall feel,
Tho' your person were guarded by ramparts of steel!
And now I command you, on death's instant pain,
To restore, unmolested, the Rose of the Glen!"
Deep, silent sensation arrested the crowd,
But the reckless Seaan Rudh laugh'd contemptuous and loud!
"By the red God of battles! my Oscar!" he cried,
"I delight in my soul, at your choice of a bride!
Yet now shall our actions of chivalry prove
Who is worthy to enter the temple of love!
In my own Castle-hall you have valiantly come
To the trial, and here will I welcome you home!
The love-feat, the wine-bowl, the axe and the arrow,
Alike give enjoyment to Seaan MacNamara!
Your sword-my young gallant, I honour your claim!
For, by all that is fair! you must fight for the dame!"




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


227


He said, and advanced on the floor's empty space,
The guests, standing off, gave the combatants place;
The sword, dimly gleaming, is raised in each hand,
As forth to the onset the fierce rivals stand.
The signal is given-the warriors charge,
And bravely they fight, without helmet or targe;
But the steel of Seaan Rudh, at each movement, drew blood
And redden'd the floor where the young hero stood,
The gallant Owen Bhan never falter'd nor fell,
But defended his person, right valiant and well;
Yet return'd his blows, with the cautionless might,
Ever shown by the rash, inexperienced in fight.
The bold MacNamara, with coolness, flung back
The impetuous wildness of Owen's attack,
And caught on his guard-stroke, so actively spread,
The blows which his rival had meant for his head;
While his eye gleam'd, like that of a lion at play
In the gloomy-arch'd wood, when he sports with his prey.
Twelve times at his bosom the weapon's point flash'd,
Twelve times from its quick aim that weapon he dash'd;
At last, with a strong, sidelong sweep of his brand,
He struck the sword ringing from Owen's bold hand;
Another stroke follow'd and brought to the ground
The youth, his high forehead mark'd with a wound;
He lay, while the foot of the victor was placed
On his neck, with the sword pointed down at his breast;
When Eily rush'd forth from the dais, and clung
To the youth, like a mother defending her young;
Her white, slender hand grasp'd the weapon upraised,
In the chief's burning face she imploringly gazed,
And dropp'd on her knees, with a passionate prayer,
To the wrathful-eyed warrior her lover to spare;
The noble Red Seaan, with delight in his eyes,
Laugh'd aloud, and commanded young Owen to rise.
"You have well proved your spirit, and earn'd the dame,
You are worthy her favour-now tell me your name!I have tried your affections and found them sincere,
And for that cause I brought your beloved one here!
I will grant you ten acres of bawn, stock'd with kine,
When the beautiful Rose of the Glen shall be thine!
But as sure as you stood here before me, to-night,
If I saw your nerve waver or shrink from the fightWere all the grand lords of Clan Cuilen your sires,I'd strip your stout shoulders and scourge you with briers!
But your spirit is brave, and your courage is true,
And you said what you were bold and ready to do!
Brave Owen sprang up, like a deer, from the ground,
His strength was refresh'd and his raw scars were bound;




228            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Every chief shook his hand, with a free, friendly zeal,
And declared him a scion of warlike Clan Tail!
Fair Eily was greeted by ladies and lords,
Who repaid her affection with golden rewards;
A pastor was call'd to the hall-there and then,
He married Owen Bhan to the Rose of the Glen.
THE BATTLE OF CORCOMROE.*
(A.D.-1317)
THE clans are embattled, at dark Corcomroe,
And proudly their trumpets and war-horns blow;
The blood, bone, and strength of all Thomond are there,
With lances in rest and broad battle-swords bare.
The chivalrous powers of Clan Cuilen march on,
With the proud MacNamaras, like towers, in the van;
The plumes of their legions are nodding on high,
Like tall forest-tops waving dark in the sky.
In their ranks were O'Slattery, O'Hossin, O'Maly,
MacInerney, O'Meehan, O'Clarigh, O'Haly,
O'Hartigan, O'Halloran, O'Meany, O'Liddy,
O'Dea and O'Loghlin, O'Quin and O'Grady,
All war-season'd champions of vigour and might,
Born of proud mothers and nurst amid fight;
They spread their battalions' steel wings o'er the plain,
'Gainst Donogh the usurper, and fierce Brian Bane.t
And, grim as a hungry wolf, Donogh is there,
With the stern Hy-mbloid+ and the troops of De Clare;
Brian Berra, the fierce, at his side takes his stand,
With his wrathful eye red as the point of his brand:
Tall Mortogh the Rough, and Teige Luimnich the Strong,
Shake their swords in the front of the dense battle-throngLong, long shall green Thomond remember, with woe,
That dreadful war-gathering at dark Corcomroe.
Brave Dermod, the brother of Mortogh O'Brien,~
Arranges the squadrons and orders each line;* The consummate warrior, Brian Bane, was grandson of Brian Roe, who
introduced the De Clares into Thomond. He was constantly engaged in
military operations, and was the only one of his grandfather's descendants
who survived the battle of Corcomroe.
t The clans of eastern Thomond, or Omullod, containing the following
parishes; Clonlea, Feakle, Kilnoe, Kilfinaghty, Killuran, Kilseily, Killokennedy, forming the present deanery of Omullod, in the diocese of Killaloe.
The most distinguished families who owned those places were the O'Kennedys, O'Shanaghans, or Shannons, O'Durachs, and O'Kearneys.
t "Corcomroe, so called from the great grandson of Rory Mor, monarch
of Ireland in the third century. He was the ancestor of the O'Conors of
Corcomroe, and the O'Loghlins of Burren."-Annals of Thomond.'
I Mortogh O'Brien, the reigning Prince of Thomond, was absent in
Dublin, when the battle was fought. Dermod, his brother, who acted as
his deputy in the Government, took the chief command of the army against
his eaemes in the field.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


229


Corcomroe's princely ruler* moved tall at his side,
And war-lightning blazed in the glance of his pride.
The sun, in his crystal pavilion of light,
Seem'd to clear the dark blue-border'd mists from his sight;
And emblaze, with the dazzling fire of his glance,
Into terrible splendour, sword, helmet, and lance.
The shrill blast of conflict has blown its wild breath
O'er the fiery-ridged swell of the ocean of death;
Tremendous the breakers of battle arose,
'Mid a blood-teeming tempest of life-wasting blows:
Up leapt the blue flame-flashing axes in air,
As if fire-fiends were shaking their burning wings thereThe arms of both hosts in a tangled dance join'd,
Like a ripe field of wheat toss'd and swung by the wind.
As corn cut down by the sickle's sharp edgeEach chief was a reaper, each rank was a ridgeSo the axe-cloven kerns lay scatter'd around,
'Neath the feet of the slayers, like sheaves on the ground.
From the frames of the warriors the blood-torrents burst,
Still their weapons, tho' glutted, were raging with thirst;
And each chief, in the charge, seem'd a storm-stricken oak,
'Till hurl'd from his post like a thunder-split rock.
As midnight aurora-lights bursting on high,
Emblaze the cloud-robe of the star-bosom'd sky,
Thus the gore-colour'd flash of the swords' quivering blaze,
Shot its flame thro' the shroud of the floating blood-haze:
Broad death-gaps appear in the hosts on each side,
Like rents made in banks by the wrath of the tide;
And the mingled fight seem'd as a wood half blown down,
Part waving its boughs o'er the other o'erthrown.
The fierce Hy-mbloid are all hew'd on the plain,
And twenty brave chiefs of Clan Cuilen are slain;
And few are the men of De Claret left to tell,
In the halls of Bunratty, who conquer'd or fell.
Proud Donogh's heart's blood by O'Connor was shed,
And Mortogh the Rough, and Brian Berra lie dead;
Teige Luimnich is near, with his broad bosom cleft,Brian Bane, of that clan, is the only chief left.
* O'Connor, Prince of Corcomroe, by whose hand Donogh O'Brien fell.
t " The De Clare's policy was to foment continual quarrels between the
senior and junior branches of the House of Thomond, and this policy ended
in their own ruin, for they drew on themselves the deadly vengeance of the
Thomonian chiefs. Out of 2,950 stalwart fighting men who followed De Clare
to the field of Corcomroe, only 25 returned to tell the story ýat Bunratty.
That was the third deadly check their power received in Thomond. The
last, and most fatal, was at the battle of Dysart, where they were all hewn
to pieces.'-Annalt of Thomond.




230           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
In the halls of Clan Cuilen there's many a tear,
In the towers of Bunratty there's trembling and fear;
And the death-wail of mourning is heard from Clonroad,
To the blue-mantled mountains of green Hy-mbloid.
In the old abbey churchyard are graves deep and wide,
And there the slain chieftains are laid side by side;
Oh! soundly they rest in their clay-beds belowThus ended the battle of dark Corcomroe.
THE WAR SONG OF CLAN CUILEN.
SUNG BY ONE OF THE BARDS OF THOMOND IN TIE CAMP OF
THE MACNAMARAS, ON THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE OF
DYSART O'DEA.
AIR.-" O'Donnell Aboo!"
HARK, the fierce war-note of glorious Clan Cuilen!The warriors of Thomond are brightly array'd;
O'er the mist-shadow'd heights of Hy-Fearmaic* are rolling,
The war-billows crested with banner and blade.
Up, MacNamara brave,
Son of the bounding wave!
Let the red sunbeams blaze on the steel of thy spear!
Flower of old heroes grand!
Marshal thy mountain-bandSweep from your borders the ranks of De Clare!
Bravely the princes and chiefs are surrounding
The old regal standard of kingly O'Brien;
Fiercely their death-telling war-cries are sounding,
And their swords flash, like flames in a desert of pine!
Stern and valiant men,
O'Maly and brave O'Quin!
O'Loughlin, O'Halloran, and gallant O'Hehir!
All march in proud array,
Led by the bold O'Dea,
To scourge the false brigands of faithless De Clare!
Redly o'er Thomond the war-fires are burning,
Her plains are laid waste and her mansions laid low;
Sadly her maidens and widows are mourning
For the heroes who perish'd at dark Corcomroe!t
*The ancient name of the barony of Inchiquin, the territory of the
O'Deas and the O'Quins. From the O'Quins, the noble lords of Adare have
descended.
t "The battle of Corcomroe was fought by two rival princes of the O'Briens.
De Clare instigated the quarrel by espousing the claims of Donogh O'Brien
to the chieftaincy which Mortogh, his kinsman, then rightfully held. The
usurper and his adherents were defeated with great loss. Twenty-one distinguished chiefs of the MacNamaras fell in this dreadful engagement,
fighting in defence of Mortogh's right. The principal chiefs who fell in
the action were buried in the Abbey graveyard, side by side, with prominent
marks placed over their graves, which were visible during centuries after
the stern fight."--Annals of Thomond.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


231


Norman intrigue and wrong
Wrought her destruction long!But now by our fathers' proud spirits we swear,
Soul and sword to unite
In one strong chain of might,
And root from our valleys the spoiler, De Clare!
Darkly our foes at Bunratty assemble
On the rich meads and ploughlands which lately were oursClan Cuilen shall soon make the fierce robbers tremble,
When her wild lion war-yell shall ring thro' their towers!
Rise MacNamara proud,
Beam of the battle-cloud!
Fling the bright wave of thy standard in air;
March in the glorious van
Of thy intrepid clanWreak thy red vengeance on faithless De Clare!
The banners of famed Corcomroe's noble leaders,
O'er bright-flaming ridges of war-axes wave;
The pride of the soil, and the dread of invaders,
O'Conor the free, and O'Loghlin the brave!
Soon shall the martial flood
Spread its broad surge of blood,
O'er the red field where the battle shall joinGallowglass grim, and kern
Stalwart, swift, strong, and stern!
Strike ye for Thomond and kingly O'Brien!
Proudly the towers of Bunratty are flinging
Their dark shadows over our lordly domains!
Fiercely the Norman marauders are bringing
Death to our people and woe to our plains!Rise MacNamara strong
Scourger of tyrant-wrong!
Let thy sword o'er the dash of the war-torrent shine!
Rout the wolves from their lairDeath to the false De ClareStrike for Clan Cuilen and kingly O'Brien!
THE FAWN OF ARD CREGAN.
I SAT on the brown peak of sunny Ard Cregan,
The mountains around me lay gloomy and green;
And, lit by the daybeam, the calm, kingly Shannon,
Like a broad belt of gold, round the landscape was seen;
The fresh wind the crimson-crown'd broom-bush was bending,
And silence seem'd lulling the rich, dreamy scene,
When, like a white moon-cloud the green steep ascending,
Came the Fawn of the dark hills, the mild Josephine.




232          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Oh, welcome' to heaven, you sweet one of beauty!
Sure none but your innocent feet should have trod
Those grand hills, so near the high gate of the angels,
Where nature is whispering alone with her God.
Your presence, bright maiden, is like a May sunbeam,
Whose loveliness sweetens the lone, rural scene;
No flower looks so gentle-no sunbeam so radiantNor hill-spring so beauteous as fair Josephine!
The sun-clouds are smiling with joy to behold you,
As o'er the brown-summits their shadows are roll'd;
They lift up their silvery veils to enfold you,
And shake crystal drops on your head's wavy gold.
While I gaze on your bright wreath of ringlets endearing
My heart, like an eagle, is lifted with pride,
To see you, oh, lovely young Fawn of Ard Cregan!
So graceful and free on your native hill's side!
And now as I sit by the red mountain-blossom,
The rich banquet-cup of the golden hill-bee;
I dream of the days when the daughters of heroes
Strayed here, in their sweet, native beauty, like thee!
But I'll come to those old hills again to salute thee,
Tho' long is the way, with dark valleys between!
We love heaven and nature because of their beauty,
And you as their darling child, fair Josephine!
A MOTHER AT THE GRAVE OF HER ONLY SON.
WHITE dove of my heart did you leave me so soon?
Ere your manhood's young spring saw its sweet summer noon
When to you the fond milk of my bosom I gave,
Did I think 'twas to nourish a flower for the grave?
Sure your young brow was fair as the white Drinan Donn,
Or the rich apple blossom that glows in the sun;
The soft evening mist and the stain of the sky
Only pictured your hair and the blue of your eye!
When the young, dark-eyed Colleens were smiling on thee,
I was wild lest they'd take your affection from me;
But ne'er did I dream that the sad hour was near
When I'd see you, oh, darling! so lonely laid here!
The morning sun round me is blazoning the dew,
But the morning, astozr, brings no sunbeam to you!
On your pillow of dust you are coldly asleep,
And your poor, bereaved mother unheeded may weep!
You were kind as the bloom of your own native sod,
And you fill'd me with joy, like an angel from God
SBitthe brain-burning fever came on you, astoir /
And it took you away, and I'll see you no more!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.            233
Dread God, whose tremendous and mystical power
Could shatter a world, or shelter a flower!
I bow down my soul to thy fathomless will!
But my heart for my darling is sorrowful still!
If I rave o'er the dust where my lost treasure sleeps,
'Tis not I but fond nature that murmurs and weeps!
Oh, think, blessed Lord, when thy death-hour came on,
How thy own Mother sorrow'd'and wept for her Son!
Her hot tears were shed for thy sufferings and Thee,
As she wept in her anguish, as friendless as me!
But Heaven remembered its dear, future Queen,
And the angels wept, with her, unheard and unseen!
Yet why should I dare breathe one sigh of regret,
Since you call'd my poor child, with your angels to sit?
Why should I complain or repine at my loss,
Since yourself, oh, dear Saviour! expired on a cross?
Oh! my heart at the dread picture trembles and heaves,
To think how you bled 'midst blasphemers and thieves
While your Mother, with soul-cleaving torture and grief,
Beheld you expire, and could yield no relief!
My poor child was cherish'd, and shelter'd, and fed,
But her Child was houseless and hungry for bread;
My poor child had weeping friends at his bedside,
But her Child was tortured and mock'd as He died!
Oh! the veins of my cold bosom shudder with dread,
To think how He suffer'd, and hunger'd, and bled,
Black want, woe, and sorrow were His from His birth,
Tho' He gave to mankind all the fruits of the earth!
The death-pangs which made my poor darling complain,
Were as roses compared to the Holy One's pain!
Oh, Father of Love! glorified be thy throne!
You were kinder to mine than you were to your own I
THE BANKS OF BLACKWATER.*
Now the glowing skies of golden Spring,
New blooms to the sunny woodlands bring;
The wild bee -waves his glancing wing,
By the lonely, green banks of Blackwater;
There the nut hangs brown in the hazel shades,
And the sweet-brier's spray in the fresh wind breathes;
And the wild roses blush, like bridal maids,
On the lonely, green banks of Blackwater.
* The picturesque valley of Blackwater lies in the county Clare, about
three miles north of Limerick. It is the estate of Colonel T. 8. MAcidam.
Its ancient name was Ballykillawn or Ballykilowen.
16,




234            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The primroses glow in the emerald wold,'
And the hawthorns flower in their bushy hold;
And the low furze spreads its blossomy gold,
On the lonely, green banks of Blackwater.
The glistening river swells and roars,
And the ash-groves rise, like vernal towers;
And the honey-dew streams on the bending flowers,
By the lonely, green banks of Blackwater.
The hills are white with the bleating flocks,
The linnets sing o'er the bush-grown rocks;
And the fairies play round the shadowy oaks,
By the lonely, green banks of Blackwater.
The lilies hang o'er the waterfalls,
Where the bright trout play in their sandy halls;
And the steep banks rise, like castle-walls,
O'er the crystalline waves of Blackwater.
Of all the sweet scenes where the Flower-queen roves,
That the sun-crown'd spirit of Summer loves,
Give me the dark lawns and the grand, old groves
Of beautiful, wild Blackwater!
The rosy blessings of health are there,
In the spring-balm breath of the fragrant air;
Even gloom-brow'd winter looks calm and fair,
In the sweet, sunny vale of Blackwater.
May thy heaven-crown'd hills be ever bright,May no evil fiend wave his wings of blight
O'er thy pleasant fields and thy vales of light,
Fair-bosom'd, flowery Blackwater!
In my dreams thy towering woods I see,
And again, in boyhood's reckless glee,
My soul on her wild bird-wing is free,
By the lonely, green banks of Blackwater.
REQUIEM FOR TORLOGH O'BRIEN.*
CROWNED KING OF THOMOND, A.D. 1280.
SING the deeds of the kingly chief, glorious and gallant!
Sing the fields of his victories, bloody and brilliant I
Sing his grandeur of soul that was lofty and regal,
As the lightning-scorched wing of the cloud-cleaving eagle!
* " He died in 1306, at his palace of Clonroad, after a prosperous reign
and a turbulent career of success. He was the greatest scourge that the
Normans had to contend with. At one swoop he plundered and burned
heir ill-got possessions, and overthrew their castles from Thomond to
Youghal, and on his return compelled Richard De Clare to come out of
Bunratty Castle and make submission on his knees."-Annals of Thomond.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


235


Tho' the white ice of death on his cold bier has bound him,
With his fiery-eyed warriors, in tear-floods, around him,
Yet the awful-brow'd spirit of war hovers near him,
And his dark frown would still make his enemies fear him!
Look back-ere his life's mighty current was frozenTo the days when bright victory named him her chosen;
When at sylvan Moyadair Dalcassia's tribes crown'd him,
And the shouts of their valour rang proudly around him;
How he stood in their midst, like the tower of the Ghebre,
While the flashes of heaven seem'd born of his sabre;
As he look'd in the ring of their steel-blazing centre,
Like a grand spirit throned 'mid the meteors of winter!
Remember the day when the plain of Magressian,
Saw the mad, fiery wave of his battle-brands pressing
On the wrathful Brian Roe, with his Norman forayers,
How his falchion made roads thro' the mass of the slayers?
When the mail'd chiefs of Connaught his standard surrounded,
And the clang of their shields, like a cascade, resounded,
As they charged from the war-field the ruthless banditti,
Like a flying steel-grove, to the towers of Bunratty.
Then to see the King-victor, how awful his bearing,
How grand and defiant-how noble and daring!
Begirt by his clans, with their polished spears lifted,
Like snow on the crest of the mountain woods drifted,
When the starry-brow'd north's icy night-breathing renders
The dim, wat'ry flakes into icicle-splendours,
While they hang from the boughs, in a diamond-cluster,
With the dawn's golden ring round their crystalline lustre.
Oh! never did king to the battle march prouder,And the trumpet of death than his shout was not louder;
And who of his foes was match worthy to strike him?
Or who in the field led the fiery charge, like him?
Old Thomond is proud of the glory he gave her,
For he stood on the neck of the Norman enslaver;
And his praise, like the song of a giant, ascended,
From Ival the grand to Kinkora the splendid.
On the field of Tradree the fierce Norman-bands found him,*
With his lightning-eyed war-eagles trooping around him;
There the red web of fate by his brave hand was woven,
And the ranks by his axes, like cloud pillars, cloven,
* " A.D. 1287. At thelbattle of Tradree he encountered Thomas De Clare,
the founder of Bunratty Castle,,in single combat, and clove him from
shoulder to heart with one stroke of his war-axe. The Norman army fled
in wild panic before him, and ere they could gain the shelter of their ramparts, they were almost destroyed to a man. Along with Thomas De Clare,
and his kinsman Fitzmaurice, Sir Richard Taaffe, Sir Richard de Exeter,
and several other persons of distinction were slain."-Annals of Thomond.




236          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Oh! to see proud De Clare, with his broad shoulder sever'd,
How his limbs, drenched with blood, in his death-struggle
shiver'd,
While his knights lay around, like tall hill-oaks o'erturn'd,
With their broad, waving boughs by the thunder-flames
burn'd.
As the wind-god-in terrible glory uprisen
From the red-meteor couch of his dingy-cloud prisonBursts down on the sea, while the big waves awaken,
Like a chain of snow-hills by an earthquake up shaken;
So burst o'er the land Torlogh's steel-forests glowing,
The castles and towers of the Norman o'erthrowing;
Ah! he scatter'd their strongholds from crag, glen and byway,
As the blast sweeps the dust from the dry summer-highway.
And the people rejoiced when, from warfare and foray,
He march'd to his halls, 'mid the trophies of glory;
Like a comet of light, o'er the tempest-fields burning,
With its diadem of fire, to its orbit returning.
Gold shower'd from his hand 'mong the Ollavs and Sages,
Who gave a pure spirit of life to lore's pages;
And the hoary-brow'd priest, and the peasant-maid simple,
Offer'd prayers for his weal, in the Holy One's temple.
Death stole, like a blast from a desert-cloud dreary,
And struck the proud eagle while perch'd in his eyrie;
In the crimson-dyed paths of the warfield he shunn'd him,
But watched, in his peace hours, the vantage to wound him.
Oh! would that he fell 'mid the sea-dash of slaughter,
With the blood of his foes rolling round him, like water I
How proudly his ghost, o'er the battle-clang glorious,
Would look on the field where his clans were victorious!
One night while the moon's yellow splendour was bright'ning,
Yon mossy-branched oak that was slain by the lightning,
The white-sheeted Banshee his coronach chanted
At the foot of that old tree, by carnage-birds haunted.
And ere the Day-herald gave silvery warning,
To-night to make way for the pageant of morning;
The fierce eagle-soul of the hero was winging,
Where yon bright aerial wells of refulgence are springing.
THE COTTAGE MAID.
THE bells of the hill-broom were bright,
And each cloud, that the sun's glory swims on,
From its breast flung a jewel of light,
In their blossomy rings of deep crimson.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND
Mother Nature demanded a draught
From the rain-god, who instantly gave it,
While her young infant blossom-buds laugh'd,
As they held their sweet mouths to receive it.
I turn'd from the road to a cot,
With a helmet of straw newly crested;
Beside the low entrance I satOn a bench of green fern I restedThe pale, yellow border of thatch
Spread its sheltering canopy o'er me,
When click went the sound of the latch,
And out stepp'd an angel before me!
While I gazed on the beautiful form,
The blood to my temples was rushing,
As her face, like a summer-noon warm,
Turn'd towards me, half-smiling and blushing!
Her hair look'd like gossamer-rings
Woven round a white flower by the fairies;
And her eyes glanced, like two sunny springs
Surrounded by snow-drops and berries.
Have you seen-when the eve-spirit spins
Its dim weft of silver-barr'd shadowsHow the dew-mist of nightfall begins
To weave its white fringe o'er the meadows?
So light was the flow of her gown
Round the small feet that glided beneath it,
Half-seen, like the cean-a-bhan's down
By the screen of the fairy heath shaded.
I 'rose and uncovered my head,
My form to a bow partly swaying,
Not a sentence I breathed, or said,
My heart was so many things saying!
She invited me in from the shower,
With an accent that savour'd of laughter,
While she gaily return'd to the door,
And I, at a bound, followed after.
I sat, at her cheerful desire,
On a chair, while herself fill'd another;
And there, by the bright-blazing fire,
We began to speak with each other;
Our topic was Old Ireland's cares,
And her rights in the hand of a stranger;
Then I humm'd o'er a few Irish Airs,
And gloriously sang the " Avenger i"


237




238           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND
I watch'd how the soul in her eyes,
To the sound of the measure kept dancing,
Like a sunburst that shoots from the skies,
Thro' the azure-fringed summer-clouds glancing.
I mark'd how the lily and rose,
On her cheek, in their sweet play, changed places,
Each lighting its hue to disclose
The kindest and brightest of faces.
She went o'er the song, every part,
And said that my singing was clever;
While her image leap'd into my heart,
To remain in its chamber for ever.
The rain-god's oblation was o'er,
And the sun-shafts thro' broken clouds darted,
When a carriage drove up to the door,*
And she bade me farewell, and departed.
THE EMIGRANT'S STORY.
ONE morning as the pearls of day
Lay fresh upon the glistening earth,
A peasant-crowd came down the way,
With sounding fifes and reckless mirth.
Tall, comely youths and bright-faced maids,
And men mature, composed the band;
Mothers and sires with silvery heads,
Leaving their ill-starr'd Native Land.
Alas! the landlord's iron hand
Had driven them from their homes so dear,
To seek upon a foreign strand,
The bread which Law denied them here.
Awhile upon the road they stay'd,
A maniac-joy they seem'd to feel,
'Mid ringing cheers, each youth and maid
Began to dance an Irish reel.
Oh! playful sorrow-every brow
Bright as a rainbow-gleam appears;
And yet those eyes, so joyous now,
Are only cheated of their tears!
But why does yonder dark-brow'd youth
From the sad pleasure hold apart?
As if affliction's poisonous tooth,
Was fasten'd in his suffering heart?
* The event related in the text, happened to a young man (an acquaintance of the author), in a certain part of this country. Instead of a peasant imaiden, who he supposed was his entertainer, he had enjoyed the
society and converse of a noble lord's daughter, in the cottage of ohe of
her father's tenants, whilst awaiting the arrival of some of her lady companions.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
It was not thus-some months agone,
There was not in the county Clare,
At hurling, dancing, wit, and fun,
A happier boy than Con O'Hehir.
One of the regal Dalcas race,
Proud, generous, hospitable, bold,
Mighty in form and fair of face,
Like his brave, high-soul'd sires of old
The farm he held was but a mite
Of his old, patrimonial lands;
Even that became a stranger's right,
And all was wrested from his hands.
Against the iron will of fate
He struggled on 'till last May-day,
When for the robber Poor-law rate,
His only cow was driven away.
The harvest brought a blighted crop,
Potatoes and some little wheat,
And oats-the markets were not up,
The greedy landlord would not wait.
The agent, like the devil, ran,
With all his jackals of the law,
And levell'd Con's poor dwelling down,
And turn'd him off, not worth a straw,
While on the bleak and bare road-side,
His mother, with her thin hair gray,
Was cast to die-and would have died,
By the cold dyke, that bitter day,
But a poor neighbour took her in(None, save the poor, feel for the poor),
And ere the morn awoke again,
Her earthly debt of pain was o'er;
And at her low and lonely bed,
Her stricken, persecuted son
Bent sullen o'er the tranquil dead,
Yet not a drop of sorrow ran;
With silent, stony, tearless stare,
His eyes were fixed upon the breast
That nurtured his young life with care,
And hush'd his infant cries to rest.
But as he darkly hung above
Those eyes where now no soul-ray burn'd,
Her former smile, and look of love,
Seem'd still upon him fondly turn'd,
As if her spirit linger'd nigh,
Ere rising to its heavenly place,
And cast from its celestial eye,
A farewell glanoe upon his face:
She look'd as if she slept and dream'dIn her cold hand the cross was press'd;
And beautiful in death she seem'd,
In Mary's sacred habit dress'd.


239




240          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
There in the solitary shed,
At the first dingy gleam of day,
The all-atoning Mass was said,
For the poor soul that pass'd away.
Still Con, with gather'd look of gloom,
Bent o'er his mother's features dim,
As if no living breath found room
Between the lonely corpse and him.
The thought flash'd on him--" Was she flung
" Thus in the twilight of her years,
To perish "-Oh! his soul was wrung,
He groaned aloud, and burst in tears.
"Yes, yes!" he shriek'd, "I could not save
The roof that shelter'd your gray hair!
But when you're lying in the grave,
No agent shall molest you there!
I fondly dreamt some brighter day
Would dawn upon my life's dark stage,
When I might struggle to repay,
And bless you in your helpless age!
While God would give me health and strength
To win the meed that toil secures,
'Till your last moment would be spent,
My corner and my heart were yours!
But all your griefs are hush'd to rest,
Here on this damp death-bed of straw;
You're not the first, nor yet the last,
Sent to the grave by British law!
Rest on-the fiend that wrought this woe,
Before the eyes of heaven I swear,
This very night, shall lie as low,
If there be lead or steel in Clare!
And though I wail and weep for thee(Whatever fate your son befalls),
Thank God, you did not live to see
The poorhouse and its dreary halls!
Bless death! that spared you not to share
The double dole of want and age!
Bless heaven! you did not live to wear
A pauper's vile, detested badge!
You once enjoyed a warm house,
When I was in my boyhood's dawn;
I counted then a hundred cows
Within my father's milking bawn!
The wandering scholar was our guest,
Your hand was full for all the poor;
The traveller, seeking food and rest,
Turn'd joyful to our friendly door!
S   If lord or agent wrong'd you then,
Small safe-guard were the Saxon laws!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Full twice two hundred daring men,
Would rush to battle in your cause!
The day my father's corpse was brought
To the old Abbey-walls of Clare;
The Macs and Clancys boldly fought,
His coffin to the grave to bear! *
All, all are gone, and you have none
To join your scanty funeral band!
The blessed clay, and cold, gray stone,
Must be laid o'er you by my hand!
Yet, if from their dark graves, grass-grown
Our kindred dead could speak and see,
You would not thus be lorn and lone,
For thousands there would welcome thee!"
When the red twilight tinged the wave,
They brought her to the abbey gray,
And laid her in the self-same grave
Where years before her husband lay.
A plain deal coffin wrapped her frame,
The price of it a neighbour lent;
Her epitaph-the Saviour's nameThe shamrock sod, her monument.
Her funeral cortege numbered ten,
Her humble bier was borne by four,
They laid her down-the grave closed inThey said one prayer, and all was o'er.
Peaceful and happy she sleeps on,
Untroubled in her grassy tomb;
But her forlorn, heart-wounded son,
Returns to-night without a home;
And ere the dawn-star showed its ray,
A bloody deed his hand had dyed;
But his young sweet-heart, Peggy Dea,
Like heaven itself was at his side.
Her rich heart with a wild bird's bound,
Into his very being flew;
The darker his misfortunes frown'd,
The stronger her affections grew.
Gentle as the blessed hour
When first the new-made heavens shone,
She was the only desert flower,
By mercy in his dark path thrown.
Since childhood's happy, golden day,
Their young hearts for each other beat,
Like two fair sun-clad boughs of May,
Which mix'd their leaves and blossoms sweet.


241


* Fought for precedence to carry the coffin, as a mark of their respoe and
veneration for the deceased. The custom is still practised. &.




242          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Together on the vernal hills
They stray'd when summer's buds were born;
Together, o'er the bright-green fields,
They went to Mass each Sunday morn.
But never to her eyes, 'till now,
Did he appear so stern and strange;
The gloom of anger wrapt his brow
Where slept the lightning of revenge;
And as the sunburst of her gaze
On his dark features cast its light,
She saw his awful eyeballs blaze,
Like wild-fire on a bleak March-night.
With clasped hands and eyes upraised
She gently cried: "Con! Con astore!
'Tis hard upon you-heaven be praisedBut, cushla, think of it no more!
Believe me, dearest love! ere long,
Bright days will dawn for you-for meForgive the author of your wrongLeave him to God-astore machree!
Come to my father's house, and share
Our fire-side, and our bed, and board;
Oh! bright shall be your welcome there
To everything we can afford;
Now, dash away that gloomy scowl,
It ill becomes a brow so fairYou know my life, my heart and soul
Are yours, dear Con! then why despair?
My parents have no child but me,
heir farm and stock shall all be mine;
I'll wed no other youth than thee,
And all we hold shall all be thine!
And would you from your Peggy part,
A hideous deed of crime to do?
And would you break her faithful heart
That loves none, under heaven, but you?
I'll bare my bosom to the blow'Twere mercy by your hand to bleed!
Rather than live to feel the woe
That fop.lovs murder's crimson deed!
The dread pursuit-the sure arrest,The sentence of the vengeful law!
The gazing crowd, with breath supprest,
Around the scaffold's scene of awe!
And is it my dear Con would have
The rope upon his white neck there,
To launch him to a felon's grave,
And leave his Peggy to despair?
Forbid it, Queen of Heaven!" she cried,
And flung herself upon his breast;
Her blue eyes melted in a tide
Of rolling tears that told the rest.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


243


The darkness of his rigid brow,
Soften'd to light and roll'd away,
As mist that wraps the mountain-snow
Dissolves before the eye of day.
He kiss'd the rose-bloom of her cheek,
And said: "Tho' wrong'd and poor I be,
I'm not so heartless, base or weak,
As to give pain or grief to thee!
Ay, let the sordid tyrant liveHis worthless blood I shall not takePeggy! I could forget-forgiveA million wrongs for your dear sake!
'Tis not the dread of tyrant laws
That makes me from my purpose start;
But not for empires would I cause
One pang to rend your loving heart 1
Tho' fortune and the world may prove
To me a quicksand and a snare,
The brightness of your constant love
Sweetens my cup of evil there!
Farewell! my gentle, angel dear!
My lot is cast in other lands,
Where fortune's golden meed shall cheer
The labour of my toiling hands!
I will return to you againBut never penniless and poorMy footstep shall not cross, 'till then,
The threshold of your father's door!
Farewell-you never shall regret
The love and care bestow'd on me,
And trust me, I will not forget
The suffering land I leave-and thee I"
He wrung her hand, and kiss'd her browTheir gushing hearts'-showers mixed in oneHe whisper'd in her ear a vowBreathed a blessing-and was gone.
THE PRINCESS FINOLA.*
SAW ye the young Princess Finola the bright,
With her ringlets, like sun-glories spun from the light?
And her shoulders of beauty, whose white waxen mould
Seems a turret of marble o'erclouded with gold?
* Finola, i.e., " Fair shoulder." She was one of the daughters of Connor
na Srona O'Brien, King of Thomond (A.D. 1466), and became the wife of
Hugh Boe O'Donnell, Prince of Tyrconnell and grandfather to the celebrated Red Hugh, who made such glorious resistance, in conjunction with
Hugh O'Neill, against the armies of Queen Elizabeth.




244           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Have ye seen, when the dawn from its purple-draped throne,
Announces the gorgeous approach of the sunThe rose-dyes that burst thro' the mist-fringes white?
So gentle's the blush of Finola the bright.
Have ye mark'd on the emerald finger of Spring,
All set in dew-diamonds, the daisy's sweet ring,
With a rich, scarlet border encircling its white?
Such the teeth and the lips of Finola the bright.
Have ye seen a young apple-tree stirr'd by the wind
Which runs off with its sweets, and then drops them behind;
While its blossoms all shake with a laugh of delight?
So heaves the fair breast of Finola the bright.
Have ye seen, when the snow-spirit moveth on high,
Thro' his silver-cloud palace-halls hung in the skyHow the thin vapour-drapery floats in the light?
Such the motion and ease of Finola the bright.
Have ye seen, when the moon thro' the twilight blue swims,
A bed of May-lilies asleep on their stems,
How they glow, in their dreams, with the kisses of night?
Such the small hand and foot of Finola the bright.
Have ye seen, when the brown-bosom'd harvest comes on,
How the ripe-glist'ning blackberries glance in the sun,
When the sudden beams burst on the mountain's blue height?
Such the dark-glowing eyes of Finola the bright.
Have ye heard, in the Spring time of Fancy's young dreams,
The sounding of harps or the singing of streams,
When the dawn of first love steeps the soul in its light?
So sweet is the voice of Finola the bright.
Have ye seen, when the eve of a sweet summer day,
Like the soul of a dying saint, stealeth away,
How calm Nature rests in the blue heaven's sight?
So gentle and kind is Finola the bright.
Have ye seen, in the heart of the lily's white bell,
A pure, morning-crystal from heaven's blue well,
Glancing tremblingly up at its birthplace of light?
So rich is the soul of Finola the bright.
NIGHT-THOUGHTS.
THE yellow-orbed moon o'er the blue mountain hung,
And the Bells of the Legend their night-anthem rung,
While the angels seem'd catching the echoes on high,
As if deeming their music too glorious to die;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


245


I stood by the rush of the waters alone,
And the sound of those bells brought a dream in its tone,
For I thought of the bright hours when, happy and free,
I stole, in the calm summer-twilights, to thee!
How pensive the soul thro' life's desert looks back
On joy's wither'd flowers left behind on our track;
While the brightness they wore, and the pleasure they gave,
On memory's lone altar their sweet pictures leave.
Oh! oft has my heart those bright images view'd,
And wished that their lifetime again were renew'd;
But, 'midst their dim sunset of beauty, I see
No night-cloud between my fond dreamings and thee!
Tho' the sun-gleams which brighten'd my spirit were few,
And brief were the summer-enjoyments I knew;
For my heart-flowers, which panted to burst into bloom,
Were born where no kind beams nor soft winds would come.
Yet one blossom has grown there, all lovely and bright,
Which the frigid north blast of misfortune can't blight;
For the sun that gave verdure and life to its tree,
Was made of the soul-smiles my heart caught from thee!
And oft in the night-hour my rapt bosom swells,
With sorrowful delight when I hear those sweet bells;
For their tone on the ear of my spirit is cast,
Like the voice of dead joys from the grave of the past.
Then I think of the hours which thy kind smiles made dear,
'Till each fond thought leaps up from my heart, with a tear,
Like wild summer-bees, on their dew-kissing wings,
All laden with honey, but arm'd with stings.
Oh! would that my grave were on yonder bright hill,
Where the moon's yellow curtain hangs dewy and still;
My heart to its death-sleep I'd calmly resign,
If I thought thy dear ashes would mingle with mine!
Our hearts in one grave, and our fond souls aboveOn earth and in heaven united in love;
And my heavenliest joy in that bright sphere would be,
In thy pure angel-brightness, to gaze upon thee I
GARADH EARLA* AND THE TWO COOPERS.
A LEGEND Of LOGUH GUR.
ONCE on a sunbright holiday,
Sometime, methinks, in June or MayI cannot name the day exact,
Altho' my story is a fact--
SIt is said that Garadh Earla haunts Lough Gur, and is, at certain times,
seen riding his war-horse over the waters, like the O'Donoghue at the Lakes
of Killarney.




246          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Two coopers who, for months, were wishing
To spend some pleasant hours, in fishing,
Arose, with morning's earliest beam,
Glad in the prospect of their game.
If you require their names to know
I'll introduce them-Jim and JoeTwo craftsmen of as gallant mettle,
As ever used an adze or whittle.
Their workshop was the sole resort
Of every wag that look'd for sport;
And there the wildest tales were told
Of fairies, ghosts, and hidden gold.
How Terry Flynn and Darby Roche
Were blinded by the Headless Coach,
For peeping through the keyhole out,
To watch it in its midnight route.
How lame Teige Connell's house was haunted,
But Teige himself was never daunted,
Altho' the grisly spirit maul'd him,
And half-way up the chimney haul'd him;
How a young woman of the Leary's
Was nursing babies for the fairies;
And how the mournful banshee cried,
Before Paudh Hehir's mother died.
How drunken, roaring Paul Magee
Dreamt there was gold beneath a tree,
Hid in Bill Ryan's garden-end,
Close watch'd and guarded by a fiend.
And how, one night, to raise a spree,
Paul brought a spade to root the tree;
But a huge dog, as black as hell,
Leap'd at his throttle, with a yell;
Paul used his shanks, at headlong flight,
And fainted when he saw the light.*
With such wild legendary feasts,
Brave Jim and Joe regaled their guests;
And while the curious yarns were spun,
Tubs, casks, and cans were left undone.
But if the listeners laugh'd or sneer'd,
At once a hostile scene appear'd,
For Jim and Joe, with staves and cleavers,
Routed the clan of disbelievers.
But to proceed-the morning broke,
And Jim, from pleasant dreams awoke;
And giving sleepy Joe a kick,
Dislodged him from the pillow quick;
* It is believed that any person who sees an apparition, faints immediatoly op looking at the light of a candle.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And drove him tumbling from the bed,
About the floor, upon his head.
Joe clench'd his fist-began to swearAnd pray'd for Jim an early prayer;
But as his neck-bone was not broke,
He changed his temper to a joke.
"Oh! Joe," says Jim, " I dreamt, last night,
A pike, as big as Barrington's-quay,
Snapp'd at my bait, and, with a bite,
Took rod and line, and wheel away!
I saw him chop the hickory rod,
Just as a bullock chews the cud:
About the hook he cared as little,
Even as I to swing a whittle!
But when the rod was chopp'd and swallow'd,
He raised his head, and roar'd, and bellow'd;
And leap'd to gulp me for his luncheon,
Opening his huge mouth, liks a puncheon!
I thought to run-but devil a shin
Could I draw upwards from the mud,
And there, for more than minutes ten,
As firmly as if hoop'd, I stood!
Until I found his huge jaws both
Coming in contact with my ears,
And headlong down his mighty throat
I'roll'd, as one would fall down stairs!
I landed safely in his maw,
Across my eyes I drew my handAnd look'd about-and found-and saw
That I was in Australia's land.
Up came my sister to my side,
Biddy, and my poor uncle Tim;
'Oh! mona-mon-doul!' they wildly cried,
'You're welcome from ould Ireland-Jim!
Say, how the devil did you come,
And how are all the friends at home;
Tell us of everyone that married,
And everyone that's dead and buried!
Does Ireland still pay all England's debt?
Or is O'Connell speeching yet?
We're told they put him into jail,
For only asking the Repeal!
We heard by Paddy Croker's letter,
That all the Praties fail'd together;
That poor John Mitchell was transported,
Because he was so valiant-hearted,
To tell the people to get pikes,
Before they'd die like dogs in dykes!
That Meagher and Q'Brien had gone
To raise a row at Slieve-na-mon;


247




248          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
That they were taken-tried-condemn'd;And Doheny hunted, like a fiend;
That Duffy, Reilly-patriots trueDishearten'd, knew not what to do;
For England, with one wily stroke,
The heart of Patriotism broke.
If Ireland stands such work much longer,
Why, by my soul, she'll die of hunger I
Oh! better die in Freedom's battle,
Than suffer more than horned cattle!'
" 'Welcome or not!' says I, 'I've come
To the New World-and here I am!
Tho' devil a ship, or steamer going
On water, did I put a toe in!
But as to news-I'll tell ye nothingFor ye have such a large stock got in;
Ye are as cramm'd with information,
As if ye swallow'd Duffy's Nation.
Now if I could attain my wishThe devil roast that hungry fishI'd give Australia-land and mainTo be in Ireland, back again!'
"' If that be all that ails you, Jim,'
Cried-with a laugh-my uncle Tim,
' Your friends are ready to befriend you,
And back to Ireland safe they'll send you!
But wear this keepsake for us both,
It is a warm gold-frieze-coat;
I purchased it from Paddy Higgins,
Who said he found it at the diggins!'
'Bravo!' says I-and on it wentOch! zounds! I look'd a monument
Of glittering gold, as soft and fine,
As if I were dug out o' the mine!I
But soon it lost its golden hue,
And quickly into paper grew;
And there I was-upon my oathEnveloped closely, like a note.
'Maybe!' says I, ' I am a letter,
With money in it-devil a betterOr maybe that my uncle sends
Me for his likeness to his friends!"
" Off to the post at once they took me,
And headlong through the port-hole stuck me;
And in I tumbled, white and fair,
As well as any letter there!
' God save all here!' I kindly said,
Just as I roll'd upon my head;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And snugly lay among the pack,
With an inscription on my back!
But very soon we were haul'd out,
And for our quarters got the route;
The postman press'd me with a stamp,
'Till in my ribs I got a cramp;
And only-between you and meI didn't like to let him see
I was a man, and not a letter,
I'd make the rascal treat me better!
Into a thing they call the Mail,
Smaller and darker than a jail,
He stuck me, with some dozens more,
Directed to the Irish shore!
Scarce had I landed safely, when
We were all stamp'd and bagg'd again,
And thro' the city hawk'd about,
From house to house, like plaice or trout.
The carrier took me in his hand,
'Money!' he mutter'd, very lowI knew at once the fellow plann'd
To open me-my worth to know'Murderl' roar'd I, from the envelopeHe dropp'd me, like a coal of fire,
And off he scamper'd, in a gallop,
And left me lying in the mire.
A big black Peeler pick'd me upI cried out, 'Stop the robber!-stop!'
He dash'd me clinking on the flags,
And ran as if he'd got new legs.
At once a crowd began to gather;
Some said I was the devil's 'letther,'
That some attorney's clerk had lost,
Going or coming from the post.
And there I lay upon the ground,
With laughing crowds, all talking round;
At last I knew, amidst the noise
Of many tongues, Bryan Sheehy's voice;
'Och, Bryan!' says I, 'I'll be your debtor,
If you release me from this letter;
Don't be afraid, I'm not a ghost,
But your friend Jim that came by post,
From Australia, all the way,
Telegraphed across the sea!'
Bryan took me up-the seal he brokeI gave a mad shout-and awoke!
Now was not that a curious dream?"
"By Jove!" says Joe, " I dreamt the same
And thought a fish, like Keeper-hill,
Rose from the bottom of the lake,
17


249




250          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And gobbled up my rod and wheel,
As if it were a fat beefsteak!
I heard his mighty jaw-teeth crashing,
Like millstones grinding Indian corn;
And saw his moonlike eyes red flashing,
Like lightning on a harvest morn!
But soon those awful-glaring eyes
Turn'd into large wheels, carriage-size;
And the huge gills of silvery hue,
Into a pair of horses grew;
His back-fins changed to milk-white manes,
His side-fins turn'd to glittering reins;
And his bright, pearl scale-clad body "
Changed sudden to as grand a carriage
As ever held a lord and lady,
On the gay morning of their marriage!
And in that gorgeous car sat one,
With breast and neck, and arms the whitest,
And ringlets of the loveliest brown,
And sweetest mouth, and eyes the brightest,
That e'er bewitch'd the heart of manNature, you'd think, took years to ponder
On some super-excellent plan,
To mould and paint this lovely wonder!
I heard her angel-voice ring clearThus sweetly spoke the beauteous vision,
' Young man, come sit beside me here!
For thine shall be a splendid mission!'
I blush'd to think that one so mean
As I, in my old working-dress,
Should in a carriage thus be seen
Beside such radiant loveliness;
'No, please your majesty!' I criedFor sure you are the queen of beauty!
My station can't be at your side,
Tho' at your feet I'd kneel in duty!
I am an humble son of trade!'' Hush, hush!' she mutter'd, "list, and hear me
My bridal feast's already made,
And thou art destined to be near me I
Ay, destined to receive my hand,
And rule the realm of this bright water,
Where thou shalt reign, like monarch grand,
The spouse of Garadh Eaila's daughter!'
At this my spirit grew elated,
To hear a queen proposing marriage;
No longer then I hesitated,
But feap'd into the splendid carriageYet where the devil did I leap
But right into the gloomy water;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And sank head foremost in the deep,
And saw no more of Garadh's daughter!
Down went I, like a lump of tead,
'Till forty feet beneath the flood,
I stood, legs upwards, for my head
Was buried in a bank of mud;
I kick'd and struggled to get free,
Yet deep and deeper down I sunk,
If any one's here, thought I, to see
Me in this state, he'll think I'm drunk!
But soon my Christian senses fledI grew elastic as spring-steel,
For there I was,-gills, tail, and headChanged to a yellow, twining eel!
Still I could think, and understand,
How I had been a man before;
Says I, 'I daren't swim to land,
For I'd be flay'd if caught on shore!'
So as an eel I was content,
And in the mud I made my bed;
At night, with other eels I went,
And on small shells and insects fed!
But, one fine morning, while I loll'd,
Upon a sandy bottom brown,
A tempting bait before me roll'd,
Between the long weeds, floating down!
Soon as the gilded thing I saw,
I snatch'd and caught it in my mouth;
The hook stuck firmly in my jaw,
And wild with pain I danced about;
With all his might the angler haul'd
Me up, thro' weeds and water, twining;
And fiercely for the gaff he call'd,
And then I saw its sharp point shining
Above my back-one minute more,
When through my ribs I felt it tearing,
And leaping, I was dragg'd on shore,
While fellows gather'd round me, swearing!
Each, with a wattle in his hand,
And mischief in his wild eyes flashing,
Flailed me about thro' sedge and sand,
Like spalpeens in a barn threshing I
My back was broke, my ribs were sore,
And still the devils continued beating;
Says one, 'The thief will swim no more;
Now bring him home-he's fit for eating i'
'You lie,' says I, 'I am not dead,'When, lo! you kick'd me from the bed;
But dreams and visions ever vary,
And always turn out contrary;


251




252          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Yet I can judge by each wild dream,
We'll have a prosperous day's game!"
Now for Lough Gur's blue flood they steer'd,
For their day s humour, well prepared;
They carried fishing-rods, as strong
As a brig's topmast, and as long.
They bore a gaff whose strength of form
Might hold a galley in a storm;
'Twas like the anchor of the Ark,
Or some great Cyclop's handy-work,
Design'd for gaffing whale and shark.
To kill the fish, Joe brought a wattle,
And Jim secured a tight cork'd bottle
Of Stein's pure malt, whose spirit mellow
Would make a Stoic a loving fellow;
And I assure you, for example,
If you go angling with a " sample,"
You'll catch, with all your heart's best wishes,
A multitude of blessed fishes.
When at the Lake they had arrived,
To get a boat they soon contrived;
A well-built waterproof concern,
Close caulk'd and tarr'd from stem to stern.
With painted paddle, firm in hand,
They drove her from the sedgy strand;
And in the deep, dark waters flung
Their pike-baits twirling slow along,
They troll'd the wide Lake, round and round,
But, small or large, no fish they found;
So they began to calculate,
After the day's expiring heat,
The finny tribe, like human sinners,
Might feel a whet to eat their dinners.
And, with this truthful hope inspired,
They waited 'till the sun retiredSpread their repast, and exercised it,
And with the drop of malt baptised it.
The sun went down, with burning blushes;
The song-birds sought the sheltering bushes;
The corncreak commenced his croon,
And up the blue east stole the moon.
Large pitch-black clouds, with inky fringe,
Gave the lone Lake an ebon tinge;
The billows roll'd with moanings drear,
Like suffering spirits in despair;
The gale blew with a sullen howl,
Shrill screamed the restless waterfowl;
Black grew the rayless brow of night,
As if the moon had lost her light.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Midway upon the Lake's dark breast,
The boat a moment seem'd to rest,
As if some hidden thing of force
Had stopp'd her in her drifting course;
The fishers leaned upon her side,
And look'd into the deep, dark tide,
And saw an arm'd chieftain stand,
Beneath the waters, stern and grand;
His breast was clad with silver mail,
His limbs were sheathed in burnish'd steel,
And a gold helmet, on his head,
Such burning rays of glory shed,
That all the brightest polish'd gems
Of Europe's kingly diadems
Seem'd in a blazing halo roll'd
Around the ornamented gold.
Awhile the craftsmen speechless gazed,
With wonder, in the sun-bright tide,
That like a mine of jewels blaz d,
In rings of light, on every side,
As if the brightest orbs that hung
In the dim, blue crystalline sphere,
Were melted in one mass, and flung
In fiery waves of splendour there.
" Give me the gaff!" in accents low,
Said honest Jim, addressing Joe,
" Ill hook that golden hat-why, zounds!
Look, man, 'tis worth a million pounds!
If I can gaff it off his head,
Then, 'pon my oath! our fortune's made;
We'll be as rich as Jews or QuakersAll Rothschild 's fortune's in that hatMore than would buy a million acres,
Landlords and all, and more than that;
Think, man! what glorious sprees we'll raise?
At balls how grand we'll turn out?
People will stare in mute amaze,
While, like two lords we'll dash about I
Our carriage thro' the streets shall rattle,
With servants and postillions braveCourage, they say, is half the battle,
And nothing venture, nothing have 1"
Now leaning o'er the boat's low side,
He thrusts the gaff beneath the tide;
And in the chieftain's ear he stuck
The rusty-pointed iron crook.
The chieftain, with a furious roar
Shook the whole Lake from shore to shore;


253




254


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And to the surface of the stream,
With one indignant bound, he came;
The frightened Coopers seized each oar,
And pull'd, like madmen, for the shore,
While in a whirl of tide and wind,
The angry Spectre strode behind!
The Lake against its banks rebell'd,
And o'er its sounding borders swell'd;
The lightning blazed-the thunder roll'd,
The woods grew mad-the tempest howl'd -
The clouds around the sky were hurl'd,
Like smoke-wreaths of a burning world;
Each red flash, like a fiery snake,
Leap'd on the storm's back round the Lake,
Dancing the universal fling
Upon the tempest's mighty wing.
The rain-god dash'd his cloud-gates wide,
And downward plunged the aerial tide;
Proclaiming, with its awful sound,
How thus the ancient world was drown'd.
Dazzled with lightning-drench'd with rain,
They tug the heavy oars in vain;
Amid the elemental rout,
From wave to wave, they're dash'd about;
Blinded with teeming rain and spray,
Each pulls his oar a different way;
And the crazed boat is whirl'd along,
Like goal-ball 'midst a hurling throng.
Still Garadh Earla fiercely press'd
Upon them, with his flaming crest;
Near and more near his fiery plume
Is sparkling thro' the stormy gloom;
At last, with one gigantic stride,
He's scowling o'er the vessel's sideJoe groan'd-Jim gave a frantic yell,
And fainting from the seats'they fellThe boat's strong stern the Spectre seized,
And crew and, all in air upraised;
And, as a stone hurl'd from a sling,
He drove them, with one mighty swing,
From the Lake's centre to the strand,
Deep, rooting in the sedge and sand.
Awhile, insensible as clay,
Amid the broken wreck they lay;
At last they 'rose, and stared about,
" By Jove!" says Joe, " our dreams are out!"
Now if this story's truth you'd know,
Go learn the tale from Jim and Joe!
But, if you seem to doubt one tittle,
They'll cleave your ear off, with a whittle.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


255


PADDY MAC CARTHY TO HIS BRIDGET
MAC SHEEHY.
AIR.-" Paudheen O'Rafferty."
ARRAH, Bridgid Mac Sheehy. your eyes are the death o' me,
And your laugh, like a fairy sthroke, knocks out the breath
o' me!
The devil a cobweb of slumber, till dawn'd the day,
Has cum to my lids, while the long night I yawn'd away!
Och, you heart-killing imp, 'twas your witchery puzzled me,
Like a bird by a night-wisp, your beauty has dazzled me!
I'd rather be forty miles running away wid you,
Than live to be parted, ten minutes, one day wid you!
'Pon my sowl, I was dhraming last night that you came to me
Wid your own purty smile, like a sweet drink of cream to me,
Says you, "Paddy Carthy, I'm cuming to marry you!"
" Och, my jewel," says I, "to his Riverince I'll carry you!"
So I thought my poor heart gave'a thump, like a prize-fighter,
As off to the chapel I jump'd, like a lamplighter;
But scarce had the priest time to see how his robe was on,
When-och, blood-an'-turf!-I awoke 'ere the job was done!
Now troth, 't s a heartache, betune you an' I, Biddy!
To let that sly rogue of a dhrame tell a lie, Biddy!
If your sweet mouth just says, "my dear boy, here's my hand
to you!"
By the lord of Kilsmack! Paddy Carthy will stand to you!
In the meadow I'll mow, in the haggard I'll work for you;
Say the word, an' I'll walk on my head to New York for you
My heart wid the heat of devotion so beats for you,
'Tis just like a little child crying for sweets to you!
Did you hear what a great name my ancesthors had of id?
From Blarney to Munsther they own'd every sod of id;
The MacCarthy Mores they wor christen'd by raison, sure,
Of their fighting and feasting bein' always in saisin, sure!
Arrah, thim wor the boys that kep up the ould cause for us,
Ere a red robbing sthranger cum here wid mock laws for us I
Rale jewels they wor for love, spendin' and sportin' too,
An' sure I'm a boy of their clan that's now courtin' you!
There's Judy Moloney, wid ten on the watch for herHer uncle cum to me to make up match a for her;
There's Thady Mulready, by Loch Quinlan's water, clear,
Faith, he'd gi' me six cows if I'd marry his daughter, dear!
But no, by the powers! I wud rather go beg wid you,
Hopping from village to town on wan leg wid you,
Than be walking on two, wid a rich heiress stuck to me;
If I'm not speaking true to you, darling, bad luck to me




256           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
You're the queen of the lilies that grew up so tenderly,
An' your leg is as fair as white wak, moulded slenderly
The berries are so like your lips that the pick of 'em,
I pluck'd from the bush till I ate myself sick of 'em I
Where the hawtree its flowers to the sunbeams is handing up
I saw, like your white neck, a blossom-branch standing up,
I climb'd to get at it-you'd pity the trim o' meFor, bad luck to the thorns, they carved every limb o' me!
I'll purchase the best wedding ring in the town for you!
Or, by thunder, to make one, I'd pull the moon down for you
If I could lay my hand on the sun for a crown for you,
Sure I'd be the boy wud win light and renown for you!
Now, Biddy, my jewel! what have you to say to me?
Just give up your heart without farthur delay to me;
And Iwill bless this as a glorious fine day to meIf a queen got such courting, by Jove, she'd give way to me!
THI ROSE OF ARDCREGAN.
A MAIDEN-BLOSSOM mildly blooms
Where bright Ardcregan's mansion towers;
And wild bees fill their honeycombs
With golden nectar from the flowers..
I've sung of Thomond's virgin grace,
And blue-eyed Limerick's stately girls,
But yet the Rose of beauty's race
Is Lizzy of the radiant curls.
I saw her in Ardcregan's hall,
With beamy ringlets round her spread;
As if some loving sprite let fall
A shower of sunbeams on her head;
Above her bosom's gentle swell
Her young face glow'd with heaven's bright soul;
Like morning o'er the lily's bell,
When Nature's pearl shines in its bowl.
How brightly glows the April dawn
Upon the heath-flowers of Knoc More?
And whitely blows the Cean-na-bhan
On wild Cuilmain's enchanted shore;
The dawn so bright-the flower so white,
Like her fair cheek and bosom glow~Her neck's like Obhin's sacred height
When clad with stainless sunny snow.
'Tis not her witching charms of youth
That touch'd my soul with silent joy;
But 'tis her heart's exalted truth
That shows the angel in her eye



MISSIN




MISSIN




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


269


Crouching and fawning, and praying for grace,
And kissing the scourge of his country and race!
But away to the field, Baus gaun Soggort, away!
There are conquests and honour before us to-day;
I'll cool my red vengeance, and crown my desire,
With a place on the sod and a banquet of fire!
MO BOCHAILLIN       DOUN.
Am.-" My Mother-in-law."
SHROVETIDE is coming, the dear happy times
Of match-making, marriages, pancakes, and rhymes;
I'll put on my bonnet and new satin gown,
For I'm going to be wed to mo Bochaillin Doun!*
Oh! Cuishla astoir, mo Bochaillin Doun!
With your fair face that never was dark with a frown;
And your locks like the mist in the gold of the sun,
And your lips like the wild rose, mo Bochaillir Doun!
From Dublin he brought me a bright golden ring,
And his face looked as proud as the face of a king;
And he sang me a song, like the harp's mellow tone,
When I whispered, " I love you!" mo Bochaillin Doun /
Oh! Cuishla astoir, mo Bochaillin Doun! &c.
He loves, with a deep love, the land of his birth,
Her name and her rights are his music on earth;
And 'tis you have the spirit, the blood, and the bone,
To fight for your country, mo Bochaillin Doun!
Oh!- isEhla astoir, mo Bochaillin Doun! &c.
He is:te Vbest hurler anddancer in Clare,
He courts at the wake, and he fights at the fair;
And a blow of his wattle would knock a bull down,
For strong is the hand of mo Bochaillin Doun!
Oh! Cuishl' astoir, mo Bochaillin Doun! &c.
Last Sunday he kick'd up a row with Tom Neill,
About DaniefOC!eonell, the Queen, and Repeal;
So he clench'd hisrbrave fist and put Tom on his crown,
"There's physical-force " says mo Bochaillin Doun /
Oh! Cuishla'astoir, mo Bochaillin Doun! &c.
At the races of Limerick he rode the black horse, *
And, like lightning, he clear'd all the leaps in the course;
And the wild Irish Marquis from Waterford town,
Took a treat and shook hands with mo Bochaillin Dou n!
Oh   Cuishla astoir, mo Bochaillin Doun, &c.
My poor fearful mother advises her child,
To have nothing to do with a lover so wild;:,   * Literally, pulse of my love, my little, brown boy.




280          LAYS AND LEENDS OF THOM0oD.
But I'll coax him, and soon cool his hot spirit down,
And I'll tame the wild freaks of mo Bochaillin Doun!
Oh! Cuishla astoir, mo Bochaillin Doun!
With your fair face that never was dark with a frown;
And your locks like the mist in the gold of the sun,
And your lips like the wild rose, mo Bochaillin Doun!
CAPTAIN BRENNAN; OR, THE OUTLAW OF THE
HILL.*
AIR.--"There's Whiskey in the Jar."
THO' this cold gloomy cell is my dwelling of sorrow,
'Till the gallows and rope liberate me to-morrow;
I fear not death's coming-I sigh not with sadness,
But, Molly, your treachery drives me to madness!
Oh! false-hearted Molly!
Your treason and folly
Have slain the undaunted, young Outlaw of the Hill!
I loved Erin's land as a child loves its mother,
But now I must die by the laws of another;
Yet on Kilworth's proud hill were those law-makers by me,
Oh I I'd give them a trial before they would try me!
And 'tis there I'd do my will,
And young Brennan would be still,
The dauntless anddaring, young Outlaw of the Hill!
But the jail holds me fast, and the chains hold me faster,
And the black, detested hangmankwill soon be my master;
Farewell, my dear friends, if yet I may have any,
But my friends are too few and my enemies too many!
And fbrlorn here I pine,
'Till the fatal rope shall twine,
Round the neck of the dauntless, young Outlaw of the Hill!
Yet if Fate allow'd a chance-oh! one little chance onlyTo free me once more on the hills wild and lonely;
Whether on the Galtees' side or the plains of Kilfinnane,
Oh! then they'd catch the winds ere they catch Captain
Brennan!
And no woman e'er would bring
The law-hounds of a king,
To chase the bold, undaunted, young Outlaw of the Hill!
* When Brennan lay in Clonmel jail pending his execution, he ws visited
by many great people out of curiosity.. Among the rest came a bankrupt
Banker. "Oh, Brennan," said he, "I'm proud to see you here 1" "Tou
aouht not," replied Brennan, " for when the world refdsed your ati,' I
took them 1"




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


261


I trampled the laws that my country infected,
I plundered the rich, but the poor I respected;
I reign'd, like a king, spurning foeman and malice,
And the hill was my throne and the greenwood my palace!
And my law was my word,
And my fortune my sword,
And freedom was my kingdom in the dark shades of the Hill!
Ye friendly glens and mountains whose fond bosoms woo'd me,
To shelter and rest when the bloodhounds pursued me;
Oh! never again in your wild shades I'll wander,
With my blunderbuss primed and my purse filled with plunder!
Farewell! dear shades, farewell!
In other days you'll tell
Wild tales of the daring young Outlaw of the Hill!
The merchant and the lord I deprived of their treasure,
And sat on the dark heath to count it, at leisure;
But my hand to the weak, in pity was extended,
And the poor man, in his need, I have always befriended I
And never before God,
Has a drop of human blood
Stain'd the hand of the daring, young Outlaw of the Hill!
Oh! many a day have the red soldiers chased me,
And in vain to the depths of the mountain glens traced me;
Their swiftest I outstripp'd on the morass and common,
'Till at last I was betrayed by a false-hearted woman!
But shame shall mark her head,
When silent, with the dead,
Lies the brave and undaunted, young Outlaw of the Hill!
THE IRISH MAIDEN TO HER LOVER.
Am.-I" Maire Ban astoir."
OLD Erin's sons are gay,
In the camp or banquet-hall;
But my darling Seaan Ban Oge,
Is the gayest of them all!
His manly heart beats high
With Freedom's holy glow;
And the village maidens sigh
For my Seaan Ban Oge!
The sunny curls play
r O'er his forehead's snowy mould
His smile is ever gay,
And his bosom warm and bold!
W hi*r young John; pronounce Shawn Bawn O, in singing.




262          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
He loves his native land,
And he hates the foreign foeRed Hugh's high heart and hand,*
Has my Seaan Ban Oge!
The berry on the brier,
And the star that guides the ship;
Speak his eye of melting fire,
And his ruddy, glowing lip;
The pearl, all refined,
From the ocean-sands below,
Tells the beauty of your mind,
My brave Seaan Ban Oge!
I love him, as the bee
Loves the dewy sweets of May--
As the song-bird loves the tree
In a sultry summer's dayAs the floweret loves the dew,
When the twilight splendours glow,
So my throbbing heart loves you,
My brave Seaan Ban Oge!
Had I the wealth of old
That to Brian's palace flow'd;
Or all the gems and gold
That Prince Morogh's hand bestow'd;t
Or if Thomond's fields were mine,
That with milky treasures flow;
With my heart, they'd all be thine,
S    My brave Seann Ban Oge!:-, He*is prouder than a king,
And he's generous as the rain
That the kindly heaven of Spring
Sheds in sun-tears on the plain;
Yet he's fiery, free, and wild,
As the chainless desert-roe;
For Nature's Irish child
Is my Seaan Ban Oge!
EILEEN OGE MACREE.+
AIR.-." Irish Molly."
SMAY wore her crown of emerald, begemm'dwith flowers and dew
And heaven look'd upon the scene, with smiles of sunny blue
When by the Shannon's kingly tide, I wandered forth to see
The honey of my bosom's love, sweet Eileen Oge Machree I
* Red Hugh O'Donnell.    t Norogh, son of King Brian.
SYoung Ellen of my heart.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.            263
How stately, how sweetly, how beautiful she looks?
Her cheeks are like bright lusmore-bells beside the sunny
brooks!
And tho' no lordly court, nor hall nor golden dower has she,
Yet rank and power would bow before sweet Eileen Oge
Machree!
Rank and wealth, and pride, and place, in peasant homes are
not,
But if you'd see a beauteous face, go to the peasant's cotIf you'd find virtue's virgin rose on beauty's vestal tree,
Go to the humble Irish home of Eileen Oge Machree!
How stately, how sweetly, &c., &c.
I'd climb Knocfeirna's fairy peak, where Donn is on his
throne,
I'd swim the Shannon's dashing tide, at midnight dark and
lone;
O'er wild Camailte's wintry snow barefooted I would flee
To gaze upon thy angel-brow, sweet Eileen Oge Machree I
How stately, how sweetly, &c. &c.
Her face is beauty's palace, and her eyes have fairy power,
She's holy as a seraph, and she's modest as a flower;
So sweet in look, so pure in heart, so rich in loveliness,
Like one of heaven's bright daughters in an humble earthly
dress!
How stately, how sweetly, &c. &c.
As towards the grand and glorious sun the eagle lifts his wing,
As rosy buds fly open at the vernal touch of Spring;
So quick my burning fancy wings its eager flight to thee,
So opes my heart before thy charms, sweet Eileen Oge
Machree!
How stately, how sweetly, &c. &c.
To me thou art the gale that brings the rain to hill and bower,
When Nature's mouth is thirsting for the dewy evening
showerI have two wishes in my heart-oh! would kind heaven
decree,
Poor Erin free, and you my own, sweet Eileen Oge Machree I
How stately, how sweetly, how beautiful she looks?
Her cheeks are like bright lusmore bells beside the sunny
brooks;
And tho' no lordly court, nor hall, nor golden dower has she,
Yet rank and power would bow before sweet Eileeh Oge
Machree!.
*-.n.




264           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
THE BEAUTIES OF PLASSY.*
ON the bright lawns of Plassy green April is glowing,
By her grand woods the Shannon is gloriously flowing,
And the young-budding leaves on the mossy boughs ring,
With the golden-toned air-notes of sunny-eyed Spring:
The spirit of love from the fountains of heaven,
Light, beauty, and soul, to the landscape has given;
And the flowerets look up to the warm-smiling skies,
With bright tears of sweet, silent thanks in their eyes.
The sun-chorded breast of the river is spangled
With wavelets, like masses of silver-chains tangled;
And the old trees, like warriors when battle is ended,
Rejoice in their blue-aerial banquet-hall splendid:
The floods sing the songs which their great Maker taught
them,
When first into motion and music He brought them;
And each vernal bud opens its balm-hearted chalice,
To catch the air-pearls that drop from his Palace!
A day-flood of glory the mountains is shroudingA star-host of flowers the gay meadows is crowding;
And the fresh healthy breeze from the uplands comes winging,
A Spring-hymn of love to the laughing fields singing.
How brilliant's the scene-how resplendent above it,
The clear heaven smiles, as if looking to love it?
While Nature, in rich, virgin emerald clad,
With a soul-gush of melody praises her God!
The gay bees are seeking their banquet of honey,
Where the flowers on the moss-banks smile silent and sunny;
And the fisher is out on the rocks of the shallow,
Alluring the trout from its sandy beds yellow.
The flood and the mill-wheel are tumbling together,
Like two mighty giants at play with each other;
And the proud domes of wealth thro' the foliage-screens peep,
With their lawns half in sunshine and shadow asleep.
The corn-lands are barr'd with long, bright-verdant ridges,
And the green-vested blossom-bells glow in the hedges;
The lark has flown up to yon white cloud-isles riven,
Like a soul chanting joy on its bright way to heaven.
The Falls in a war-dance of glory are springing,
O'er the rocks, in White splendour, their broken might flinging;
And the woods, round the shores, wear one sun-robe of beauty,
From the Isles to the brown tide of wild Annacotty.
Lo! gray Castle-Troy, by war, tide and time batter'd,t
Stands, like an old chief with his armour all shatter'd,
* The country seat of the late Richard Russell, Esq., one of the most
enterprising merchants that Limerick ever saw.
+ This once strong fortress, with its surrounding lands, belonged to the
tribe of the MacKeoghs. It was severely battered by Crotnwell's cannon,
but after the last siege of Limerick, it was entirely dismantled and blown
ap, together with other castles which defended the passes to the city.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


265


As if musing, in gloomy and gaunt desolation,
On the red, feudal days when Green Eire was a Nation.
There the warlike MacKeoghs, in their power, ruled and
revell'd,
And often in fight were their sounding spears levell'd
'Till Cromwell the fiend, with his tower-cleaving cannon,
Plough'd their strong Castle-walls on the brink of the Shannon.
There once a young maiden, whose beauty was peerless,
Was woo'd by a chieftain, rock-hearted and fearless;
But she shrank from his eyes that, impassion'd, were gazing
On her brow, like a flower, when the noon-sun is blazing.
Then the chief went away, while his jealous soul burn'd,
And at night, with his clan, to the Castle return'd;
In her high chamber-window, MacKeogh's angel daughter
Sat, marking the star-rays that jewelld the water.
The sentinels dozed on the airy-brow'd watch-tower,
And the midnight gale swept thro' the echoing beech-bower;
And the robber's approach to the hall of the Castle,
Was hid by the woods 'mid their hoarse, leafy rustle.
Up the spiral stone-stairs rush'd the clan, with swords ready,
And their chief, in her chamber, has seized the young lady;
Away, in his steel-sheathed arms, he brought her,
But MacKeogh, springing up, heard the screams of his
daughter
"To the rescue!" that cry thro' the fortress is ringing,
And around him, like wolf-hounds, his clansmen are springing;
On the lawn are the midnight marauders confronted,
Like foxes or deer from their hill-coverts hunted.
With a yell, 'mid the wood's two-fold darkness, they battled,
And the swords' iron echoes promiscuously rattledMacKeogh has defeated the brigands, with slaughter,
But a spear has been thrust thro' the breast of his daughter.
There's a caoine for the dead, and sad eyes, wild and tearful,
Gaze on that fair breast, with its wound gaping fearful;
While grim on the sward, where the knot-grass is woven,
Lies the dark robber-chief, with his high forehead cloven.
And oft were their pale spirits seen, when the grey light
Of eve, fringed the green, golden skirts of the day-light;
And the night-faring fishermen long shall remember,
The death-shrieks they heard in that old ruin'd chamber.
Sweet Plassy of bright streams! how lovely, when even
Plants its star-jewels on the blue bosom of heaven,
To stand 'mid thy shadowy glories, beholding
The mist-robe of night thy wild grandeur enfolding?
While the Falls' deep-toned echoes are solemnly crooning,
Like a concert of ghost-harps in harmony tuning;
And the groves, with their dew-circled diadems glistening,
In silent delight, to the anthem seem listening!
18




266          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Sweet Plassy! my fond muse were proud of her duty,
Could she weave in her wild song one beam of thy beauty!
But God did so brightly and richly array thee,
'Tis an angel alone that could praise or portray thee!
Thou seem'st as if, on deep Shannon's green border,
Nature's first glowing signet of beauty and order,
Was set upon thee, when from chaos upborne,
Earth roll'd in the beams of the first golden morn!
THE FAIRY HURLING MATCH.
A LEGEND OF MUNGRET.*
" YES, I know he's still living! he's haunting my dreams!"
Said young Brideen Dhuv to the hag of the Dell;
" On the night of his wake the old Fort seem'd in flames,
And the candles were quench'd, by whom no one could tell!
" Sure there was not a tree in the woods of Tirvoe,
So sturdy and straight as my comely Fineen?
But when he came sick from the meadow, I knew
By his looks, he was struck by the dark Fairy Queen!
"The lightning was dead in the heaven of his eye,
And his brow wore the gloom of the shadows that roll,
At evening, between a churchyard and the sky,
And his face had no beam from the sun of his soul!
" And as I sat weeping alone on the style
That's between the old church and the little boreen,
While his funeral passed into the grey, ruin'd aisle,
I was call'd-'twas his voice-he was near me unseen!
"And, oh! if you can, by your knowledge or art,
Tell me where my lost darling may happen to be,
'Twill give comfort and peace to my poor, weeping heart,
And here is a gift of bright silver for thee!"
The Fairy-hag listen'd to Brideen's sad taleAwhile she stood pausing, and made no reply,
But moved to the door, and look'd round on the vale,
Then turn'd on the maiden her dark-flashing eye.
"This eve is the vigil!" she said, "of Saint John!
And if you have courage, I'll tell what you'll do;
When the shadowy star-cloak of midnight is on,
Go into yon field near the woods of Tirvoe!
"There wait by the hedge, with two briar-boughs cross'd
O'er your head, and, believe me, you shall not wait long,
When you'll see the dear youth whom you mourn as lost,
At play in the midst of a numberless throng!
* " Mungret Abbey was built under the patronage of St. Patrick. When
Brian Boru was making his conciliatory tour through the kingdom, after
receiving the crown of Tara, his first visit was paid to this Abbey, where he *
laid tbity ounces of pure gold on the grand high altar."--For  r J oted
An  ats...




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


267


"For the task I'll embolden your nerve, with a charm,
And when Fineen shall move near the spot where you'll
stand;
At once-mind my words-grasp him well, by the arm,
And hold this skein dhu,* at his breast, in your hand!
" Mark well my instructions, or dearly you'll rue,
Aye, even the single omission of oneFear not-to yourself and your errand be true,
Fail not-and your victory of love shall be won!" t
The maid from her cheek brush'd the tear-dews away,
And silently stole to her wood-shaded home,
And pray'd, 'till the dim, purple pall of the day
Lay over its lord in the sea's golden tomb.
Night lighted her star-diamond-fires in the blue
Empyrean fields where the Spirit of God
Its burning thoughts into flame-worlds threw,
'Till their blaze in a limitless universe glow'd.
Midnight came, and the life-pulse of Nature seem'd hush'd,
And each lone hill look'd black as a slumbering raven,
As if their great souls to the planet-halls rush'd,
To listen awhile to the music of heaven.
Now Brideen, all trembling, began to repair
To the airy field named by the hag of the dell,
Who knew what the heart of the maiden could dare
For the sake of the youth she loved wisely and well.
She traversed the dark plain, and stayed at the hedge
Where the boughs of the brier hung cross'd o'er her head;
While the moon, in the east, show'd her thin crescent-edge,
Like a pearl, stealing up from her gloomy sea-bed.
The timid maid gazed, while her heart thrill'd with fears,
Round the field where the moon thro' the shadows look'd in;
As a pale, dying penitent looks, thro' her tears,
On the gloomy record of a dark life of sin.
* A black hafted knife, believed to possess the power of breaking fairy'
enchantments.
t The last of those fairy sybils who pretended acquaintance with the mystical lore of the spirit world, was the far-famed Biddy Early of Kilbarron,
County Clare. She was a very wise woman, she buried four husbands and was
buried herself a few years ago. The people held an emphatic belief in her
power, and numberless are the stories told about the wonderful cures she
performed. She was not a mercenary impostor, for she'd take nothihg,
neither money nor value, from any person whom she could not serve, and it
the required service could be rendered she'd accept nothing but the merest
trifle, never surpassing a shilling. Her patients came to her, even from the
remotest parts of the country, and none ever regretted a visit paid to "-Pool
honest Biddy!" as she was affectionately termed by all who knew her.- -
once had an accidental opportunity of an interview with her. She predicted
events in the far and near future of which I made private and special notes..
I was entirely sceptical in all she had said, yet in course of time I was
astonished'to experience the complete truth of her prophetio revelations.




268           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
A sudden fog roll'd o'er the desolate field,
And 'rose in cloud-towers, as if demons of air
Descended from all their high places, to build
A hall for the Monarch of darkness there.
Then a murmur of sounds, intermingled and loud,
Like echoes sepulchral, swell'd hollow and long;
As if the grey wings of that earth-walking cloud,
Conceal'd, in debate, a wild, turbulent throng.
Soon the dark fog uplifted its broad skirts again,
Like the screen of a stage, and reveal'd to the maid,
A numberless group of light figures, in green,
On each side of the field, like an army array'd.
Impatient, with "hurleys" held forward, they stood,
And Brideen,with one keen, sweeping glance,view'd them all,
But her heart gave a leap, like a fish from a flood,
When they call'd upcgrFineen to toss up the ball.
At the name, her glad soul shot its arrows of light,
From the stars of her eyes, thro' the midst of the band,
Where she saw her beloved, in his vigour and might,
Fling the ball towards the sky, like a bird from his hand.
With upturn'd faces they eagerly gazed,
Thro' the low-hanging cloud, where the flying ball went,
And cheering aloud, with their hurleys upraised,
To strike it, they rush'd, in its rapid descent.
Down it came, and young Fineen, as rapid as light,
With one bold, sweeping blow struck it off towards the South;
Aind it hiss'd thro' the throng, in its swift-winged flight,
Like ajhot iron globe from a cannon's black mouth.
Away wept the hurlers-each flew, like a bird,
Over hedges and dykes, in pursuit of the ball;
Not a grass-blade nor leaf in their light track was stirr'd,
And the swift-footed Fineen was foremost of all.
Towards the old church of Mungret the flying throng spedWeird laughter, and cheering, and yelling arose;
While over the grass-circled homes of the dead
Roll'd the ball, whirl'd on 'mid a torrent of blows.
In and out thro' the grey Abbey-ruin they dash'd,
Jostling and wrestling o'er crosses and stones;
Loud rang the dark tombs, while the strong hurleys clash'd,
And drove into dust broken coffins and bones.
Up bounded the ball on the old steeple's crest,
And hid in its dark-tangled ivy-plume there;
nt as thick and as clamorous as crows round their nest
Vp flew the wild throng, save Fineen, thro' the air.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.              69
With their hurleys they slash'd the dark ivy away,
Tripp'd, jostled and tumbled each other about,
'Till from the deep covert of leaves where it lay,
Between rolling and tossing, they struck the ball out.
Away to the ground went the tumult again,
And off, towards the mist-shadow'd woods of Tirvoe,
Dash'd the crowd, like a storm-hunted wave, o'er the plain,
While before them the ball, like a chased raven, flew.
Again they came sweeping and bounding amain,
To the broad, yellow field near the dark-bosom'd wood
And the ball, from the heart of the throng, was struck in
Towards the bush where Brideen by the gloomy hedge stood.
To the ditch rush'd the crowd, but Fineen was the first
To raise on his hurley and strike up the ball;
On its path thro' the dim sky the Fairy throng burst,
As if a mad whirlwind had lifted them all.
Fineen on the field, gazing upward, remain'd,
While the hurlers tumultuously roll'd thro' the air,
And the maid look'd as if her life-pulses were chain'd
Between wild fear and doubt, love and hope, and despair.
Humbly signing the Cross-" Holy Saviour!" she cried,
"Protect and restore him, this dark night, from harm!"
Her spirit grew strong, and she sprang to his side,
And grasp'd him, at once, by the stout, manly arm.
Still unheeding he stood, gazing up thro' the air
Where the noise of the hurling a moment was hush'd;
Then a roar, like the sound of the storm's voice there,
Was heard-and around her the Fairy host rush'd.
Quick as thought, from the robe of her bosom she drew,
(While her grasp on Fineen was still firmer press'd)
The spell-breaking blade of the dreaded skein dhu,
Which she held in her right hand before the youth's breast.
With horrible screamings the wrathful crowd reel'd
From the wierd steel which gleam'd in the hand of the maid,
But she trembled and sank, in a-swoon, on the field,
And dropp'd from her faint grasp the magical blade.
Like the wind's dismal sound in a churchyard, at night
The Fairy-throng fled, with a wild, sullen roar;
And Fineen was gone-and the soul-guiding light
Of reason returned to the maiden no more.




270         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


THE BARDS.
OH, for the Bards! the glorious Bards! the pride of the days
of old,
When the honour'd claim of a manly name was not founded
on servile gold;
When the chiefs of our land, with chivalrous hand, gave Genius
a regal crown,
While the soulless knave to a nameless grave, like a grovelling
worm went down!
When, with godlike might,
Worth, fame, and right
Were defended by steel-nerved men0 God of the Free!
It was grand to see
The pomp of our country then!
Here's to the Bards! the brave old Bards! who kindled the
martial fire,
In Chief and Prince, with the eloquence and magic of harp and
lyre;
When the soul of the proud, like a lightning-cloud, flamed up
at the thrill of Song,
And leapt to the fight, with a fierce delight, to avenge
unmanly wrong:
For the brave Bards gave,
Like a mountain-wave,
A sweep to the warrior's brand,
And fired him to show
The mark of his blow,
When a tyrant was in the land.
The Norman Lords, with their valorous swords, to our Isle as
Invaders came,
But soon they grew to that land more true than the Irish in
birth and name;
For our Island-Song, with a witchery strong, on their souls
threw an Irish spell,
And their brave hearts felt the fire of the Celt, and they show'd
they lov'd Erin well.
But gone are the Bards,
And the Warrior Lords,
The pride of the times of yore;
And a bloodless race
Has taken their place,
Where freemen are seen no more!
' Oh! splendid days when love and praise were the meed of the
S  bold and trueWhen hands were strong to resenit a wrong, and traitors and
S   knaves were few;
/i




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                 271
When no hireling spy dared come to pry round the homes of
the toiling poor,
For our Princes ruled, with a rod of gold, in their people's love
secure;
And the halls of the Peer
Shook with roaring cheer,
And the traveller was welcome inO God of the Brave!
It was grand to live
In the Kingdom of Erin then!
Then here's to the Bards! the proud old Bards! that hurled our
clans to fight,
Like the headlong dash of a thunder-crash, 'gainst a foreign
Invader's might;
When our chieftains broke from Henry's yoke, what sharpen'd
their battle-swords
To strike for their right, with courage and might?-'twas the
songs of our brave old BardsHigh souls of Song!
Stern foes of wrong!
Since perished your order grand,
The lions are deadThe eagles have fled,
And jackals have curst the land.
THE BATTLE OF MONABRAHER.*
A.D. 1510.
THE crimson crown pf morn in the yellow orient shone,
And a heaven-flood bf fulgence on the bright'ning earth was
thrown;
The azure-breasted mountains laid their cloudy night-robes by,
And the rivers danced in glory, with their sounding songs of joy.
To Monabraher's marshy plain the stern Kildare advanced,
And grandly, inthe rising sun, his spear-ridged columns glanced;
Magnificent his cavalry-a living iron waveMoved on, in grim and glittering pomp, with crested helm
and glaive.
There's vengeance in his raging soul, for Thomond's hostile
King,
And he has vow'd a dreadful scourge to Thomond's land to
bring;
* "A.D. 1510, the Lord Justice Fitzgerald, Earl of Kildare, raised a great
army of English and Irish, and marched through Munster, taking spoils
and capturing castles. After many uninterrupted successes, he marched
into Thomond, to despoil the country, and take vengeance on Torlogh Donn
O'Brien, for aiding MacWilliam against him, at the battle of Knocktow,
fought on the 19th of August, 1504. O'Brien, MacNamara, and MacWilliam,
with their several clans, met.him at Monabraher, where a fierce encounter
ensued, in which Kildare and his army were defeated, with heavy loss, and
totally routed from the field."--Memoir of the O'Briens.




272            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
For, since the furious battle-day of slaughter-dyed Knocktow,*
A deadly hatred, fix'd and fierce, between the chieftains grew.
And now to ravage Thomond's soil the wrathful Lord is comeA stormy gleam of vengeful joy lights up his eye of gloom,
As on the fertile, sunny hills, with burning looks he gazed,
Where white-fleeced flocks and lowing herds, in chequer'd
numbers grazed.
Is it a sudden sun-blaze which has burst on yonder height,
As if the branches of the wood had turn'd to shafts of light?
As if the fern, and larchen groves that skirt the mountain-glen,
Were all transformed to banners, spears, and ranks of warlike
men?
Lo! 'tis Clanrickard and O'Brien, and MacNamara stern,
With many a bearded gallowglass and yellow-skirted kern;
They march against thy host, Kildare!-The battle of Knocktow
Was bloody, but to-day thou hast more bloody work to do!
Then spoke the bold O'Donnell+ to the proud Lord of Kildare,
"To meet those Dalcas wolves of blood let every man prepare!
For, by St. Columkille! I think we'll hardly keep our ground,
Except we pay them death for death, and more than wound
for wound!
'Tis true we foiled them at Knocktow, yet 'twas a chance
of war,
But now, my Lord, we've come to beard the lion in his lair!
And here he's rushing on us, in his angry might and pride,
So meet him bravely, steel to steel, and let our fate be tried!"
Then, with a sullen, haughty scowl, the fierce Kildare replied,
" Bear quick my order to the troops to lay their spoils aside!
Let Baron Kent and Barnewall command the left and right,
Whilst in the front ourselves will bide the onslaught of the
fight!
Mac Carthy! draw the cavalry behind yon sedgy bank,
And charge, with all thy headlong might, upon the Dalcasflank!
For if thou can'st succeed to break their fiery steel-array,
Then, by my soul, our spearmen brave shall give them bloody
play!"
Now thro' the waving host were heard the leaders' loud
commands,
And forming into battle-lines appear'd the serried bands;
* Knocktow signifies the Hill of Axes. It is in the County Galway, and
takes its name from the destructive battle waged there in 1504, between
the mixed armies of Normans and Irish on each side.
+ O'Donnell, Prince of Tyrconne'l, aided Lord Kildare in this expedition.
t " MacCarthy Reagh of Desmond, also joined the Lord Justice in his raid
against the King of Thomond. Kildare's army was heavily laden with the
spoils of half the province, but all those rich spoils fell into the hands of the
victors at Monabraher."-Anenals of Thomond.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.               273
A dancing cloud of varying plumes above the columns spreads
Like bending lines of burning trees, with smoke-wreaths on
their heads.
Near and more near the phalanx of the wrathful Dalgais drew,
Loud and more loud their martial horns and battle-trumpets
blew,
'Till, just a bowshot from their foes, they gave one furious yell,
And, with tempestuous madness, on the reeling squadrons fell.
Tremendous as a deluge, thro' the centre ranks they burst,
Like the fiery-pinion'd lightning on the storm's bosom nurst;
And backward, shatter'd and confused, the broken vanguard
reel'd,
And seven brave knights of noble name lay bleeding on the
field.
But rallying, in his desperate might, Kildare maintains his
ground,
While fast as rain drops in a lake, his men are falling round,
Shrill roar'd the deadly crash of steel, and loud above the clang
Of reeking swords and biting spears, the ponderous axes rang.
The crimson hurricane of war on all sides shifts and veers,
And thro' the swaying cloud of death thick flew the greedy
spears;
And, one by one, the columns sank, as if the quivering plain
Devour'd them down, and slaked its thirst with draughts of
bloody rain.
Brave MacNamara, on the left, engaged fierce Baron Kent,
And down the Baron and his troops, like sedge, before him
went;
But furious on Clan Cuilen's ranks MacCarthy's horsemen
dash'd,
And cleaving thro' the broken line their mighty axes flashed.
Now backward, at their chief's command, the stern battalions
swept,
And closing up their sever'd files, their firm position kept,
Then dashing on the cavalry, with their long pikes and spears,
Headlong into a swampy marsh they charged the cavaliers.
Down, to their glittering saddle-girths, the snorting horses sank,
And copiously the reeking mire the riders' hearts' blood drank;
While round them, in their vengeance, yell'd the furious, fiery
clan,
Like tigers, in a desert-waste, around a caravan.
With superhuman efforts, some their saddle-trees maintain'd,
And spurring hard their madden'd steeds, the solid plain
regain'd,
Yet so disorder'd, and confused, and maim'd, were steeds and
me,
That on the awful battle-ground they never charged again.




274           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Now fearfully on Barnewall's right the battle-tempest roar'd,
And on the centre, round Kildare, the crushing death-blows
shower'd,
Red-surging in one flaming sea of fierce-contending arms,
The grappling legions sway'd and raged, as mad as mountain.
storms.
The splinter'd spears and shatter'd swords in ringing fragments flew,
The life-rain thickly gush'd and steam'd, and helms were cleft
in two;
The ranks seem'd vanishing in earth, like waves, in wild career,
That toss their surf-plumes tothe rocks, then sink and disappear.
Full in the whirlpool of the fight stood Thomond's fiery King,
Like the spirit of an earthquake throned within a blazing ring;
And fierce his vengeance-flashing eye Kildare's proud Earl
sought,
Around the mart of blows and blood where fame and death
were bought.
Lo! thro' the shifting war-haze, he has mark'd his regal crest,
And forward, 'mid the storm of steel, the fiery Chieftain press'd,
But ere he reach'd the haughty Lord, a wall of spears was raised
Before his steps, and at his breast their bristling fire-points
blazed.
Raging with disappointed ire, the angry King withdrew,
While on his broad steel-plated shield a hundred war-spears
flew;
He raised his mighty battle-shout-the moorland-echoes peal'd,
And even the wounded Dalgais leap'd, with vigour, from the
field.
As when the wintry ocean hears the whirlwind's trumpet
sound,
In a frantic, foaming war-dance all the white-brow'd billows
bound;
Thus, at their King's inspiring shout, the clans of Thomond
rush'd
Upon the foe, and in the dust his iron ramparts crush'd.
As lightning-fire runs flaming thro' a field of wither'd reeds,
The spear-groves fell, and lofty chiefs were hurl'd from their
steeds;
In broken piles lay swords and shields, and bleeding bodies
gash'd,
And gore-stain'd mail, and brazen casques, like brittle timber,
smash'd.
In front of his retreating host, with active skill and might,
The stern, magnanimous Kildare prevents a general flight,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


275


Majestic o'er the mingled wreck, the lordly chieftain seems
Cool, as a lofty cliff of ice between two dashing streams.
Clanrickard's men mow'd Barnewall's troops, like rye-grass,
on the plain,
Their leader,by MacWilliam's sword, in single fight,was slain;*
And many a valiant lord, and knight, and cavalier bold and
gay,
Upon that marshy field of death in gory starkness lay.
Night drew her cloudy curtain o'er the crimson scene of fight,
As if to hide the slaughter-mass from heaven's indignant sight;
The distant hills' blue foreheads lost their diadems of sun,
And God's resplendent planet-host its shining march begun.
Upon a reedy mound which flank'd the lordly Shannon's tide,
O'Brien sate, and round him throng'd his warriors, in their pride;
With torn plumes, and broken shields, and blunted arms they
stood,
Like branchless, lightning-stricken pines, beside the darken'd
flood.
The tall Prince of Clan Cuilen stood anear the victor-King,
His sword-hack'd helmet, in the fray, had lost its eagle-wing;
A spear had pierced his noble breast and tore the reeking flesh,
And redly down his silken robe the blood ran warm and fresh.
"My Lords and Chiefs!" O'Brien cried, " Men of the Strong
Right Hand!
Bright stars of chivalry, and flowers of Thomond's royal land!
The shame and dire disaster of Knocktow's dark, ill-starr'd
fray,t
In our defeated foemen's blood, have been washed out, to-day!
Then pitch our tents-refresh our troops-and, with to-morrow's sun,
We'll finish the destruction which to-day our swords begun!
For if Kildare awaits the war until the morning's ray,
I promise the foul tarnage-birds a larger share of prey!
Light signal fires of victory on every green old hill,
And let our wounded clansmen prove the leech's care and skill!
Send trusty scouts abroad to watch the movements of the foeI'd risk my life and crown to give the wolf another blow!"
The chiefs and clansmen raised a cheer that tore the dingy air,
And to their camp-fires and their tents the parting troops
repair;
Huge piles of oak andbog-wood flamed along the Shannon's side,
And flung their lurid lines of light across the sounding tide.
* Mac William of Clanrickard was Torlogh O'Brien's uncle. The families
were frequently intermarried. No wonder that brave warriors sprang from
a union of these stormy tribes who scarcely believed in anything better than
ncessant fighting.
S+ " The English had no secure influence in Ireland until after the battle of
Knocktow. That victory established their power in the Island."-Memoir
of the O'Briens.




276            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
In wild Killeely's* haunted glade, Kildare a council held,
The sullen chiefs, in whispering tones, their several thoughts
reveal'd,
And all agreed, at once, to make a swift and safe retreat,
Ere morning would expose them to a worse and sterner fate.
"For," said Kildare, "our troops are maim'd and filled with
frigid fear,
And certain ruin shall be ours, if daylight finds us here!
The Dalgais wrought destructive work-God's curse upon
their clan!
And only night closed round us, they'd have slain us every
man!
"Then let us go in heaven's name!" The broken host obeyed,
And under midnight's shadowy veil a swift retreat they made:
And ample was the spoil they left behind them on the plain,
And never did they measure steel with Thomond's Chiefs again.
THE DARK      SUMMER, '79.
ARE the vials, seven, unseal'd in heaven!Dismal and strange is the light of day,
As if Winter's gloom veil'd Summer's bloom
To stay Nature's will and obstruct her way.
Has some fiat divine sent this awful sign
To warn the nations of wrath to come?
There's something drear in the sun's wild glare,
And heaven is weeping and Nature's dumb!
Like a giant in pain, with a fever'd brain,
The thunder groans 'mid the aerial gloom,
And the lightnings gleam, like God's pen of flame
When writing dark deeds in his Book of Doom.
No genial morn smiles on the cornNo day without torrents and gloomy windPerish'd fields seem to cry for heat to the sky,
But the sky to their pleadings is deaf and blind.
No kind beam warms the sodden farmsVain is the labour of spades and ploughs;
No seeds doth spring and no birds doth sing,
And the fruit is sick on the languid boughs.
In bower and vale Nature's charms grow pale,
Like a lovely young bride in consumption slow;
*Monabraher is a townland in the parish of Killeely, on the county Clare
side of the Shannon, about a mile outside Limerick. See note, page 30. A
road which was called the Causeway was made through this plain by King
Brian, early in the tenth century.
t"' Killeely was dissolved by Queen Elizabeth, together with Kilquan, Quin
Abbey, and other churches, in 1583. Henceforth it became a common
burial-ground, with the venerable ruins of St. Leila's Church standing in
the midst of increasing graves. Leila signifies "Virgin Lily." She was the
daughter of Seanna, one of tbe ancient princes of Thomond."--Atnnals of
Thomond.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


277


Thro' the sky's highway, like a funeral array,
The dark clouds pass with the signs of woe.
The mad flood fills all the breasts of the hillsThe rivers have risen to drown the plain;
Squalls rave aloud, cloud climbs upon cloud,
As if charged with the vengeance of Noah's rain.
Drear morning's ray melts into drear day,
In his sable robe still frowns the angry sun,
Or gives a fierce stare, like a miser's despair
When his store is robb'd and his gold is gone.
The keen winds blow as if breathing snow,
And day feels chill as the wintry moon;
May seems November, July December,
And the blossoms of Spring were transferr'd to June.
There is fear over all as if the great ball
Of the earth from its axis were doom'd to fall,
And again roll back to chaotic rack
In the bosom of Night's eternal pall.
Was this doom foretold by the Seer of old?
That spoke to the Angel of God sublime!
Who gave him to see, thro' eternity,
Earth's death-records under the shades of Time.
Does this omen strange forerun some change
In the list of nations and fate of men?
Or do we gaze on the evil days
Portray'd by the mighty Evangel's pen?
CAROLINE MARY NIXON,
The beautiful and beloved daughter of Archdeacon Goold,
DIED MAY 10TH, 1875.
THOU hast left us in the Spring-time, when the glory of the
flowers,
With their glisterfing rainbow-splendours, fill'd the sunny
fields and bowers;
In the dewy-vernal radiance of the blossom-vested May,
To Death's shadow, cold and gloomy, our sweet Mary pass'd
away.
As in spirit, I stand weeping o'er the place of thy repose,
My soul beholds the vision of thy beauty, gentle rose!
With love's glowing richness warm,and exalted thought refined,
Was thy bright ethereal form and thy nobly-moulded mind!
Sure thy sweet face was like heaven when the April days are
bright,
And the bloom of earth is gushing into loveliness and light;
And thy voice, like fairy warbling of the hill-fount's virgin-tone,
Telling love-tales to the red flowers that surround its mountainthrone I




278           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Like the calm star's mystic splendour in the dreamy Autumnsky,
Was the spirit-beaming glory of thy soft, majestic eye,
And the rich flood of thy tresses, round thy queenly angelbrow,
Flowed resplendent, as a dark stream by a winding bank of
snow!
Lovely Mary! tho' thy beauty was the rarest earth could find,
It was naught to the perfection of thy gentle-loving mind;
Tho' thy person was enchanting, and thy peerless manners
warm,
Yet thy love was heaven's language speaking through thy
radiant form!
Thou wert bowed with early sorrow, and the Cross of pain was
thine,
Which thou'st carried, with true meekness, like thy patient
Lord divine;
For thy soul was, like his angels, pure, intelligent and high,
And thy rich, celestial beauty was made only for the sky!
There is sadness round thy dwelling, for the beautiful who
gave
Life and sweetness to her household, lies in darkness of the
grave;
And the voice of joy is silent, for its brightness is all gone,
Like the lonely bower of summer when the wintry gloom
comes on.
Can I b'lieve it? can I b'lieve it, that so sweet a flower is dead?
Can I b'lieve that such true loveliness has fill'd an earthy bed?
Then away with all Earth's phantoms, Grandeur,Title, Wealth
and Pride,
They are airy rainbow-shadows, since our darling Mary died!
LAMENT FOR THE VENERABLE ARCHDEACON
GOOLD.
Who died in Bath, January 31st, 1877.
A gentleman ennobled by every generous Christian virtue, a landlord of
exalted humane feelings. If the landlords of Ireland would only treat
their tenantry with the kindness and consideration which he conferred
on his, there would be no rack-renting, no eviction, no misery amongst
the peasantry, and consequently no agrarian outrage.
THE wintry-eve began to fall
Along the Shannon's angry tide;
The cold mist, like a mourning pall,
Was gathering on the mountain side;
The dreary blast was whistling loud,
As o'er the darkening surge it trod,
And high in heaven, each black-fringed cloud
Look d awful as the frown of God.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


279


Among the leafless trees I stood,
Sad gazing on the bleakness 'round,
While to my ear the mighty flood
Bore some deep sorrow in its soundA friend approach'd. me, up the way,
And he, with pensive accents, said,
"There's gloomy news for us, to dayThe good Archdeacon Goold is dead!"
As one who feels a mortal wound,
My heart received the tale of woe;
I bow'd my sad face towards the ground,
And streams of grief began to flow.
"Oh, God of Life!" with wild regret,
I cried aloud, "Why dost Thou give
The good so short a date, while yet
The worthless and the wicked live?"
Loved benefactor of my lyreAlas! no more thou'lt hear me singThe fate which quenched thy noble fire,
Has broken my wild harp's sweetest string!
In silence shall my soul bemoan
The generous patron of my song;
Like some sad wounded bird aloqne,
The wintry desert-boughs among!
All godlike virtues in thy soul
Had traced their course in one grand line;
Like springs that from the hill-tops roll,
In one majestic tide to shineHumanity's ennobling power
Had form'd its temple in thy heart,
As dwells the odour in the flower,
Untutor'd and untouch'd by art!
If gratitude still lives on earth,
What grateful tears must fall for thee?
Thy honest truth and generous worth,
Among mankind, 'tis rare to see!
Tho' many a cross was mine to bear,
And many a grievous loss I knew;
But now the most intense, severe,
Of all my griefs-is losing you!
The rich and great may lie in state,
With mourning's pomp around them spread;
Their life is but a glittering cheat,
And mourning mocks them when they're dead.
But thou to heavenly worth so dear,
Thus unlamented shalt not go!
A loving tear dropp'd on thy bier,
Is more than all the great can show!




280


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


Thy heart was honour's gem of light
Where love for God and mankind shone;
Thy mind nobility's centre bright,
Where kindness fixed its chosen throne;
Tho' now thou'rt laid in cold decay,
Consign'd to darkness, dust, and worms,
There's more true worth in thy dead clay
Than in a thousand living forms!
If in those beauteous mystic spheres
Beyond this doleful world of care,
God wipes away the spirit's tears,
You're with your own sweet Mary* thereBut, many a lonely friendless hour,
Thy peerless loss shall I bewail;
Grief is the only balm to pour
Into the wound I cannot heal!
ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF THE VENERABLE
ARCHDEACON GOOLD,
(January 31st, 1878.)
This Lament is most respectfully and sorrowfully dedicated to his kindhearted, faithful, and bereaved Lady, Mrs. Goold, as a sincere tribute of
gratitude and love paid his endeared memory, by the Bard of Thomond.
AGAIN the woeful day appearsThe dark-faced day-which saw my friend,
In the full pride of reverend years,
And honour'd worth, draw near his end:
Oh, were my heart one large hot tear
Thy life's rich fountain to supply,
And hold on earth a gem so dear,
My kind one, you should never die!
'Tis Christmas, and the holly bough
Is glistening in my little room;
Small is my care for Christmas now,
Because it brings me grief and gloom.
The generous present from his hand
Shall I receive? Ah, never more!
While all seem happy round the land,
My lonely heart is sad and sore!
I hate all intercourse with men,
Their forms are dark and void to me;
For well I know that ne'er again,
Among their race, his like I'll see!
* Alluding to his beautiful daughter, Caroline Mary, who died on 10th
of May, 1875.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND
But I am here, and he is gone
From this blank scene of sin and shame,
And all remains to me, alone,
Is but his dearly-cherished name.
I mark the solitary gloom
That deepens o'er the evening skyIts shades remind me of the tomb
Where his beloved ashes lie:
I weep to see yon envious cloud
Across the twilight beam extend,
For it reminds me of the shroud
That wraps my once bright-hearted Friend!
A white star glimmers in the East;
I know its pensive brow of light,
It7weeps above his dreamless rest,
Far in the lovely Isle of WightThou beauteous and mysterious star!
Like me, thou seem'st to mourn alone!
Oh, tell me, glorious orb! how far
Beyond thee has his spirit gone?
From heaven's blue, silent solitude,
Methought it was thy voice replied,
But, no, it was the naked wood,
Complaining to the wintry tide;
It was the sullen western wind,
That stripp'd the boughs of their last leaf,
And, with its dreary dirge, combined
To swell my bosom's song of grief!
Kindred companionship for me
Have all things drear and desolate;
In fallen leaf and faded tree,
I read the scripture of my fate!
I wish I wele the mountain-wind,
In desert places to complain,
'Twould suit my wildly-sorrowing mind,
And gloomy pictures of my brain!
In acts of mercy, all your days,
Even, like the Saviour, did you spend,
Your bounty flow'd a thousand ways,
To all God's poor you were a friend!
Your loss has cast a wintry cloud
O'er many a heart you fill'd with joy;
It is the selfish and the proud,
Not you, 0 darling, that should die!
To your beloved memory
I'll never-never bid adieu!
For you were always kind to meI had no friend on earth but you!
19


281




282           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Accept this sad song, with a tear,
'Tis all my fond heart has to give,
And while one throb of life is there,
Deep in its centre you shall live!
THE DOOM OF BRIAN ROE.
A LEGEND OF BUNRATTY.
THE woods of Bunratty are clothed with snow,
And cold, round the Castle, the winter-winds blow;
The river in gleaming ice-armour is bound,
And the marsh-reeds with bright silver tassels are crown'd
The hills, with the deep drifted splendour, are gemm'd,
But their brows with a low-hanging cloud-veil are dimm'd
For the Polar snow-spirit is there in the cloud,
Repairing the sun-wasted skirts of his shroud.
The shadows of night round the proud Castle grew,
And shrilly the north-blast its ice-whistle blew,
At the dungeon-tower window the Earl's son stands,
With strong iron chains on his feet and his hands,
A prisoner of war since the grim battle-day,
When red slaughter-piles round the Castle-walls lay;
When the stormy O'Briens mow'd each other, like hay,
For the blood-circled throne of their turbulent sway.
The captive-chief gazed thro' the drift-darkened air,
Round the plains where thesnow-sheets lay dusky and drear
While his thoughts, in a transient dream, wander'd away,
O'er the wild Connaught-hills, to the towers of Loch Rea.
But a screech-owl flew past, with a desolate scream,
Dispelling the gossamer-web of his dream;
And he look'd at the strong dungeon-walls with a sigh,
And a death-spear of flame seem'd to leap from his eye.
The old rusty bell of the abbey toll'd one,
And the Lord of the Castle to slumber is gone;
The noise of the wassailers has died in the hall,
For the potent wine-god has o'ermaster'd them all;
Every chamber is still-not a step, voice, or soundSave the freezing wind whistling the casements around,
Reach'd the lone captive's ear, in his cold prison-cell,
But the scream of the bird and the tone of the bell.
* "A.D. 1310. Dermod O'Brien, aided by De Clare, advanced against
Donogh, who was joined by the De Burghs, ard a battle was fought under
the walls of Bunratty, in which six hundred Galloglasses of Donogh's army
were slain, and William De Burgo, son of the Earl of Ulster, taken prisoner.
This victory was followed up by an attack on the palace of Clonroad, the
residence of the defeated Prince, which was plundered and burned to the
ground."-Memoir of the O'Briens. See a description of the Battle of Bunratty in this volume.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


283


Who whispers his name on the lawn underneath,
Where the snow lies as white as the shroud-robe of death?
He bends his ear close to the cold window stone,
In the pause of the blast, to distinguish the tone'Tis repeated again, more distinctly and true,
And he casts thro' the depth of the night-shade his view
To the white frozen plain-while his motionless eyes
Seem, like rock-crystals, frigid, and fixed with surprize.
For he saw, by a blue light that flicker'd below,
A black oaken coffin recline on the snow,
And around it a group of gaunt skeleton-formsWith half-moulder'd shrouds hanging loose on their armsStood in serious debate, while each one of the band
Held a green meteor-torch, o'er the bier, in his hand,
And the dull icy glare of their eyes, thro' the gloom,
Seem'd like dim moonlight rain-drops asleep on a tomb.
Their shadowy robes half conceal'd their gaunt bones,
And their pallid lips whisper'd low mystical tones;
But their garments seem'd woven of substance so light,
Like cobwebs, they flow'd on the blast of the night;
Thro' the darkness their features a weird palor shed,
Like the gray stains of time on the stone of the dead;
And each wore a sword half corroded with rust,
As if it lay buried for ages in dust.
But one Spectre, who look'd as the Chief of the band,
O'er the black coffin motion'd his skeleton-hand;
And the pall was removed, and the dark lid upraised,
And all on the gloomy corpse mournfully gazedThen he, who was Chief, to the dead cried aloud,
"Arise, mouldering clay, from thr murder-stain'd shroud!
And hear me pronounce, to thy worm-eaten face,
The doom of thy foes, and thyself, and thy race!"
At these words, a grim meteor-eyed raven drew near,
As dark as a hell-cloud, and perch'd on the bier,
While the groaning corpse slowly uplifted its head,
And sat, trembling, erect in its cold coffin-bed;
The limbs from the trunk by the bare sinews hung,
And each bone from its joint was distorted and wrung;
The body was sunder'd, all fearful to view,
As if wild beasts had dragg'd it and torn it in two.
"Brian Roe,* King of Thomond!" the Spectre-Chief said,
"There's a curse on thy deeds and there's blood on thy head!
* A. D. 1267. Brian Roe, King of Thomond, was deposed by the O'Deas'
and MacNamaras, and Torloghhis nephew, who was the rightful claimant,
placed on the throne in his stead. Brian immediately solicited the aid of
Thomas de Clare, a young Norman adventurer, who was after landing in
Cork, with a strong band of followers De Clare promised the required




284            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Thy steed-torn, mangled, and shatter'd remains,
Attest how the Norman rewarded thy pains!
By the sword thou hast fashion'd the fetters of slaves,
And the sword shall pursue all thy sons to their graves,
For thy hand with the blood of thy kindred was dyed,
And that blood on yon war-pile shall never be dried!Shall never be dried while the name of De Clare
Is written in slaughter and perfidy there!
But vengeance shall come, like a tempest of flame,
And sweep from that Castle his race and his name!
And its gore-reeking towers shall relate to all time,
A soul-awing story of treason and crime;
Yet its murder-stain'd chambers a stranger shall own,
When there's no king in Thomond to sit on a throne!
By thy hand which has reap'd the red fruit of thy deeds!
By thy shatter'd limbs tortured and torn by steeds
By the black devastation the stranger has spread
Round the doom-clouded land, white with bones of the dead!
This Raven, thy Spirit, 'mid storms and showers,
Shall stand on the crest of yon heaven-curst towers,
'Till Thomond's last conflict for kingship be o'er,
And her sceptre be wielded by princes no more!"
Then the grim Raven groan'd, like a demon in pain,
And soar'd, to the towers, o'er the snow-covered plain;
The night seemed to gather its clouds on his track,
'Till the white face of winter with horror grew blackThe dreary corpse sank to its mouldering repose,
While o'er it the lid and the gloomy pall rose;
And the dread spectral-figures grew dim, one by one,
'Till the group, and the coffin, and death-lights were gone.
The Earl's son knelt at the window, in prayer,
While, like reeds in the frost, stood the locks of his hair;
He heard not the bolts of his strong prison-door
Drawn back, nor the light foot that moved on the floor,
assistance to reinstate Brian in the sovereignty of Thomond, and Brian, in
consideration thereof, by a solemn deed conveyed to the Norman chief and
his heirs for ever the barony of Lower Bunratty. De Clare at once proceeded into Thomond, and to secure his new possessions, built Bunratty
Castle, A. D. 1268. Torlogh being in turn deposed, through the interference
of De Clare, applied to his friends, the Connaught chieftains, who collected
their forces at his call, and gave Brian Roe and his Norman allies battle and
defeated them. On the arrival of the vanquished leaders at Bunratty, the
wife and father-in-law of De Clare, incensed at the loss they had sustained,
laid the blame on Brian, and insisted on putting him to death. "And so,"
say the annalists, "after they swearing all the oaths in Munster, as bells
relies of saints and croisers, to be true to each other for ever, also after they
became sworn gossips, and for confirmation of their indissoluble bond of
perpetual friendship, they drew part of the blood of each other which they
put in a vessel and mingled it together; yet after all these solemn protestations they seized Brian Roe and bound him to stern steeds and thereby had
him torn asunder."-Memoir of the O'Briens.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


285


'Till a touch on his shoulder-a breath on his earAssured him some pitying mortal was near;
He turn'd, and before him, imperiously there
Stood the queen of the Castle, proud Lady De Clare.*
'Lord William De Burgo!" the lady begun,
"Thy fate is assign'd and thy sentence is done!
But I came here, in darkness and danger to save
Thy neck from the rope, and thy youth from the grave!
I saw, in a dream, Spirits standing in snow,
Round the coffin and corpse of the murder'd Brian Roe;
They told me to save thee-with fear, I obey,
Haste-our lives are at stake on the slightest delay!"
His limbs from the brown iron fetters she freedFrom the horrible dungeon they hastened, with speed;
Thro' the dread Castle arches they glided, like ghosts,
While the drunken guards lay fast asleep at their posts.
To the courtyard they passed thro' a stone corridor,
And the brave captive felt a glad freeman once more;
Tho' the night was dark, desolate, dreary, and dim,
'Twas as bright as the hour of salvation to him.
Chill shiver'd the woods, and the sky overhead
Look'd dismal and drear as the face of the dead;
And the north star's cold, wintry shimmer fell weak
On the lady's pale robe and her marble-white cheek.
Like some beautiful Spirit, half darkness and light,
She stood 'mid the deep raven-foldings of night;
But a stern blaze of soul in her dignified glance,
Shot keen from her eye, like a fire-flashing lance.
With stolen side-glances the warrior scann'd
Her bosom, and brow, her slight foot and white hand,
While his thoughts to each other admiringly cried"She was moulded and made for a war-victor's bride!"
But she, as if reading the scroll which the pen
Of his mental reflection was writing within,
Waved her hand towards the fosse, and said proudly, "Young
Chief!
O'er yon deep, frozen moat thy sure passage is safe!"
He seized her pale hand-press'd his lips to its snow,
And murmur'd his thanks ere he turned to go;
Then wrapping his cochal his person around,
O'er the courtyard enclosure he flew, with a bound.
* This stern lady was Juliana Fitzgerald, daughter to the Earl of Desmond.
It was she that instigated the sentence by which her sworn gossip, Brian
Roe, met so barbarous a death. Another poem in this volume gives a full
description of the circumstances of his brutal execution.




286


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


Hoarse-crackled the ice of the moat to his tread,
And off thro' the awful snow-desert he sped;
'Till the flame-circled sun of mid-heaven, next day,
Saw him greeted by friends in the towers of Loch Rea.*
THE PATRIOT MAIDEN.
AN Irish girl in heart and soul!
I love the dear old land!
I honour those who in her cause
Lift voice, or pen, or handAnd may I live to see her free
From foreign lord and knave!
But heaven forbid I'd ever be
The mother of a slave!
God bless the men who take their stand
In Ireland's patriot-host!
I'd give the youth my heart and hand,
Who serves his country most;
And if he fell, I'd rather lie
Beside him in the grave,
Than wed a wealthy loon, and be
The mother of a slave!
Thro' many a blood-red age of woe
Our Nation's heart has bled,
But still she makes her tyrants know
Her spirit is not dead!
God bless the men who for her sake
Their life and genius gaveGod bless the mothers of those sons!
They nurst no dastard slave!
Some on the scaffold-place of doom,
For loving Ireland died,
And others to the dungeon-gloom,
Are torn from our side;
But God the Just, who ne'er design'd
His image for a slave,
Will give our country might and mind,
And raise the true and brave!
Ye beauteous daughters of our Isle,
Whom heaven with virtue blest!
How can you on a helot smile,
Or clasp him to your breast?
+ The castle of Loch Rea was one of the seats of the powerful family of
the De Burgos. Those brave descendants of William FitzAdelm were
another of the Norman tribes that became more Irish than the Irish themselves.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


287


If you would teach those lessons grand
The Spartan mothers gave,
No tyrant-brood would curse the land,
And you would nurse no slave!
The sun is sinking to the seaGod bless the glorious West,
Where exiled Irishmen are free,
And no one is oppress'd!
Come, sisters, toast that land, with me,
Beyond the world of waves!
The golden land of liberty,
Where mothers nurse no slaves!
TIPPERARY, MY HOME.
AIR.-" Carolan's Farewell to Killarney."
OH! there is not a spot in the land of the Gael,
Where my young heart the full swing of pleasure could feelOh! there is not a place under heaven's crystal dome,
So sweet to my soul as Tipperary, my home!
Tipperary! Tipperary! though lovely thou artTho' thy beauty in sunshine is set in my heartFar away from thy vales the wide world must I roam,
But I'll never forget thee, Tipperary, my home!
Tho' my cabin was poor, my affection was there,
For 'twas dearer ten times than a palace elsewhere,
But the agent unroof'd its four bare walls of clay,
And turned me, a sad, homeless outcast, away!
Oh   sweet was the dream of my young boyhood's hours,
When the summer-fields round me were radiant with flowers,
And little I thought that, in manhood's first bloom,
I should wander, in grief, from Tipperary, my home!
The dear ones that loved me are laid in the earth,
Still I meet them, in dreams, at my old cottage-hearth!
And round me each face bright with kindness appears,
'Till I wake, with my dreaming heart melted to tears!
Accurst be the dark fate that bade me depart,
From the friends of my love and the land of my heart!
But oft shall my memory in sweet visions come,
On the wings of delight, to Tipperary, my home I
There the spirit of Freedom still lives undefiled,
'Mid the valleys so green, and the mountains so wild;
And the chain of the spoiler has never found room
On the necks of thy brave sons, Tipperary, my home!




288          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
May the bright soul of love in thy homesteads find rest
And thy hot blood of valour long burn in thy breast!
May beauty, in all her young sweetness and bloom,
With her angel-smile bless thee, Tipperary, my home!
Adieu! to thy wild hills all clothed in green,
And the vales where the steps of my childhood have been!
0 God! grant my prayer, ere I sink to the tomb,
Let me breathe my last sigh in Tipperary, my home!
SARSFIELD'S FAREWELL TO LIMERICK.
CITY of battles! like a war-king's bride,
Seated majestic on thine island-throne!
Smiling in beauty, with the crystal tide
Sparkling around thee, like a diamond-zone!
The cloud of fight has vanished from thy browLow is the spirit of thy glory laidAnd, with a weeping soul, I leave thee now,
Disarm'd, deceiv'd, abandon'd, and betray'd!
For thee we battled more like gods than menIn vain the foemen's burning metal flamedAmid the crash of falling towers, and din
Of charging hosts, thy spirit was untamed!
Back from thy ramparts roll'd the baffled bands,
Powerless and broken as a rock-cleft wave;
Yet a few words resign'd into their hands
What all their armies never could achieve!
Thy star is quench'd in perfidy and bloodVainly for thee has valour bled and died;
When thy brave sons and glorious daughters stood,
Fearless as towers of iron, at thy side!
'Till the tired foemen, sick of bloody toil,
Fawn'd when their fury could no more destroy,
And, with the tempting serpent's treacherous guile,
They enter'd, as the Grecians enter'd Troy!
Farewell! to thy old hospitable halls,
And veteran ramparts now no longer ours!
Farewell to thy invulnerable wallsThy festive palaces and lordly towers!
Farewell! to thy all-beauteous, bright-eyed maids,
Whose deeds shall long be honour'd and admiredThe stranger now may revel in thy shades,
Where Freedom, in her last retreat, expired!
Far o'er the heavings of the angry deep,
1'll meet thy foes upon another shore!
My sword shall yet a vengeful harvest reap,
For Sarsfield's last brave battle is not o'er!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                289
Limerick! one grateful boon from thee I claimWhatever fate holds bright or dark for meThat thgu wilt cherish faithful Sarsfield's name,
And love his memory as he loved thee!
THE WARRIOR-EXILES.
A LEGEND OF THE CLAN MACINNERNY.*
LORD CLARE to the battles of France has departed,
And Thomond of half her brave youth is deserted,
For the " Flight of the Wild Geese " the heroes have join'd,
And mothers and maids are left weeping behind.
But of all the bold soldiers who follow'd Lord Clare,
The fiercest the stoutest, and hardiest were
Twenty tall youths-eagle-nerved, lion-framedOf the Clan MacInnerny, long honour'd and famed.
Their freedom was quench'd-their possessions were gone,
But their necks were too proud for a chain to rest on;
So each freeborn warrior grasp'd his good sword,
And join'd the Dragoons of the Dalcassian lordAnd sorely they made the grim Sassenach feel
The fire of their wrath and the strength of their steel,
For wherever the battle was led by Lord Clare,
The brave MacInnernys wrought fierce havoc there.
At Vittoria their swords thro' the cavalry slash'dAt Cassano their might thro' the infantry dash'dAt Luzzara their actions with glory were crown'dAt Hochstat and Spires their names were renown'dEver first in the mad charge and last in retreat,
With the sheen oT their laurels unstained by defeat;
Oh! ne'er did the flame of their valour cool down,
At breaking an army or taking a town.
On the red plain of Ramillies the Frenchmen gave way,
But Clare's brave Dragoons kept their granite-array,
And blazed on the terrified Sassenach lines,
Like a lava-flood rolling thro' forests of pines;
Thro' the van of the conquering allies they burst,
And the men of the Clan MacInnerny were first;
'Mid a whirlwind of swords and a fire-shower of shot,
Surrounded, assaulted by thousands, they fought.
* Mohane Castle was built, in 1610, by Donogh MacInnerny, one of the
chiefs of this once warlike branch of the Dalgais. It stands on the Dromoland Estate, and is yet nearly entire, being well protected and kept
in repair by Lord Inchiquin.
A great number of this clan followed the fortunes of Lord Clare to the
continental battles of France, and never returned.




290           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The tall banner'd columns were shaken and rent,
Like rustling wheat-ridges by sudden gales bent;
Still onward they clove their dread way thro' the bands,
Till their broad swords seem'd melted to blood in their
handsThe war-flood closed in, like a tide round a stoneCut off from their comrades they struggled alone;
Back to back, 'mid that death-blazing furnace of gore,
They battled with legions, behind and before.
And ramparted round was the spot where they stood,
With a tower of dead bodies cemented with blood;
While, like ships to the throat of a black maelstrom hurl'd,
New victims are into that carnage-gulf whirl'd.
Their war-steeds are wounded, mad-plunging they fall,
'Mid the blood-wave, and flame-flash of sabre and ball;
And the twenty bold men in the death-circle stand,
Like tigers in fight, each opposed to a band.
With cool desperation their fate they endure,
Retreat is all hopeless-destruction is sure;
And each seems resolved, ere his life-current goes,
To build him a tomb of the corpses of foes.
But the tempest must tire in its wood-tearing flight,
And the raging waves faint in their rock-beating might;
And the wrsth of a fire, that a city devour'd,
Must sink gasping, at last, 'mid the ruins, o'erpower'd.
Thus sank in the slaughter-surge. man after man,
Of the noble, magnanimous, time-honour'd clan,*
That for ages, in Thomond, high lordly sway held,
And gave saints to the Church and brave chiefs to the fieldTho' their s6uls seem'd to go and return in their breath,
They struggled to strike, in the gaspings of death;
And each man fell-still clutching the hilt of his bladeOn the red carnage-pile which his vengeance had made.
One hero alone of the twenty survivesAnd, as heaven's fire-bolt thro' a winter-wood drivesHe tore from the grasp of the enemy's lyýnd
The ensign of glory, and dash'd thro' the band.
Like fern in the track of the fleet-footed roe,
Spears, bayonets, and sabres he flung to and fro,
As he burst from the wave of that gore-streaming gulf,
With the spring of a bloodhound and fang of a wolf.
* " The Clan-an-Oirchinneagh (MacTnnernys) were once powerful and
independent in Thomond. According to tradition, their progenitor was
Guardian or Protecting Chief to one of the ancient Kings of Ireland, and
was presented by the monarch with a suit of golden armour as a mark of
honour and distinction paid to his valuur."-Mr. O'Looney's MS. Traditions
of the Clan-an-Oirchinneagh.
All Lord Clare's vast property in Thomond, amounting to sixty
thousand acres, was confiscated.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


291


To the line of his comrades the warrior retired,
Threw the banner before him-dropp'd down and expired;
For his spirit out-grew its dominion of clay,
And burst in the strength of its frenzy away.
As the fire-mountain heaves the red angel of flame,
In a cloud-scorching gush, from its volcanic frame,
So that soul from its toil-shatter'd prison took wing,
To the source of its life, with a lightning-like spring.
Say, Muse, what sweet harp gave their glory a name,
And, with song, lent a soul to the deeds of their fame?
'Twas the harp of MacCurtin, the bard of the free,
And the fire of his spirit descended to me!
He had heroes to listen-alas! I have none,
But the green, silent woods and the wild hills alone,
While my soul, with the sickness of grief round her cast,
From the Present flies back to seek health in the Past!
LAMENT OF THE SHANNON.
ON Shannon's misty moonlight banks,
I wander'd, one calm night, alone;The waves in council seem'd to speak
About a storm that late had blown
The foamy silver from their crests,
Round morass-sedge and reedy drain;
And each seem'd calling to the shore
To give it back its plume again.
Sad as a suffering Spirit's moan,
The low wind sigh'd among the reedsThe shadows of the passing clouds
Sail'd o'er the marsh, like phantom-steeds,
When striding towards the moonlit strand,
From the blue centre of the stream,
A giant-shape, dark, grim and grand,
Silent and sage, before me came!
Adown his azure shoulders flow'd
A sea-robe, woven of oozy weeds;
Dank water-moss hung round his brow,
Which look'd all rough with shelly seeds;
His eyes were like two melting pearls,
Or silver balls in wells of flame,
And his blue, solemn, dreary face
Was like a sleeping midnight-stream.
"My son " he said, " be not afraid,
I am the Genius of this tide!
And often, on my summer-banks,
I heard thy swelling strains, with pride!




292          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Now from my weedy palace-caves
I came to tell a tale of wrong,
And thou shalt hear it in thy soul,
And breathe it into burning song!
"Since first my mountain-born waves
Their shining ocean-march began
Thro' this misfortune-darken'd land,
That's blest by God, but curst by manMany a black and bitter age
Of shame, and blood, and grief, I saw,
In Erin of the saints and kings,
Where wrong is justified by law!
"A part of his Almighty power,
To profit man, God lent my tide;
And here, along my winding shore
Millions of souls might be employ'd!
From year to year my mighty flood
To ocean's caves is idly hurl'd,
Whose strength would give an active soul
To the trade-engines of the world!
"The sordid few whose barren gold,
Could thus a nation's hands employ,
Like greedy otters watch, and war,
About my fish and timid fry!
The cormorants that haunt my flood,
Are less voracious for their prey,
Than those insatiate human-sharks
That watch my current, night and day!
'From court to court my name is dragg'd,
As if I were a felon base;
My strands survey'd-my bounds exploredWith spies around in every place!
Would' that the burning beam of heaven
Had scorch'd my shores and drunk my waves,
Ere I had fallen in the hands
Of such remorseless, legal knaves!
"God stored my stream with finny wealth,
And boundless is his bounty thereFrom year to year 'tis well supplied,
For all his poor to have a share!
But proud monopolists now claim,
And covet this great public right,
And use a ruthless robber-law
To sanctify their lawless might!
"My curdy salmon, trout, and peal,
These human otters grasp them all,
While, with their prying eyes of cranes,
Their flunkies watch from Fall to Fall;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


293


And yonder live their water-houndsWith monster fish-traps at their doorWretches who fatten on the wrongs,
And persecutions of God's poor!
"No fisherman dares throw a line,
For sport or profit, in my stream,
Else hard imprisonment or fine
Would follow fast his angling game.
And even thou, my favourite bard!That sang the glories of my tide:
With rod in hand, and cheerful layI miss thee from my flowery side!
And must those men, of worthless name,
Dominion o'er my waters claim,
And revel on the finny spoils
They gather from my plunder'd stream?
With countless thousands, pile on pile,
Their selfish souls were not content,
Until they grasp'd those river-gifts,
Which God to his poor children sent!
There is no justice in the land
Where law such evil work can do,
The right of thousands to convey
Unto the greedy-grasping few!
But God permits the weak a time,
Thus to be trampled by the strong;
Yet He has iron limits fixed
To every course of human wrong!"
He ceased-the moonlight waves uprose,
And lock'd him in their blue embrace;
And round his sinking head, awhile,
Play'd, in pale rings, then slept in peaceWhile calmly, o'er his oozy hall,
The night-stars' tiny lustre burn'd,
As if to light the gloomy depth
To which the River-King return'd.
THE DEATH OF KING BRIAN.
A.D. 1014.
AT day-dawn the battle of giants began,*
And the red rills of life to the reeking brine ran,
While the blows, like the crashing of hugh millstones, fell
On the broad iron shields and the jackets of steel,
* " In this terrific contest fell fourteen thousand Danes, together with
nine thousand of their Irish Legenian allies, and more than ten thousand of
Brian's national army; it was during the time of the flight the greatest
carnage took place."-Norse Account.




294


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


And host consumed host, as a volcanic fire
Heaves down the hill-rocks in its flame-belching ire;
And chief against chief, with a demon-roar sprung,
Like rough granite-cliffs from their ocean-thrones flung.
But of all the Norse-giants, in stature, far higher,
And stronger, was Brodar the legion-destroyer;
His long, shining hair to his girdle was bound,
And he look'd like a turret steel-plated around;
O'er his war-darkened brow his huge helmet's gold cone,
Like a red midnight-flash on the mountain-top, shone;
And his eyes seem'd to glare the destruction of men,
As if death-swords were shaped by grim fire-fiends within.
Thro' the iron battalions he thunder'd amain,
As the wind-spirit roars thro' the woods of the plain;
And, like brambles, the thickets of spears he o'erthrew,
And, like vanishing mist-towers, the leaders he slew.
As sledge-strokes rebound from a broad, brazen bar,
His armour resisted the wrath of the war,
And his shield met the blows as a strong rampart-wall
Meets a whistling hail-shower on the wing of a squall.
Against him rushed Ulfus, gigantic and grim,
Like a gleaming steel-pillar, in body and limb,
And his axe, like a thunder-bolt cleaving an oak,
O'erthrew the fierce king of the fleets, with a stroke;
Thrice Brodar arose from the gore-flooded plain,
And Ulfus thrice struck the chief prostrate again,
'Till, at length, from the cascade of death-blows and blood,
He flew, like a wolf, to the shades of a wood.
The battle-sea surged, 'till the day's dying light
Saw the sword-cloven ranks of the pirates in flight,
While King Brian, at prayer, in his tent kneels alone,
For his guards in pursuit of the Northmen are goneA calm, holy ray round his brow seems to spring,
As he looks on the cross of his crucified King:
And never did royalty halo that brow
So gloriously grand, and sublimely as now.
There's a cry at the door-'tis the kind voice of one*
Whom he loved, as a sire loves his first-born son" Oh! Monarch of Eire! cast thine eyes towards the sea,
And behold the last terrific scene of the day!
* " This is supposed to be his grandson, Torlogh, who, though only fifteen
years of age, followed his father, Morogh, through the thick of the battle,
and, after the flight of the enemy, was found drowned at the Weir of
Clontarf, with his hands entangled in the hair of a Dane's head. It seems
he had grappled with the Dane and both fell into the water where they
perished together."-Annals of Muister.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


295


A scene which a king may behold with delight,
His Nation redeem'd and his foemen in flightThe sea-waves seem dancing in blood round the ships,
Where the combat has shifted ts crimson eclipse!"
Then the monarch looked down to the rim of the flood,
Where the last yellow day-beam seem'd quenching in blood,
And the battle-din lifted its iron-toned voice,
Like an avalanche crushing an island of ice.
And the whirling swords shimmer'd, like storm-driven spray
Dancing up in a flame from a lightning-wrapt sea;
As the mad bands, in broken and bloody retreat,
Disordered and desperate, rolled on to the fleet.
And his great spirit, young with the fame of past fields,
Seem'd to dance to the shrill-ringing tune of the shields;
And he wish'd to be there 'mid the whirl and the dash
Of the war, with its hurricane-clangor and crashThe sun took a last glowing peep at the fight,
And a tear seem'd to stand in his red eye of light,
As if looking his last look, in glory and grief,
On the God-imaged face of the saintly King-Chief.
His last battle is fought-his last victory is won,
And the race of his luminous grandeur is run;
-And his locks, like the snow-mist of wintry Craiglea,
Shall soon spread their diadem'd curls on the clay.
The Oracle answer'd-" 'The Ard Righ shall fall,*
And his brave blood shall crown the destruction of all!
And the heart-crying wail of his Nation shall ring
To the throne of the Lord for the loss of her king!"
Still roar'd on the strand the tumultuous affray,
And the death-clamour strangled the shout of the sea;
And the horrified Norse-women sprung from the ships t
To the waves, with their souls shrieking out on their lips.
In fifties and hundreds the pirates were slain,
From the strand to Ath Cliath and gory Tolcainn;.
And far as the vision could traverse the ground,
Cloven trunks and hack'd mail spread their red banks around.
The grim Brodar glared from the hem of the wood,
And he saw where unguarded the old monarch stood;
He remember'd the demon's dark prophecy well,
And his eye-balls flashed death, like two meteors of hell* The chroniclers of the Battle of Clontarf state that Brodar, Commander-in-chief of the Danes, consulted an oracle about the events of the
action, and the answer was, that if the fight took place on Good Friday, King
Brian would surely fall. Brodar was a man of great strength and stature;
he was remarkable for his practice of magic, and the length of his yellow
hair, which he fastened to his girdle. It was believed that his armour was
proof against the weapons of his enemies.
+ So sure were the Danes of the conquest of Ireland, that they brought
numbers of their women with them; but these, at the time of the rout,
threw themselves, with terror, from the ships into the sea, where they
perished.
t The Tolka river, near Dublin.




296          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Striding out on the plain, towards the rich-silken tent,
Like a plague-spirit, grimly and grisly he went;
Five straggling fugitives stalk'd at his back,
Moving onward, like ravenous sharks to a wreck.
Then the Spirit of Eire, like the glory of day,
Came up from the mist of the blue twilight-sea;
And a rainbow-hued splendour around her was drawn,
Like the rose-veil that hangs o'er the brow of the dawn.
But her face, as she moved thro' the haze of the plain,
As a beauteous eve-cloud, seem'd to melt into rainOn a grassy slope, rich with the new tinge of Spring,
She stood-but unseen-near the tent of her king.
And Oebhinn* the sad, came and sat at her feet,
With the stain of fresh tears on her white-winding sheet;
Her bony hands lock'd o'er her knees lay at rest,
As if strangling each low sob that rose from her breast;
And her eyes, round whose weird orbs a red circle burn'd,
From the king to the coming assassins were turn'd,
While often, her grief-bedimm'd vision to clear,
Her pale hand was lifted to banish the tear.
But Eire, looking up to the red gates of even,
Fixed her glory-lit eyes on the glory of heaven,
And her soul-cleaving agony burst into words,
For the king of her kings and the lord of her lords.
" Seven thousand brave lives have been wasted for me,
Since the flame-footed morn danced over yon sea!
But, oh! God of the mighty! has fate darkly will'd
That my highest and grandest one's blood must be spill'd?
His reign was a shadow that fell from Thy hand,
Shedding love, light, and joy thro' the breadth of my land;
Fanes and altars he raised to Thy high, holy name,
And purged from Thy people the weeds of their shame!
But shall the great work of the glory he plann'd,
Depart, like a dream-image traced upon sand?
And leave me, amidst the bright conquests he won,
Like a well-fruited garden deprived of the sun?
Farewell! my defender, my guardian, my all!
I cannot here linger to witness thy fall!
My tears and entreaties, with fate, are in vain,
While, for empires, thou would'st not fly from the plain!
To me were thy planet-like splendour and might,
As to earth are the use and the beauty of light;
'Till the chalice of brightness I drank from thy hand,
Steep'd my soul in a long dream of majesty grand!
* See pages 41 and 103.
The annalists say that the Northmen were pursued in all directions, in
twenties, in fifties, and in hundreds, and slaughtered without quarter by
their avenging pursuers. When Brian's guard returned, after the pursuit,
and found their monarch dead, they hewed the bodies of the assassins into
pieces.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


297


The last reaping day of thy harvest is o'er,
And the cup of thy glory can't hold a drop more!
Thou'lt sink to the dust, like a flame-cloven tower,
And with thee I'll lose all my greatness and power!
For the light of my crown shall be taken away,
And my doom shall be dark as the caves of the seaMy people shall bleed in a foreigner's thrall,
And their bread and their drink shall be ashes and gall!
She sigh'd, and her mild eyes seemed freezing to stone,
As if her great spirit had died in a groan;
And she melted away, like a heavenly beam
Which the soul of a mourner beholds in a dreamStill Oebhinn, the Banshee, sat weeping behind,
And her murmur of dole whisper'd death in the wind,
As near the rich silk-cover'd tent of the King,
Came the Lord of the Danes, with a tiger-like spring.
But Eire's white-hair'd ruler stood arm'd for the fightFast-grasping his shield-cleaving war-axe of might,
While his soul shot in flame thro' each muscle and vein,
And thaw'd from each limb age's stiff icy chain.
Like the Angel of Death looking down from the sky,
His fire-armed spirit shot sparks from his eye,
As he stood, with dread majesty lifting his form,
Like an insulted god personating a storm.
Even tall Brodar paused, with that fate-telling fear
Which warns the soul when sure danger is near,
And his heart, by the terrible King, awe-inspired,
From his blood-longing purpose, a moment, retired.
Brian's eye, like a red-scathing lightning-brand, fell
On the sea-giant's ponderous garment of steel,
But discern d no part where his axe may wound free,
Except where the solid plates met at his knee.
With vigour unswerving, the broad war-axe flew,
Bone, sinew, and steel plates dividing in two;
The right leg is lopp'd, like a bough, from his knee,
And the left from the ancle is sever'd as freeHe fell, like a tower, and his heavy mail rung,
Like a strong city gate from its lofty piers flung,
While, well-aim'd and rapid, a second blow sped,
And swept from his shoulders his iron-cased head.
But the stragglers who followed the chief from the woodWith a yell of revenge for their pirate-king's bloodSurrounded the Ard Righ, and struck at his form,
Yet, cautious, avoided the sweep of his arm,
'Till one stole behind his illustrious foe,
And shattered his head, with a life-drinking blow:
The bleeding king shiver'd and stagger d aside,
Grasp'd his slayer and slew him-then fell down, and died.
20




298


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


One shriek of the Banshee was heard on the blast,
And away thro' the blue-dusky twilight she past
To her home on Craiglea's rocky heath-circled height,
Where her long, solemn wail 'woke the echoes all night.
The harpstrings, untouched by a mortal hand, gave
Low hollow-toned notes, like ghost-sighs from the grave,
Where in the mute hall of Kinkora they hung,
'Till their king-master's glorious return, unstrung.
But they seem'd to each other to speak of his death,
As if prophecy's spirit inspired them with breath:
The startled bards heard the weird omen of woe,
And they knew that the king of their songs was laid low.
Fast, fast, thro' the Island the wild tidings spread"King Brian-the mighty King Brian-is dead!"*
All is mourning, and wailing, and sorrow, and gloom,
As if the Last Day, in its terrors, had come!
THE MAIDEN'S DREAM.
THE month of flowers is come,
And the pearly blossoms glow
On the hawtree's scented arms,
Like a shower of sunny snow,
And the daisies, in the mead,
Are like glistening foam-flecks seen,
In the glory of the sunbeams,
On a sleeping sea of green.
From the mossy-vernal bank,
The coy primrose glances up,
With a rainbow-gem of light
Sparkling in its yellow cup,
While the honey-bee floats in
To its dewy-couch of rest,
To take a fragrant drink
From its glowing golden breast.
I am sitting all alone,
In the dreamy summer's sun,
On the fairy-haunted bank
Of the shadowy Avondoun,
But there's winter in my heart,
For my blossom 's far away,
And my soul can drink no joy
From the flowery smile of May!
SWhen the fall of Brian, Morogh, Torlogh, Conning, Kian, and other
great Chiefs became known to the country, the demonstrations of the
people's sorrow Were intense, so loved were those warriors for their manly
virtues and their large-hearted munificence.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


299


Little river!-stealing down
From thy mountain sister-rillsWildly singing your "Farewell!"
To the glory of the hillsI am dreaming of the days,
And the fairy moonlight-eves,
When his young heart danced, with mine,
To the crooning of thy waves!
The sun-kiss'd flowers that laugh,
On yon blossom-crested bough,
Remind me of the beauty
And the brightness of his brow,
When his soul in loving glances
On my joyful bosom fell,
Like the gentle ray of sunrise
On the virgin primrose-bell!
The brown-plumed falcon perch'd
On the castle-turret high,
Looks proudly on the landscape,
With his distance-piercing eyeBut my " Bochail's" eye was keener,
With its spirit-kindled glow,
Than the melting dart of lustre
Shot from morning's golden bow!
To America he's gone,
But he promised to return,
Ere three floral summer-suns
On our kingly mountains burn!
And I fondly dreamt, last night,
He was coming o'er the sea,
With good news for lonely Erin,
And a bridal ring for me!
He was like a young wild steed,
From a desert bounding out,
And I fear he joined the war
That's between the North and SouthFor my sad soul hears a whisper,
When the evening-shadows frown"Oh! you'll never more behold him
On the banks of Avondoun!"
THE PERI OF PARTEEN.
OH I sweet are the lawns where the sunbeams and shadows$
Like bright and dark spirits, so silently play,
While the mist-god is spreading his white pinions, shedding
Soft golden love-tears on the bosom of May



300          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
But Nature hath never, by meadow or river,
Given sweetness to beauty so bright to be seen,
As the ringleted Fairy-young waxen-brow'd Mary,
The snow-footed Peri of shady Parteen!
The down of the pigeon's wing never fell lighter
On earth than the touch of her echoless feet,
And her mild face with innocent blushes is brighter
Than the fresh, sunny, summer-rose, simple and sweet.
But what is the charm of feature or form
To the angelic essence that's living within
The bosom of Mary-the syren-tongued FairyThe young dove-eyed Peri of shady Parteen?
One morning, as Love sketched an image of Beauty,
And fancy gave life to the portrait he drew,
A Seraph came down from the halls of the sun,
And over the sweet picture radiantly flew;
But Love, tho' short-sighted, took his pencil, delighted,
And copied that fair Spirit's form and mien,
Then to Nature he ran, with the beautiful plan,
And she moulded the Peri of shady Parteen!
Stately head of the bright, silken treasure of tressesGentle mouth where the soul of sweet melody swimsEyes brilliantly flashing-cheeks modestly blushingSlender frame of the delicate white-taper'd limbsMay virtue watch o'er thee, while lovers adore thee,
And no thorn of pain in thy pure heart be driven,
'Till, tearless and splendid, life's bright mission endedThe angels shall welcome their sister to heaven!
A VISIT TO CORK.
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT P. C. WALSH, ESQ.
'TWAS a bright day of sunny-linked hours,
And the young fruit was green on the tree,
When I wandered from Shannon's wild bowers
To thy home by the beautiful Lee!
As Nature's child welcomes the May,
So warm was thy welcome for me,
In thy glad little mansion, so gay,
By the beautiful, clear-flowing Lee!
The pleasure that friendship imparts
So seldom from others I drew,
That I shrank from their cold, fireless hearts,
Like a leaf in the blight-laden dew;
A genial communion of soul,
I felt not with any but thee,
So unchill'd by restraint or control,
In thy home by the beautiful Lee!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


301,


Away with dull classical arts,
In which nought but mere polish can shine
But, oh! God! for a world of hearts,
And social, kind natures, like thine!
Then here's to the noble-soul'd fewThe lore-loving, generous and free,
Who would make a Bard happy, like you,
In your home by the beautiful Lee!
I mark'd the calm light thy thoughts gave
To thy brow, as we two knelt and pray'd
On the sacred sun-hallow'd grave
Where the Bard* of the Shannon is laid!
I.pluck'd a few leaves o'er his breast,
More dear than primroses to me,
For I envied the place of his rest,
By the beautiful, bright-winding Lee.
In his life-time his soul's loving spring
The cold world chill'd in its birth,
And his fancy's bright star-ranging wing
Was chain'd in the dust of the earth;
When doom'd in a garret to pine,
How glad would his gentle heart be
To meet a true spirit, like thine,
By the beautiful, bright flowing Lee!
The blast of the desert will spare
The weeds while it strikes the flowers dead,
Thus fools are regarded, with care,
Whilst prophets are pining for breadAh! such, noble Bard! was thy lot,
While folly was pamper'd round thee,
You thought, toil'd, and sung on, forgot,
Far, far from. the Shannon and Lee!
To the Botanic Gardens we stray'd,
To the grave of the " Minstrel Man!"P
Who to maidens and matrons play'd,
By the Nore, Suir, Barrow, and Bann --
As his epitaph-record I read,
I offer'd his memory a tear;."Oh, blest be the kind bands!" I said,
That erected this monument here!"
The nettles and weeds that had grown
O'er the sleep of the song-honour'd dead,
We tore up, around the gray stone,
And cast them away from his bed* Gerald Griffin is buried in the North Cemetery at Cork.
t Edward Walsh, the gifted author of many original and beautiful compositions, breathing the native sweetness of true, harmonious Irish poetry,
His correct knowledge of the ancient Gaelic enabled him totranslate a large
number of Irish poems into English, without losing any of the freshness.
vivacity, and point of the mother-tongue.




302          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Tho' his heart in Life's battle was stung,
Yet few weeds in his nature had he,
While his bruised spirit gushed into song,
By the beautiful, bright-flowing Lee!
Dear Bard of the soul-kindling flameMy brother in poesy and loveThou art hymning a God-praising theme,
In the angel-orchestra above!
Farewell to thy bough-shadow'd tomb!
Where the soft winds sing requiems o'er theeFarewell to my friend and his home,
By the beautiful, bright-flowing Lee!
THE     SPECTRE-BRIDE.
A LEGEND OF KINKORA.*
MAJESTIC and grand are the towers of Kinkora,
With her "Palace of jewels," all sparkling in sheen;
There's not in the land of romantic Temora
A Palace so glorious-a valley so green.
There Nature has flung o'er bright lake and lone dale,
A magic more brilliant than ever descended,
By the strong wizard-power of the Druids of La Fail,t
On the Spirit-guarded circle of Temair the splendid.
How gorgeously-beauteous, and solemnly-dark,
The hills weave their shades o'er the waters below?
Each showing to heaven the lightning's black mark
On the brown rocky-mail of its bosom and brow.
And the woods at their feet, how enchanting they seem?
In the mountain-wind ringing their bright leafy-bells,
As if Nature delighted lay there, in a dream,
Charm'd into repose by the voice of their spells.
And the Palace-how proud by the beam-glinting surge
It stands, with its marble walls fronting the sun;
Looking out o'er the Lake, from the shore's radiant verge,
With the pomp and the glow of an Archangel's throne.
Here and there the quick glancing of gold-hilted blades,
Like sun-born flashes, burst out from the shades
Where the princes and lords, tired of revel and song,
Are roving the woods' fairy shadows among,
While out on the lawn, in the thyme-scented air,
Walk virgins as gloriously-beauteous and fair
* A. D. 978, Brian was crowned King of Munster. Tradition reports that
on the same year the harvest was so abundant, the people were unable to
gather it all in.
t The above poem attempts to describe the Coronation-banquet given by
the monarch at Kinkora, where all the brave and fair of the province
assembled to enjoy the festivities.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


303


As Deirdre the lovely or Blanaid the bright,"
For whom Naois and Conrigh were vanquish'd in fight.
Then to hear the rich swell of the harps in the halls,
As if angels, in song, to each other were speaking,
By turns the rich concert rises and falls,
Round the bright plains the sweet-thrilling melody shaking
And down by the shore, in green Edens of shade,
To see the King-guests in their grandeur recliningTheir rich vests, with six radiant colours array'd,
And their bright silken mantles with gold spangles shining,
While the waves, stealing in on the brown-glossy sand,
Fell asleep in the sun, with a musical tone;
Like large silver rings from the Lake-spirit's hand,
As tokens of joy, at the heroes' feet thrown.
Blue evening descended-the day-beams retire,
And the crests of the hills are all plumed with their fireRed gold-colour'd clouds of bright purple and brown,
Like flame-banners hung o'er Craighlea's yellow crown.
All was dusky and calm, and the white-horn'd moon
Peer'd dim thro' the deep aerial-crystal of June;
And the pale fairy-mist on the hill-woods arose,
Slowly casting its veil o'er their twilight-repose.
Each mountain exchanged its deep, azure eve-gem
For a gray moonlight-robe and a star-diadem,
And, towering in heavenly dignity, stood,
Like planet-guards watching the empire of God.
Not a wave, on its bosom, a moon-sparkle bore
From the lake's holy isles to the flowers of the shoreBut all is as dreamy and beautiful there
As if the calm waters stood silent in prayer,
While, silvered with moonlight, the grand Palace-towers
In kingly magnificence, peer'd thro' the bowers;
Enchantment aroultd them and glory above,
And within them all beauty, and music, and loveFor long ere the day's flaming circle went down
The blue slope of heaven, in dazzling career,
Mononia gave Brian her glory-gemmed crown,
And made him her king 'neath the Oak of Adair.t
And her bravest, and proudest, and highest, to-night,
Have come to Kinkora, with joy in their soulsTo bow at the throne of the gifted and bright,
And quaff the red stream of his gold-circled bowls,
* " The magical Stone of Destiny on which the Tuatha De Danaan kings
were crowned at Tara, attended by Druids, with their mysterious ceremonials.
This stone was taken away to Scone, in Sootland, and afterwards to Westminister, where it is still to be seen."-Four Masters' Annals.
t The royal Oak of Moyadair, beneath whose boughs the Dalcassian
kings where crowned. It was cut down by Malachy II., in one of his raids
against Brian.




304            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
All, all is love, harmony, chivalry, mirthAnd a thousand lights blaze o'er the face of the plainOh! it seem'd a new Eden created on earth,
Where the serpent could never find entrance again.
The laugh of the joyous-the cheer of the free
Rose wild as the deep summer-song of the sea;
The humblest there is no vassal nor slave,
But a freeborn soul, bound by love to the brave.
Bonfires redden'd the clouds on the mountain's gray head,
And the spirit of song thro' the valleys was pour'd,
And rich festive-boards round the gay lawns were spread,
Where the peasant may banquet as well as the lord.
White maidens, like heavenly spirits, were seen
Gliding playful the moon-border'd larch-bowers among,
With the smile of a happy soul bright on each mien,
And a soft Gaelic ditty alive on each tongue.
But to hear how the harps flung their notes into one
Diapason of sweetness the grand halls withinAs if the rich soul of each note that was gone
Threw back on the strings its wild magic again.
The jewels of princesses glisten'd and blazed,
And dazzled the eyes of the chiefs as they gazed;
The regal boards groan'd with the savoury foodWhite fish from the lake and red deer from the woodYoung kine from the meadow-fat sheep from the hill,
The snipe from the marsh and the duck from the rillIn goblets of silver the Danes' mystic Boir,*
Whose current would warm the ice-heart of death,
Show'd the luxurious glow of its sweet liquid-fire,
Distill'd from the juice of the green fairy-heathAnd the guests toasted, drank, cheer'd, and feasted, and sang,
For the stars of the land round the board were assembled;
And the music and dancing incessantly rang,
'Till the towers of the Palace resounded and trembled.
'Twas midnight, and yet the wild revel went on
As joyous and brilliant as when it began:
But the ladies and maids to their chambers are gone,
From the festive delights of the dais, but oneOne strange, darkly-beautiful, wizard-eyed queen,
Who never till now at the palace was seen* Tradition reports that the Danes made a sweet-flavoured and intoxicating liquor from the mountain-heath; but so well did they conceal the art,
that the Irish never could discover it. One of those foreigners and his
son were detected at the process of distillation.; they were threatened with
instant death if they refused to impart the knowledge of the art; the wily
fatherpromised'to reveal the secret provided his son were killed, as he feared
he would tell his countrymen and bring vengeance on him. The son was
accordingly despatched, when the father said, with a triumphant sneer,
"Now do ye the same to myself, for ye shall never know this secret l"
The hardened old pirate was at once put to death.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


305


Unknown to the guests were her kindred and nameSlight were her arms and slender her frame;
Berry-black were her keen eyes, but darker her hair,
As if all the gloom of December were there;
Yet her brow glistened pale, as the crescent of light
That divides the dim empires of morning and nightHer bosom betray'd no emotion of breath,
For the springs of her being seem'd tideless beneath,
As if her whole soul in one deep thought was thrown
In her eye of dark flame and her cold brow of stone.
Thro' the glittering assembly her lurid eye ran,
'Till its hot glance indignant was fixed upon oneOne stern-brow'd chief-the fierce Tanist of Brugh,
And well those dark eyes and white features he knew.
Then she lifted the golden-fringed fulluinn she wore,
And crossed, like a cloud-shade, the bright, marble floor,
And stood, with her freezing brow, fronting the throne
Where the newly-crowned king, like a summer-day, shone.
His large eagle-eyes met her gaze, with a thrill,"
That made, for a moment, their planets stand still;
And the revellers grew mute, and astounded, look'd up,
While the wine lay untasted and cold in each cup.
As amid the drear pomp of a frost-stricken wood
Stands the snowy-hair'd angel of winter-she stood
Darkly, fearfully beauteous-repulsing, with awe,
Each heart that approached her-each proud eye that sawBut the Ard Righ addressed her-" Strange Lady! speak free,
If favour or boon thou requirest of me!"*
Unmoved was her figure-unchanged was her eye,
And her lips were as steel sending forth a reply;
And no pallor crept into her cheek's hectic flush,
Like the dingy-red leaf of the sick autumn-bush"King! the sound of thy fame shall be heard o'er the main,
But the earth shall drink blood in the days of thy reign!
* So strictly did Brian see the administration of justice carried out, that
neither wealth, position, nor dignity could save an offender from due
punishment. At one time a serious crime was charged against one of his
sons, and he immediately had him tried before a chief brehon (judge) and
jury. Being convicted and sentenced, no mitigation would be granted by
the monarch, the full penalty was paid. He said that while he punished
offences in his own family, it would deter others, and make them respect
the law. He frequently repudiated his queen, Gormlaith, for her extravagant vanity and arrogance, but he only drew on his head the eternal resentment of that sublime Fitry, who, with the aid of her brother, stirred up
the Danes against him, promising, by private letters, her hand in marriage
to three of their principal commanders, viz., Brodar, Satric, and Anrud, if
they would overthrow her husband in battle; consequently they fought like
demons, at Clontarf, for the hand of the queen of Ireland, without knowing
each other's motives, so well did each keep her secret to himself. After the
fall of Brianshe married Malachy, his successor, who was her third husband;
Olaf, the Danish King of Dublin, was her first; she died in 1030.




306         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Yet, like David, the chosen of God, thou'lt outshine
All the victors of Eire-all the kings of thy lineBut if thou hast a heart for the injured, I claim
A boon of redress in the injured one's name;
Call before thee yon reptile that lurks in the throng,
'Till I whiten his cheek, with the tale of my wrong!"
She pointed at Firgal the Tanist of Brugh,
He, cowering, sank under the board from her view,
And a sneer on her lip coldly, scornfully play'd,
Like the curl of a stream in a bleak, haunted shade.
The king shook his sceptre, commanding aloud,
The chief to come forth from the banquetting crowd,
But two heralds brought him out from his dark-lurking place,
With the cold sweat of fear glistening o'er his white face.
The lady look'd on him, with wrathful disdain,
And the flame of her wild eye seem'd scorching his brain,
And her hoarse, angry voice did the sternest appal,
As it rang, like the shriek of a blast, through the hall.
"Twelve red moons have traversed the skies since the night,
On the banks of the Comog, I gave thee my plight!
And thou swor'st, aloud, by the Gospel, to be
A sire to my child and a consort to me!
I believed thee-the angels or demons of space
Could not then read the lie in thy cold-blooded face;
Moreover you swore by Saint Bride's holy ring,
That, when sceptred Mononia would crown her next king,
At his coronation-banquet I'd proudly preside,
With the church-hallowed name of a wife, by thy sideHa! thou'st kept all thy treacherous promises well,
But the river the rest of my history can tell!
Now the king has been crown'd and the banquet is laid,
And 'tis time to redeem all the vows thou hast made!
My cheek has not lost the bright stain of its red,
Tho' sleeping for months in the water's bleak bedHere's the ring in my hand-let the priest read the rite,
And we both shall be happy in wedlock to-night!
No bridesmaid nor guest to our nuptials we'll bringWilt thou honour my claim, with thy sanction? 0 King!
I cannot wait longer, the rite must be done,
Ere the gray East puts on the red ring of the sun!"
The nobles look'd dumb on the guilty accused,
And the Ard Righ gazed round him bewildered, confused,
But ere monarch or brehon had time to reply,
The cock's clarion told that the morning was nigh;
To a column of darkness the weird lady grew,
While the blaze of the lamps turned purple and blue,
And each chief felt his clouded eyes smitten with pain,
As if a black fever-dream swam thro' his brain.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


307


Dim, livid and sombre shades flitted around,
With the wint'ry moan of a whirlwind's deep sound,
And on to the door the black gloom-wave was borne,
Like an eclipse slow-walking the hall of the morn.
All is silent again, save the roll of the flood,
And the dull, raving sound of the wind-shaken wood:
But the East show'd the first crimson spangle of dawn,
And the dark Spectre-Bride with her bridegroom was gone.
THE DESTRUCTION OF KINKORA.*
THE PROPHECY OF MORTOGHMORE O'BRIEN'S BARD.
O'ER gloomy Slieve Bernagh the evening fog roll'd
Its mantle of vapour, in many a gray fold;
The women of Thomond are singing the caoine,t
Where they searched for their dead on the war-redden'd plain.
The cattle are dying of plague in the vale,
And the green of the land has grown meagre and pale,
For God has look'd down on man's record of wrong,
With a scourge in His hand, and a curse on His tongue.
Oh I ye blind race of Golamh, why do ye provoke
The Holy One's anger-the wrath of his stroke?
He gave ye a land full of sun-ripen'd grainYe quarrell'd and sinn'd-and he sent ye the Dane,
With a hell-temper'd sword to demolish and slay,
'Till your Isle, like a burnt-up wilderness lay'Till your heart-bleeding septs found their desolate tombs
In the ashes and wreck of their fire-blacken'd homesBut the tears of the saints quenched the nation's death-pyre,
And appeased, for a season, the Holy One's ireThen He sent to redeem ye, King Brian the Grand,
Who banish'd the red-demon pests from your land,
And he lifted ye up from your ashes blood-leaven,
'Till your free Island laughed with the brightness of heaven!
But again shrieks the Cain-cry of blood on your brand,
For brother 'gainst brother, has lifted his handWoe, woe to your discords! ye blind-hearted men!
Ye have anger'd the Lord to chastise ye again!
And He'll roll a death-stone o'er your Island of mist,
That shall wither your spirits and grind you, like grist,
Yea, He'll send a fierce scourge ten times worse than the Dane,
And the nations shall laugh at the howl of your pain!
* A.D. 1118, Torlogh'O'Connor, King of Connaught, advanced to Kinkora,
tore down the royal edifice, and hurled it, wood and stone, into the
Shannon: the Dalgais, at the time, being so weakened from continual warfare, were unable to defend it, but in two years after they invaded Connaught, plundered and burned it, and did not leave of O'Connor's palace
one stone upon another even to the lowest 'foundation. This they did in
revenge for the ruin of their favourite Kinkora.
t It was a custom with the women to sing the death chant or caoine,
while searching the field for their dead relatives, after a battle.




308           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Base strangers shall pollute the hearths of your kings,
And your customs erase as abominable things!
And your princes, with all the high pride of their birth,
Shall be rooted, like trees, from the breast of the earth!
Woe, woe to your discords-ye doom'd Gaels of EireThe death-toothed harrow of famine and fire,
On his mission of vengeance, a foreigner brings *
To rake ye to dust, princes, people and kings!
Ha! the fruit of your fields for a stranger shall grow,
And your grim persecutors shall mock at your woe!
Your children shall wander, like sea-birds forlorn,
Cast out from their homes, like the chaff of a barnAnd thus shall your murderous dissensions be cool'd,
When your land by the base-blooded stranger is ruled!
Return, O'Connor! return to thy home,
Desecrate not a stone of yon bright palace-dome!
The steel-talon'd Eagles it nurst in its breast
Have perish'd in fight-then destroy not the nest!
The mighty MacLoughlin consumed it before,
In the turbulent days of the fierce Mortoghmore,t
But the king to the blue North his wrathful face turn'd,
And Aileach the Pompous to ashes he burn'd!
And his clansmen return'd, each bringing a stone
Of the proud palace-walls by his vengeance o'erthrownThen remember, 0 King! tho' the Dalgais, this hour,
Are unable to stem the great tide of thy power,
Yet they'll gather their might, like the might of the sea,
And, with ruin and blood, thy black insult repay!
Retire, haughty chief! let Kinkora aloneFor I swear by the sun! if you touch but one stone!
The demons of hell and angels of heaven
Shall sup at one feast ere the wrong be forgiven!"
Thus sang the bard, in a robe of white,
As he stood 'mid the shadows of brown Craighlea;
His wild eye red as a furnace-light,
And his bold mouth teeming with prophecy"Thou, evil lips!" said the frowning king,
"Here's a chain of gold to curb thy tongue!"
The angry bard caught the glittering thing,
Which into the deep lake's wave he flung,
* Alluding to the Norman invasion which soon followed.
+ "In 1064, MacLoughlin, Prince of Aileach, invaded the principality of
Mortoghmore O'Brien, King of Munster; among other predatory acts, he
plundered and demolished the Palace of Kinkora. Mortogh, after re-edifying it, marched into Ulster, and burned down the royal Palace of Aileach,
and made each man of his army bring away a stone of it into Thomond.
How peacefully he waited for three years, during which time he had his
ancestral palace in course of reconstruction, before he thought of bringing
away the stones of Aileach from the North. This was an act of vengeance
with a vengeance, which put to the blush the wildest exploit of his fiercest
enemy."--Annal of Thoiond.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


309


Then he turned his eye from the curling flood,
And said to the king, with a darken'd smile,
"May thy proud house perish in flame and blood,
If you lift a hand to yon princely pile!"
The monarch pass'd, with his spears of war
Shining o'er the crests of his veteran powers,
Who, with rooting axe and disjointing bar,
Assail'd the fair walls of the kingly towersUnroof'd were chamber and banquet-hallBrief was the work of ten thousand hands,
While, breach by breach, wall after wall,
Went down, with a crash, on the smoking sands.
The oaken boards and the seats of state,
With their regal carvings and polish'd frame,
The base kerns smash'd, in their wolfish hate,
And hurl'd them, piecemeal, into the stream.
The echoes groan'd as the wreckers' cheer
On the passing wing of the lake-gale leapt;
But the old men of Cas, who were standing near,
Turn'd their brows to the earth and weptTower and column were riven and roll'd
Into the ruin-discolour'd tide,
Where, like growing banks.of shapeless mould,
They turn'd the lordly river aside.
And King O'Connor look'd joyfully on,
'Till the walls were plough'd to the very dust,
And when the unholy work was done,
A vengeful laugh from his curved lip burst.
Kinkora, that day, was a woeful sight,
Hurl'd into the grave of the yellow flood;
Oh! they left not a vestige, nor stone upright,
To mark where the House of King Brian stood.
The priests of the Dalgais gaz'd from the hill,
And their big tears flow'd, and their heads they shookThey tore their robes, as they cried their fill,
And curst O'Connor, with bell and book.
But when the blood-stain'd ravagers went
Their way-while the scene in the sunset sleptBard, brehon, and clansman, with deep lament,
Surrounded the place, and, like children, wept.
"0 Kinkora! high dwelling of banquet and song!
Where the gold-crown'd kings of the nation met,
At feast and council-oh, heart of the strong!
How has the light of thy grandeur set?
Rich queen of great treasures! sad is thy mishap!
None thought that forlorn and poor you'd be,
When the wealth of an empire was laid in thy lap, *
And wonderful tributes pour'd into thee!
* Tradition relates that the wealth of this palace was so immense it was
sufficient to purchase a kingdom. It was usually called "the Palace of
jewels" by the bards and Seanachies, on account of its enormous treasures.




310             LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
There none ask'd the foot-sore traveller's name,
When he went to thy hall and sat down to dineNone ask'd who he was, or whence he came,
But gave him plenty of meat and wine!
There the weak found pity-the weary found restThe scholar found honour-the orphan breadThere the plaint of the injured was heard and redress'd,
And the wandering minstrel welcomed and fedOh, generous house of majestic souls!
We thought thy glory would never fall,
When we saw, at one banquet, a thousand bowls
Of silver and gold in thy sounding hall!
Tis well for Mac Leig * that he lies in dust,
For if he were living, this night, to see
Thy black desolation, his heart would burst,
In singing another "Lament" for thee!
Ah! 'tis well for the cruel despoilers now,
That Brian, the mighty Avenger, is dead,
For instead of each stone of his palace laid low,
He'd take as an eric, t a Connaughtman's head!
Or if Morogh, the slayer of armies, were here'Tis dearly those brigands their deed would rueOr fierce Mortoghmore, with his mail-cleaving spear!
That the champions of Aileach, in battle, o'erthrew!
But a day of blood-reckoning is near at hand,
For the war-hawks of Eber shall soon grow strong
To wreak their resentment, with fire and brand,
On the raiders-Kinkora! who wrought this wrong!
THE PIRATE OF DUNLICA. t
A LEGEND OF CORCOWASKIN. +
FAIR Una MacMahon, the yellow-haired bride
Of the Lord of Dunlica, sits lone by the tide;
* He was Brian's Bard and Secretary of State. See Mangan's translation of his beautiful " Lament for Kinkora," after Brian's fall at Clontarf.
He died in the Isle of Man, two years after the battle.
t A fine or compensation.
In Loch Dearg, adjacent to the Palace, tradition tells that the far-famed
magical collar of Moran lies hidden. This wonderful collar was used by
the brehons, or chief judges, to elicit true testimony from sworn witnesses
in law suits. It was placed around the neck of the witness, but if he swore
falsely it immediately contracted and choked him. I only wish we had
many such collars now, at least one in every courthouse in Ireland.
t Dunlica Castle (or rather the ruins of it) stands on a naked cliff, in a
deserted and romantic spot, on the south-western coast of Clare, between
Kilkee and Carrigaholt. According to some oral accounts, it was built in
the fifteenth century by one of the MaeMahons of Corcovaskin.  It was
long the abode of pirates and wreckers, the principal of whom was Cean
Dhu, or dark head, the hero of the above poem, who possessed the castle
through a marriage alliance with the MacMahon family. Fragments of
the burned ship, which belonged to this pirate chief, have often been found
on the coast, buried in the sand.
~ " Corcovaskin comprises the baronies of Moyarta, Clonderalaw, and




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


311


The red eve is quench'd in the blue, sullen main,
And the night-mist hangs pale over stormy Moveen.
The waves, in a war-dance, are shouting below,
And tossing about their tiaras of snow,
Besieging the bounds of that cliff-guarded shore,
Which may challenge their might for five thousand years
more!
But why sits fair Una alone on the verge
Of that desolate rock, by the roar of the surge?
The wave-spray is silvering the silk of her hair,
The darkness grows 'round her, and still she is there!
The sea-birds are shrieking, like ghosts, 'round the cliffs,
And the fishers have steer'd to the brown bay their skiffs,
For they know by the low dingy scud of the South,
That the fiend of the tempest to-night will be out.
And Una has watch'd, from the dusk to the dark,
For the breeze-swollen wings of her Ocean-Chief's bark,
Which has gone in pursuit of some maritime prey,
Since morning put on the sun-splendours of day.
Twelve evenings had crimson'd the face of the tide,
Since the Lord of Dunlica had made her his bride:
Of all brave sea-rovers the bravest was he,
And of Thomond's fair daughters the fairest was she,
With ringlets which hung, like a beautiful charm,
O'er the delicate mould of her snow-neck and arm,
And lips, like a rich glowing crescent of coral
Enclosing a sea-fairy's palace of pearl;
And her face, like a seraph's cast into repose,
Had the fresh, sweet Spring-bloom of the young desert rose;
And her form, like the green, slender poplar in May,
When the zephyrs, in music, steal round it to play;
Yet her eye, when the veil of its lightning was raised,
Like the flash of her father's blue scimitar, blazedj
For her spirit, when angry, look'd out from her face,
With the grand, stern pride of her regal-soul'd race.
Since childhood she haunted the glorious sea-shore,
In love with its terrors, and pleased with the roar
Of the thunder-toned surges that danced in and out,
Like an army of white giants charging about;
And Una became like a thing of the sea,
Begot of its grandeur and born of the spray,
Ibrickane. It was called after Baskin, the second son of Conaire, Monarch
of Ireland, in the second century. The O'Donnells were the principal
owners until dispossessed by the MacMahons, an offshoot of the O'Briens.
They built many castles in Corcovaskin, such as Carrigaholt, i.e., the
Rock of the boats, the castle of Kilmurry in Ibrickane, the castles of
Dunbeg and Dunmore, and several other fortresses, the ruins of which
attest the great former strength of those places.  Cleena was another
important stronghold of this ancient and once-powerful family."-Annals
of Thomond.




312          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Till her spirit look'd scornfully back to the earth,
That bounded her wanderings and boasted her birth.
When the red, sombre sun-mist of evening was thrown
O'er the ocean, she gazed on its glory alone,
As she stood o'er the blue mountain-swell of the deep,
Like a bride of the Wind-God, enthroned on a steep;
Or she rush'd, in her skiff, thro' the combat of waves
As if the mad seas and wild squalls were her slaves,
And she seem'd, on the white-rolling surges, to be
Like a darling child danced on a fierce parent's knee.
The wild ocean-birds were not daunted nor scared
From their places of rest when the princess, appear'd;
For they knew, as she strayed on the cliffs, flinty shelves,
That she loved the grand sea and was wild as themselves!
And she was the child of a chief that ne'er bow'dMacMahon, of Baskinn, the princely and proud;
And she wedded the Lord of Dunlica, because
He lived free as the shark, and regarded no laws:
The Sassenach sailors long dreaded and knew
His power;-and the peasantry call'd him Cean Dhu!
The last dusky sun-streak is gone from the sky,
And the clouds-like black war-steeds that riderless fly
From the red press of battle-are rapidly borne
Thro' the dim, aerial vault, with their sable skirts torn,
For the tempest has sounded its battle-charge dire,
And the breakers leapt up, as if pinion'd on fire,
Shouting awful defiance to lightning and squall,
And shaking the cliffs with the crash of their fall;
Fierce-blending their war-whoops, majestic in one
Thunder-chorus of wrath, as they madly charged on
The flint-clifted ramparts, that awfully stand
Repelling their furious assaults on the land,
While the dense, showering spray hissed and whirled to and
fro,
Whitening all the wide coast with the clouds of its snow.
Now they gather and boil at the rock's iron foot,
Then, like screaming ghosts, up to the headland they shoot;
Now downward they dance, tearing all in their way,
Flogging boulder and crag with their white whips of spray!
Then up, with mad vengeance, they thunder again,
Roaring, wrestling, to pull the cliffs into the main!
Here they shriek into chinks -there they bellow in caves,
As if seeking some victims to drag to their graves!
Now they foam, flash and leap, dance and shout o'er the reef,
Like retreating clans calling for aid to their chief;
Then onward, with mighty reinforcements of foam,
Up the jagg'd shelves, like hoarse-howling demons, they come
Again, with a fierce yell of wrath, they sweep down,
Like an army repulsed from the walls of a town I




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


313


The Lord of Dunlica was cruizing all day,
When, an hour before sunset, he captured a p rey:
A rich English merchant, whose freight, we are told,
Was worth twenty thousand bright pieces of gold;
But a war-frigate swept on the Pirate-Chief's track,
Threw open her ports, and commenced the attack;
And Cean Dhu's guns, in a moment, replied,
And gave the brave foe a destructive broadside!
In shrill, whistling splinters the riven planks flew,
Where the fiery shot tore, killing nine of the crewNight shadow'd the main, as the combat began,
Yet the iron-destruction from ship to ship ran,
Rending bulwark and hull, till each blood-painted deck
Was strewn with dead trunks and encumber'd with wreck!
In rapid succession the quick lurid blaze
Of the cannon appear'd thro' the deep ocean-haze;
And ruin's dread thunder-boom followed each flash,
Then the ringing oak shriek'd to the balls' hollow crash;
The tempest leapt down from its empire of gloom'
And plough'd the dark sea into ridges of foam;
And the militant vessels were whirl'd away,
(Ere the combat was o'er), thro' the mists of the spray;
While the fearless Cean Dhu looks around him, to view
The reeking destruction of half his fierce crew!
The bodies were flung in one seething grave, white,
And the sharks feasted well on the spoils of the fight.
Yet the Pirate Chief still is the lord of the tide,
And he speeds away home to his proud ocean-bride;
With his tatter'd sails reefed, and his bulwarks ball-riven,
Right on towards Dunlica the Sea-Chief is driven;
And he stands on the high poop, as fixed as a tower,
'Mid the storm's hoarse shout and the spray's bursting shower,
He has yet to contend with a foeman more direHark! the cry Of his sailors--" The ship is on fire!"
Up leapt the dread blaze, with its black plume of smoke,
From cabin and berth o'er the charred deck it broke;
To curb its advance every effort is vain,
The ship, like a volcano, flamed on the main!
"Lower the boat!" yelled the chief, " ere the quick flames
invade
The deep magazine, where the powder is laid!"
The boat's lower'd and mann'd, but the turbulent waves,
'Gainst the side of the burning ship, dashed it to staves;
Six stout hands went down, in a whirlpool of foam,
Interred in its fathomless abyss of gloom.
The red conflagration is lord of the ship,
And the rest of the sailors have plunged in the deep,
For they knew, tho' the wild ocean's mercy was small,
The dread tyrant, fire, had no mercy at all;
21




314          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND
And they sunk, one by one, in their struggles o'erpower'd,
In the gulf of the mad waves, like atoms, devour'd!
But the lord of the pirates is still on the deck,
Alone, with the fire-fiend, disputing the wreck;
And he look'd as undaunted and calm, at that hour,
As if seated at ease in Dunlica's strong tower;
For his was a spirit that bravely would bear,
But not bend to the doom he no longer could dare
And he firmly and valiantly welcomed his fate,
When hope was no more and resistance too late.
But, what are the thoughts of brave Cean Dhu now,
As he stands on the poop, with his hand on his brow?
He is thinking of her who is waiting, in vain,
To welcome him home from his ride on the main;
And the eye of his mind sees her stand at the board,
Filling up the rich "meader" of wine for her lord,
With her queenly eyes anxiously turn'd towards the door,
Expecting the chief-doom'd to see her no more!
But she, from the cold cliff, looks out on the wave,
Where he, on a fiery bier, drifts to his grave.
But the blaze of the ship is beheld from the. strand,
Like a large meteor-lamp in a Sea-spirit's hand;
And Una has seen the red, shuddering rays,
Which shot o'er the surf, from the eye of the blaze.
"Tis his bark-and on fire " she exclaimed, and upsprung,
From her shoulders the golden-fringed "fulluinn" she flung,
And rushed to the tower where, at once, to her call,
Two seamen, dark-featured, rush'd out from the hall;
" Give my skiff to the surge-let your best oars be mann'd
She said-towards the burning ship waving her hand;
Her order's obey'd-soon the canoe was borne
Where the waves to the sea-brink a passage had worn.
O'er the black crags she follow'd, as agile and free
As the white gulls that shoot round the rim of the sea;
While the hearts of the ocean-sons quailed at the roar
Of the breakers, whose thunder-crash shook the dark shore.
Thrice the squalls struck them down at the cliffs flinty base,
And the serpent-tongued lightning spat fire in their face!
Still Una her pressing command sternly gave
To strike out, with the dancing retreat of the wave.
The lady is seated her rowers beside;
Off they shoot, with the sweeping recoil of the tide,
And they rapidly bound o'er the surf's whirling banks,
Like a war-charger spurr'd thro' the battle's deep ranks.
Now down in the gulf of the billows they steer;
Now high on their summits they spring, like a deer;
Away, 'mid the roaring of surges and wind,
They dash, while the coast mcls in darkness behind.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


315


"Pull steady, my men! lest the waves' furious leap
Catch your oars, and upturn our boat in the deep;Pull stronger and quicker!" she said, and back roll'd
From her brow to her shoulders her cloudlets of gold.
Bending fast to their strokes, the tough ash oars they strain,
And the skiff, like a bird, seem'd to fly o'er the main.
Swift-cleaving the foam, they dash'd onward, and came
Near the ship, grandly trimm'd with her garment of flame.
The three mighty elements-fire, wind, and sea,Battled fierce round that gaunt wreck, demanding their prey;
And the surf o'er the crackling deck madly leapt in,
But the rebel-flames rallied and flash'd up again,
Glaring luridly down on each breaker's white head,
And tinging the clouds, with a dark-flitting red.
Now out from the black ports they curl o'er the brine;
Now up the tall main-mast, like serpents, they twine
While the ropes, from the yard-arms, swinging on high,
Like blazing brands, toss'd their red ends in the sky;
And the broad, flaming wings of the lurid sails shone,
Like fiery clouds toss'd o'er the tempest-fiend's throne,
While their bright burning shreds, by the howling blast torn,
O'er the gloom of the waters, like meteors, were borne.
The skiff danced along on the flame's golden line,
That quiver'd and curv'd o'er the turbulent brine:
And Una has sounded a signal sea-horn,
Whose note to the ear of her chieftain was borne;
He knew that wild sound, and he look'd o'er the flood;Up leapt, with new spirit, the springs of his blood,
As he saw his brave lady's skiff bounding in sight,
Where the blaze zoned the sea with a red ring of light.
She sees on the high poop his dim, ghostly form,
Like a phantom of ruin called up by the storm,
And where the chief stood on his dread ocean-pyre,
Was the only dark spot yet untouch'd by the fire.
Haste! haste!-gallant chief, death to seize thee is slow!
The flames are surrounding the powder below;
One short minute more, and those red planks shall fly,
With a volcanic roar, thro' the shrill-ringing sky!
His fate has been cheated-one moment's delayHe look'd on the fire, and he looked on the sea;
And, dashing his shaggy-hemm'd "cochal" aside,
He plunged, like a spear, in the foam-sheeted tide,
Fair Una's white arms are stretch'd to receive
Her lord, as he rose on the swell of the wave:
One prayer to Saint Sinan,-and gallant Cean Dhu
Is safe, with his spouse, in the sable canoe;
And away to the coast they are shooting again,
With a strong, steady stroke, sweeping o'er the dark main.
But where is the foeman that fought him at eve,
Ere the tempest provoked the white wrath of the wave?




316           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
He is near, with reefed sails, looking on, with grim joy,
At the doom of the brave ship that blazed to the sky,
And he sees, by the flame's ruddy shimmer, the skiff
Bounding off, thro' the foam, towards Dunlica's dark cliff:
Quick, the long boat is mann'd for a desperate pursuit,
And away on the track of the pirate they shoot:
They fired thro' the gloom, and the hot balls were sent
Thro' the mist of the spray where the gallant skiff went;
But death's leaden heralds at random hiss'd by
The fearless Cean Dhu, yet not destined to die,
"They are fast gaining on us!" fair Una replied,
"Pull quick for the cave where the sea-monsters hide!"*
But scarce had the words from her trembling lips pass'd,
When a broad surge of flame o'er the ocean was cast:
Night gather'd her black robe aside, to give room
To the blaze that, a moment, invaded her gloom;
And up to the heavens that burning ship sprung,
While the vault of the stars with a thunder-crash rung;
And the waves seem'd to quail in their mighty career,
And stoop their gray heads, as if smitten with fear!
That wreck's blazing fragments were hurl'd on high,
Like ten thousand fire-rockets flung up to the sky;
Then, like red brands from heaven flung down to the main,
The flame-showers flashed back to the waters again.
Right into the deep hollow womb of the cave
Leapt the skiff, thro' the rage of the rock-cleaving wave;
The explosion's fierce lightning-flash showed them the way
To that horrid cave's craggy mouth foaming with spray.
The enemy, headlong pursuing the chief,
Dashed into the breakers that danced on the reef;
The boat on the rock's point was smash'd, like a clod,
And the crew buried deep in the whirl of the flood.
Cean Dhu to his sea-towert has gone, with his spouse,
And the board is prepared for a glorious carouse;
The harper, MacDarry, is tuning the wire
To a brave song of valor, the feast to inspire.
Cean Dhu drank a bowl to the health of his bride,
And another to those who lay cold in the tide;
Then he whirl'd his proud wife by the white hand around,
And he caper'd away to the music's wild sound.
Round her fair shoulders floated her curls, golden-brown,
One hand by her kirtle swung gracefully down;
And her steps seem'd so buoyant and lightly to fall,
That they scarce stirr'd a rush on the floor of the hall:
* The cavern alluded to was hollowed by the sea under the:cliffs of Dunlica.
The monsters of the deep seek shelter there during the winter seasons, and
often, in that dark retreat, they were attacked and slain by the hardy fishermen of the neighbouring coast.
t While correcting this poem I have been informed that a great part of
the venerable castle has fallen to the ground.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.               317
While he, like a wild steed by bridle ne'er bound,
Made the echoes ring up from the heart of the ground;
For he danced, like his ship to the tune of the storm,
Till his swarthy brow steam'd with big drops, reeking warm:
'Twas a grand gala night for the Sea-Chief on shore,
But the dawn of the dark wave beheld him once more.
THE FATE OF MAHON AND EILEEN.
A LEGEND OF O'CEARNEIGH.
I LEARNED an olden legend, in the green halls of the wood,
Where the misty-border'd Raite* pours the glory of its flood;
With the shadow'd meadows slanting to the tide-bank's reedy
fringe,
And the blue-faced mountains looking on the moorland's russet
tinge.
The dawn-dews roll'd their silvery rings around each blossom'd
thorn,
That stood, like snow-clouds, in the fence before the glow of
morn;
When a brown-eyed peasant-maiden, as she milk'd her white
striped cow,
In the birch-grove's emerald vista, told the tale I'm telling now.
Cearnighe's+ lily-footed daughter was Temora's stateliest dame,
Ere the red, marauding Norman to our holy valleys came;
Like a brier-rose, by a field-rill, in her wild, bright beauty grew,
The valley's dark-eyed huntress, marble-handed Eileen Dhu.
Like a golden veil, her ringlets might have touch'd her waxen
feet,
As the clouds that form the sunbow, curling o'er two specks of
sleet,
On a Spring-hill's morning forehead, when the glistening beads
of rain
Drop, like gemlets, thro' the white haze on the green lap of the
plain.
The rich-soul'd songs of Eire to the cruit-wires she sung,
With the wild heart-melting passion of the flowery Celtic
tongue;
Her life was as the desert air that wanders where it will,
Freshen'd with the scent of blossoms and the sweet thyme of
the hill.
* The River Raite, from which'Bunratty derives its name; it is also called
the O'Cearneigh,
t The O'Cearnighes, or O'Kearneys, were lords of a territory bordering
the above river, beyond Six-Mile-Bridge.




318           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Who was comelier, in the valley, than the flame-eyed Mahon
Roe?
'Mong ten thousand stately warriors the young giant-chief
you'd know;
Torlogh's battle-bands of Connaught,* well his arm of terror
knew,
As the field-birds know the eagle when he hovers in their view.
Like the gale upon the waters, was his footstep in the race,
Like a frost-star crossing heaven, was his spear-head in the
chase;
And he tower'd above the war-surge, like a billow-cleaving
skiff,
Looking proudly, as the osprey on a thunder-riven cliff.
He saw the fawn-like Eileen, gentle-eyed and radiant-brow'd,
And his soul before the altar of her angel-beauty bow'd;
While she felt her heart-depths thrilling, like the April song
of streams,
When he stood, at pensive midnight, in     the vista of her
dreams.
For her he drew the red trout from the Raite's steep-bank'd
flood,
When moing's golden finger tipp'd the green brow of the
wood;
For her he brought the young roes from the mountainravine down,
And the nuts of fragrant kernel from the hazel's branchy
crown.
He taught her how to bend the yew, with steady, practised
skill,
Till she shot the circling plover as they wheel'd around the
hill;
He taught her, in the mountain-wilds, to hit the flying deer,
'Till her young heart knew no rapture but while Mahon Roe
was near.
But there wander'd in the bosom of the forest of Glengael,
A mighty hind that long defied the hunter's hounds and
steel;
And a legend of this great hind to the Seanachies was known,
That the hunter who would slay her, would be lord o
Munster's throne.
And many a wild aspirant, with a passion to appear
In the trappings of an Ard Righ,t chased this phantom
year by year;
* Torlogh O'Connor, King of Connaught, and Torlogh O'Brien, King of
Munster, were, about that time, at deadly feud, which ended in the terrific
battle ef Moinmor, where the power of both provinces was almost destroyed.
See a description of the fight at page 68.
t High King.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.               319
But their nimble hounds of swiftness and their steeds, like
desert-wind,
Were outstripp'd and blindly baffled by the lightning-footed
hind.
And many a sore disaster were the huntsmen made to feelFractured limbs and aching bruises which no liniments
could heal;
Till, vanquish'd and despairing, they shunned the forest-gloom,
And the red hind still was monarch of her leafy desert-home.
Eileen learned the wondrous legend, and a dream of power and
fame,
To the chamber of her spirit, like a dazzling vision, came;
And she told her heart-led lover he would rise to be a king,
If the trophies of the red hind from the desert he would
bring!
And she pledged her faith to wed him on the evening of
the day,
When his conquering spear of brightness the enchanted hind
would slay;
More, she promised to go with him to the dark and dreaded
place,
To partake the pleasant perils of the wild, excitHlg chase.
With quick assent, young Mahon* to the maiden's counsel
bent,
While her voice, like fairy music, to his fiery heart-springs
went;
And his wild eyes flash'd, with gladness, like the suddenbursting blaze
Of a sunbeam on the river, thro' the March-sky's melting
haze.
Morning walks upon the mountain, with a burning foot of
gold,
And the wood-gales shake the perfume from the blossom's
rosy fold;
The white-dew fall on the hill-side, like a beach of pearl,
shines,
And the Spring-clouds, o'er the star-vault, spread their
glowing silver lines.
From his mystic house of honey, in the thyme-bank's mossy
knee,
Taking tribute of the wild flowers, wings the summerloving bee;
* "This chief is supposed to be one of the Mahon family of Clonoon, near
Corofin. Clonoon Castle is situated in the parish of Kilkeedy, barony of
Inchiquin. In 1586, it was besieged and dismantled by Sir Richard
Bingham, who gave the garrison no quarter "-Annals of Thomond.




320          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
In a dance of glistening crystal, down the crags the hillfounts run,
And the lark is at his music in the palace of the sun.
Early moved young dark-eyed Eileen by the oak wood's
breezy side,
And Mahon Roe, as early, marked the white plain, with his
strideShe, with bow and beaming arrows, he, with hounds and
hunting spear,
Which, in wild Moyarta's greenwood, brought down many a
stately deer.
Away they go together thro' the shadow-checker'd wold,
Where the valley's sylvan moss-lawns spread their spangled
beds of gold;
Four attendants move behind them, with the leash'd dogs in
their care,
And snowy oiser-baskets fill'd with fruits and wholesome fare.
To the forest's branchy centre, where the fragrant sorrel grew,
They advanced, ere day's red noonbeam drank the heathbell's chaliced dew;
And Mahon's eyes, like fire-darts, pierced the gloom on every
side,
Till beneatt a great oak, resting, the majestic hind he spied.
"Oh, by all the saints in Erin!" cried the young chief, with
delight,
"Look you yonder, lovely Eileen! there's our royal game in
sight!
'Tis by statagem, my fair one, we must chance to bring her
down!
Else thy head of pretty ringlets shall not wear a queenly crown!
"Gentle Eileen! beauteous Eileen! if you ever bent a bow,
With a true aim, quick and steady, be your shaft unerring
now!
Thro' the shades I'll steal upon her, while you, dark-eyed huntress! here,
Slip the hounds, and wing your arrows, if I miss her, with my
spear!"
As noiseless as a mist-wreath, thro' the shadows Mahon stole,
While Eileen's bosom quiver'd with the tremblings of her soul;
The great hind raised her forehead, snuff'd the air, and stared
about,
As Mahon, on her red haunch, with his lifted steel leap'd out.
From her resting-place, uprushing, flew the hind, with mighty
'bounds,
From the leash, with one shrill blood-yell, right against her
leapt the hounds;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND..321
Like a streak of blue flame, hissing, glanced a shaft from
Eileen's bow,
Grazed the hind, and deeply entered the white neck of Mahon
Roe.
Thro' the green-wood's dark recesses, fast the red hind disappeared,
And the noble chief of Clonoon lay expiring on the sward;
While Eileen, bending o'er him, spoke no word, nor tore her
hair,
For her freezing heart was riven with the death-pangs of despair.
Paled the rose-hue on his bright cheek, and his fading eye betrayed
How his soul in pity melted for the anguish of the maid;
With affectionate forgiveness did he murmur Eileen's name,
While she shudder'd, like a willow, with the grief that tore
her frame.
And when the mourners gather'd, with the death-song and the
tear,
And the maids laid forest wild-flowers, with a heart-sob, on
his bier;
Eileen, silent as a phantom, with white cheek and frigid eye,
Moved among the lonely wailers, without murmur, tear, or
sigh.
And when the dust lay o'er him in the bed which knows no
dream,
All his lonely paths she haunted, by wild hill and sounding
stream;
And her sered soul hugg'd its anguish, with a death-grasp
strong and deepOft in prayer she pour'd her sorrow, but was never known to
weep.
And the bright days of the Spring-time, in their beauty stole
along,
With their wealth of vernal sweetness, and their gushing sun
and song,
Till the yellow stains of autumn on the misty landscape lay,
And the meadow-lawns were honied with the breath of newmown hay.
And Eileen knew her death-hour, for a sister-spirit stole
From the shining fields of heaven, with a message to her soul;
And she sought, when evening crimson'd dusky moor and river
side,
The blood-spot in the desert where her noble Mahon died.




322            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Down she lay beneath a hazel where his dying head was laid,
Her heart unchained its sorrow, and she wildly wept and
pray'd;
Weirdly, on her spirit-features, gleam'd the red light of the
west,
And the yellow boughs above her dropp'd their sere leaves on
her breast.
Slowly throbb'd her cold heart-pulses, and her fever'd ravings
drew
Wildest images of beauty, to her dreaming fancy new;
And she saw young Mahon o'er her, in a diamond cloud of light,
Breathing words, like fairy love-songs, in the moonlight calm
of night.
Pass'd the glory from her vision, and a dense, dull, darkening
chill
Lock'd her senses in its ice-grip, and the vital pulse stood still;
With a breath her white lips parted, with that breath, her grief
is o'erEarth hath one breaking heart the less, and heaven one angel
more.
A VISION OF THE BATTLE OF TOR-CONAINN.*
A.M. 3066.
'TWAs midnight,-and the ghostly blast
Swept the frosty woods, with a cadence sharp,
Like some Spirit-bard of the shadowy Past,
Touching the wires of a regal harp.
Long time I listened-for I love the croon
Of the wintry squalls, in the wood's dark arch,
Like a band of Spirits, to some mystic tune,
Passing along on their gloomy march.
Sleep seal'd my eyes,-and my soul walked forth
To the vision-realm of airy things;
And methought I traversed the cloudy North,
In the days of the great Nemedian kings:
* The Nemedians and Fomorians were the first races that fought for
mastery in Ireland. The Fomorians, after several defeats, succeeded in
bringing the Nemedians under their yoke; the latter made a desperate but
fruitless struggle to free themselves. The last and most terrific battle of
these contending tribes was fought at a place called Tor-Conainn, on the
coast of Donegal, where the tide, flowing in on the combatants during the
heat of the action, drowned almost all that the sword spared of both armies.
Only thirty-three of the Nemedians escaped, and abandoned the country in
a sloop. The remnant of the Fomorians swam to their shipping, and became
masters of the Island. Some annalists say they were African pirates. The
Giant's Causeway was called by the ancient Irish "Cloghanna Fomharigh,"
i.e., the stepping-stones of the Fomorians.
Mr. Aubrey de Vere, in his " Lyrical Chronicle of Ireland," gives a very
vigorous but short poem on this remarkable engagement.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


323


And I saw those huge men, of gigantic might,
To whom the pale sons of these days of tears,
Are as shrubs, compared to the bulk and height
Of the kingly elms of a hundred years.
Like the brown-plumed chiefs of the aerial race,
They gazed at the sun, with unwinking eyes;
Their shaggy robes were the spoils of the chase,
And they spoke like the waves when the winds arise.
The oak and the pine from the woods they tore,
And built great houses of rough-hewn beams;
Huge clubs and maces in battle they bore,
And their eye-balls, like suns, seem'd to swim in flames.
But another race to the Island cameA race of Sea-Kings, as fierce as sharksFrom the arid land of the sands of flame,
They rode the green seas in a hundred barks.
Dread pirates, of mountain-strength, were they:
Their voices were rude as a cascade's roar:
Their bones were like crags by the cliff-rimm'd sea,
And their beards, like bristles of the fierce wild boar.
Fomorians, those pine-like chiefs were named,
In the misty annals of Eire's lore:
Oppression and death were at once proclaimed,
By their ruthless deeds, when they gained the shore.
They robb'd the Nemedians of corn and kine,
And burn'd their houses, and tax'd their ground;
They ravish'd the women, and left the black sign
Of ruin and crime on the plains around.
In the land there was fearful rage and hate
Between the races-'tis still the same;Remorseless plunder and sore defeat,
Steel-handed injustice and blood-brow'd shame.
Ne'er, in the Island of Eire, met foes
More ferocious in spirit, and deed, and thought:
Red rapine walked naked-mad wars aroseAnd fierce, savage battles were daily fought.
Till, at length, Nemedius, the king, grew weak
As a dwindling stream, when the fiery sky
Drinks up the blue currents of well and lake,
And leaves the white bed of the fountain dry:
Then he stole to the forest of Olean Ard,
With two thousand followers, women and men,
And he died of the sickness of grief, on the hard,
Cold, sterile rocks of the Giant's Glen.
But his furious sons muster'd all their bands
Into one great army, at dead of night;




324          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And they braced their bucklers and edged their brands,
To meet their oppressors in manly fight:
And their leaders were Boetagh and Fatach, grim
As hungry bears in a blasted wood;
Earglan and Mantan, mighty of limb,
Of cliff-like stature and lightning-blood!
Their arms were as the strong pillars of flint,
Round the dark north shore, by the scourging brine;
And they wielded spears of enormous length,
Like the branchless shafts of the fire-scorched pine.
They camp'd all night by the white sea-wave,
Thirty thousand, along the strand,
And heaven was their tent, and their couch the sandThe sand which soon was to be their grave.
Large oaken trees from the inland wood
They brought and piled by the ocean-flood;
And all night, like volcanoes flaming red,
The blaze of those burning piles was shed
On the lurid plumes of the surges gray,
That dirged on the glimmering shore;
'Till the star-gloom began to melt away,
And the misty streak of the coming day
Appear'd thro' thevapours hoar.
Then up they leapt from their warrior-rest,
Like waves awaked by a sudden storm;
For the wild Fomorians strongly press'd
Down on them, as thick as a locust-swarm.
And the whirlwind-hum of the multitude
Was like the unearthly tone
Of a sullen blast in a wintry wood,
When, from the blue skirts of a freezing cloud,
It bursts, with a spectral moan.
Like wailing spirits, with deep, hoarse shriek,
The waves peal'd awfully in and out;
As keeners, at some high chieftain's wake,
Sing aldirge the great dead about;
While dim, in the cold dawn's dark-red glance,
The heads of each monster host,
In gloomy, swaying masses advance,
As thick as the pebbles that whirl and dance,
When a wave rakes the sounding coast.
The murmur ceased, and a stillness, dread,
Foran instant, fell on the waving crowds;
Then a suqden shout, that might rouse the dead
From a century's sleep in their grass-pall'd bed,
Leapt up to the flying clouds.
Then the dark-brown shore, with the mighty roar
Of the combat, rock'd, like a trembling board,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


325


As crashingly rang the tumultuous clang
Of mace and javelin, spear and sword.
The resounding clash was like the dash
Of breakers upon some huge cliff's back,
Or some drifting bark, in the wintry dark,
When she strikes on a dread reef, a bursting wreck;
And the quick, shrill peal of the stricken shields,
With the stormy shouts of the slayers rose,
Like the ring of the ice, in the thawing fields,
When the gusty south-wind raves and blows.
'Twas a battle of lions, for every man
Like a lion fought, and the sea-board wild
With a burning billow of purple ran,
And the slain fell around, like great pine-trunks piled.
Each blow, like the might of a thunder-stroke,
With electric swiftness, dealt instant death;
And bodies were sunder'd, and stout limbs broke,
Like dry shrubs wrench'd by a whirlwind's breath.
The waves leapt in on the redden'd coast,
And tinged their gray sheets, with a ruddy stain;
The osprey scream'd, like an evil ghost,
As he hover'd and hunger'd above the slain;
While the wrathful death-crash, upon the strand,
In roaring turmoil surged up and down,
Thousands of mad giants, hand to hand,
Grappling and severing nerve and bone.
And fast they fell, like towers o'erthrown,
With their tall brows riven and broad breasts bare;
While around them, in cloudy masses strown,
Lay their blood-stained clusters of long, black hair.
They fought from dawn, till the yellow noon
In the bright, blue zenith pour'd its golden fire;
Then, like volcanic clouds from the sea-side blown,
When the shore with terrific wreck was strown,
The Fomorians, wasted and feeble grown,
To the woods began to retire.
From thousands to hundreds their host was thinn'd,
And they flew, like elks, to the forest-maze;
But the wild Nemedians, from end to end,
Surrounded the place where their foes were denn'd;
Each kindled a fame, like a raging fiend,
And set the dark woods in a blaze.
But a cry rang up from the corpse-piled shore,
And they turn'd their eyes to the gleaming sea,
Where they saw a hundred barks, and more,
With their white wings skimming the blue brine o'er,
Towards the red coast cleaving their way.
"Tis the fleet of More!" cried Briotan Moal,
" With his armed pirates, from Afric's land!
Now, brothers, and brave Nemedians all,




326          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND
Like hurricane-fire on the robbers fall,
If they touch our Island-strand "
Back again to the blood-dyed coast,
Embodied, roll'd the Nemedian host,
As the ships swam into Tor Inis' bay,
Like snow-clouds drifting along the sea.
The Fomorians saw the wide beach lined
With their fallen kinsmen, all stark and dead;
They gnash'd their teeth-and the ocean-wind
Was loaded with yellings of vengeance dread.
Like pillars of bronze, the Nemedians stood
On the reeking verge of the purple main,
And fierce, o'er the dash of the dancing flood,
They yelled their battle-whoop back again.
The ships hove in to the bay's brown rim;
A host filled the decks, with unfolded flags;
From the shelving shore the Nemedians tore,
And hurl'd at the vessels the broken crags.
Roar'd bulwarks and masts, with the flinty shower,Shatter'd and riven were plank and spar,
While the whirling rocks, with destructive power,
Like thunder-bolts, batter'd that fleet of war.
Into the surf the Fomorians plunged,
With wrathful howlings, and rush'd to land;
At their bold foes' bosoms their spears were lunged,
As madly they leapt to the crowded strand.
But fierce and furious-as from each ship,
Like a headlong billow, the host dash'd inDid the lightning-handed Nemedians sweep
The invaders back to the waves again.
Hast thou seen a cloud of the Wind-God's wrath
Gathering its gloom on the hill's blue brow?
Hast thou heard the fire-fiend proclaiming death,
From that cloud's black throne, to the woods below
Hast thou heard, in the glen, on a stormy night,
How the torrent-surge shrieks in its boiling bed?
So mingled the din of the thickening fightSo the surge of death o'er the broad beach spread.
Fast as polar hail smites the echoing vale,
Spears, massive clubs, and huge rocks were plied,
'Till the land-breeze bore from the pealing shore
A blood-mist, rolling along the tide.
Not a soul in the empty ships remain'dAll leapt to the throng'd coast, weapon in hand,
Where the raging battle-hurricane rain'd
Its smoking showers on the gore-bray'd sand,
And the slain giants lay by the red-fringed sea,
Like the tangled mass of a prostrate wood,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND


327


Flung down by the sway of an earthquake's play,
Or the ravaging might of a desperate flood.
Still the war surged on, with a demon-roar
That deafen'd the sea-billows' deep-hoarse ring;
And the swooping prey-birds, that snuff'd the gore,
Fled, frighten'd away, on the fleetest wing.
The Nemedian women from the plains rush'd downTheir large eyes glowing with fiery light;
Their long hair sweeping their shoulders brown,
And strong yew-bows in their hands grasp'd tight:
On the tall Fomorians their arrows swept,
Like a flashing torrent of lightning-flames,
And the giants, like gall'd wolves, foam'd and leapt
As the barb'd shafts rooted their bleeding frames.
Nor could the Nemedians force their foes
Back into the gulf of the reddening main;
Nor could the Fomorians, by wounds or blows
One foot of the crimson'd sea-board gain.
Still they tore the crags from their flinty roots,
And crush'd each other to the beaten ground,
While their mighty roars, like furious brutes,
Made the echoes rattle and shriek around.
The sun to the west wheel'd his ring of fireIn foam, blood-purpled, the sea rose strong:
The fight grew fiercer-the tide swell'd higherSwinging the dead on its surge along.
The hungry monsters of the sea,
Plunged into the beach for the feast of blood,
And they dragg'd the floating corpses away
Out into the depths of the heaving flood.
Round the feet of the slayers the tide boil'd red,
But the tide no check to the combat brought;
Deeper and wider the wild flood spread,
Faster and fiercer the armies fought.
Deadly and dire was the desperate crash
Of the maniac-hosts 'mid the sea's mad swell;
Rapid and hoarse was the sounding splash
Of the bodies that thick in the blood-surge fell.
Higher and higher, the sweeping main,
Flung its headlong might 'mid the reckless fray;
And the waves, as if chafing with fierce disdain,
In the warriors eyes spat the gore-stained spray.
Crowds lock'd in each other's death-grips fall,
Immersed in the gloom of their cold sea-beds,
While the dark-red foam, like a mighty pall,
Hiss'd, quiver'd, and boil'd o'er their sinking heads;
'Till each billow, returning from its charge,
Swept off, by hundreds, the drowning throng;
And the sharks o'er the surf show'd their green backs large,
As they greedily feasted the coast along.




328           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Few and feeble, alas! were they,
That survived the wreck of the tide and sword
The Nemedians, seaward, drifted away,
In a pirate-sloop-thirty-three on boardThe wearied Fomorians, fifty-four,
Swam to their ships in the dark-blue bay;
And they, sorrowing, sail'd round the Island-shore,
At the sunset-hour of that stormy day.
Never was human life-blood poured,
In such vengeful torrents, on flood or field;
Never in battle did spear or sword
A deadlier harvest of carnage yield.
Dire was the wrath of those ancient racesEire was the prize of the conquerors' toilLong time has old tribes for the new changed places,
With a blood-curse red on her rich, green soil.
THE FATAL ENSIGN.
A LEGEND OF THE BATTLE OF CLONTARF.
PART I.
By a moss-cover'd cromleach, weird Aidina* stood,
Near the fern-fringed bed of a wild mountain-flood:
She came there a dread incantation to weave,
When the green meteors glared o'er the Druid's dark grave.
The face of the valley was dreary and bleak,
And the lonely moon gleam'd on the hill's dusky peak,
Where a sombre cloud hung, like a giant's black plume,
With the unborn lightning asleep in its gloom.
And there, from the mystical lore of the dead,
The fast-coming doom of the living she read;
For the Vikings had taught her their magical power,
To commune with the spectres that walk the night-hour.
'Twas a calm, yellow night,-and the stars look'd as grand
As the diamonds of God in an Archangel's hand,Yet the Sibyl's deep fate-reading vision beheld
Red omens of blood o'er Moynealta's dark field.t
But Sigurd, her son, sought the vale, dim and deep,
When the white midnight-haze on the plain lay asleep;
And he said: " Let the weird face of fate be unveil'd,
To tell if I'll conquer or fall in the field!"
* The Niala Saga, or Norse account of the battle of Clontarf, says that
Audna, or Aidina, the mother of Sigurd, the Viking Chief, was an Irish
Princess, and a great adept in the practice of magic. The fatal Ensign was
woven by her and presented to her son, with a prophecy that he would
conquer wherever it was carried before him; but it would be fatal to the
bearer. On its field was the form of a raven with expanded wings.
Clontarf.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.               329
Then she cast on the warrior her blue, fairy eyes,
Which gleam'd like the light of the misty night-skies,
And'answered: "My sea-hawk, I nursed you too long,
If you fall not in fight while your manhood is strong!
"There are ghosts of slain warriors in Odin's red hall,
Who, younger than thou, in the field met their fall;
If thou would'st to that cloudy Valhalla aspire,
Let thy life be as glorious and transient as fire!
"'Tis the Fates, not the dangers, that wait on the brave!And the wail of the blast, o'er a young hero's grave,
Is sweeter to me, in its hoarse midnight rage,
Than the voice of a king in the time of his age!
"But sit thee, my war-eagle! here on the heath,
Till I bring thee a gift from the shadows of death,
Before whose enchantment thy foes shall be driven,
Like mists, when the Wind-God is marching thro' heaven!"
She advanced to the gloom-circled crest of the hill,
Where a black bank of vapour lay densely and still;
And her form melted into its deep, ghastly womb,
Like a dim spectral-shade gliding into a tomb.
Sigurd sat on the trunk of a gray, wither'd oak,
By the tempest's strong arm uprooted and broke;
At his feet was the sound of the stream's gloomy roll,
O'er his head was the shriek of the desolate owl.
And he heard, all around, in the dull moonlight air,
Pensive sounds, as if spirits were murmuring there,
While something above him seem'd dark'ning the ground,
As if black-winged shadows were hovering around.
But was it the voice of some cloud-demon stern,
Or the wing of the night-wind that rustled the fern,
And shook on the hill-side the brown-matted brier,
Where the lightning imprinted its footstep of fire?
No, the motionless boughs hang unstirr'd o'er his head,
And the leaves are as hush'd as if nature lay dead;
On heaven's blue highway, no cloud has unfurl'd
Its banner of gloom o'er the calm, dreaming world.
Yet he heard lonely sounds, like the fluttering of birds,
And low, solemn whispering of mystical words;
And the wither'd leaves shriek'd on the floor of the wood,
As if crush'd by the feet of a fugitive crowd.
The chieftain look'd up towards the hill's rocky cape,
Where the black mist was changed to a huge raven-shape,
22




330            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
With a star glaring red thro' its broad wing of haze,
As if blood-rain dropp'd thick from the points of its rays.*
And he saw his weird mother, revealed by its light,
Like a dread spirit-queen on the crag's dusky height;
She seem'd on the cloud's sable border upraised,
Round her feet the green meteors shifted and blazed.
And the mist, moved aside by the restless night-air,
Show'd dim, awful figures of death round her there;
But scarcely their cold, dismal features were seen,
When the cloud closed its skirts and concealed them again.
The white planet of dawn in the gray orient burn'd,
Ere the lonely enchantress to Sigurd return'd:
From the hill's dingy summit she slowly came down,
When the young day-beam purpled its heath-circled crown.
Her eye shone, like ice in the moon's waning light,'
And her loose hair was gemm'd with the spangles of night,
And her foot touch'd the sward with as airy a tread,
As the shadowy step of the wind-borne dead.
A banner of-rich, brilliant texture she held,
With the form of a raven inwrought on its field,
And a fringe like the dyes of the sunbow of morn,
When round its bright crescent the rain-scud hangs torn.
" Take this Ensign!" she cried, " noble Sigurd, my son!
Its warp by the rulers of darkness was spun;
And 'twas woven at midnight, in destiny's loom,
By hands that delight to assist in men's doom!
"Thou'lt conquer wherever before thee 'twill fly,
But those who shall bear it are destined to die;
Then away to the combat-the raven's black wings
Shall flutter in blood o'er the corpses of kings!"
PART II.
To the strife of the mighty the Viking Chief bore him,
While his spell-woven banner flew proudly before him;
And he plunged thro' the fight, like a shark 'mid the flood,
When the ocean is singing the war-songs of God.
* This was a sign of the terrific bloodshed which was soon to follow at
Clontarf. Malachy the Second, who withdrew his 1,000 Meathmen from
Morogh, at the commencement of the fight, said that an angel from heaven
could not describe the terrors of that field; " for," said he, " the fury of the
combatants was so great, and their blows so mighty, that the whole field
soon became enveloped with a dense haze of blood, and the swords and waraxes were seen to glimmer and quiver above the red cloud, like the white
wings of an enormous flock of sea-birds fluttering in the air; and the darkness was so intense that the friend could not know his friend, nor the brother
his brother, nor the father his son, except by their voices or the place where
they stood; and the long hair of the chiefs, cut off by the sharp weapons,
was carried to a great distance, on the wings of the wind. And they fought
from sunrise to sunset, and many who escaped the battle became lunatic,
and never recovered their reason."




LAY8 AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                331
ThrQ' his ringed mail the javelins sought entrance in vain,
It shatter'd their points as the crag breaks the rain!
While, fast as the snow-flakes descend on the sward
Death strangled a life at each stroke of his sword.
But the Ensign has sunk in its glorious career,
For its bearer lies gasping, transfixt with a spear;
And the chief has commission'd another to lift
And carry the Flag thro' the battle's red drift.
'Twas bravely upborne-a moment 'twas seen
O'er the wave of the war, when it sank down again,
And the soldier that raised it, beside it lay dead,
By the stroke of a battle-axe cleft through the head.
Fierce Sigurd glared round thro' the wild, surging throng,
And he called upon Upac, the stately and strong:
"Take the banner!" he cried, but 'twas scarce in his hand,
When the blood of his brave heart was drank by a brand.
Then Ircus, the steel-handed, strode o'er the slain,
And uplifted the Ensign of death from the plain:
No sooner in air were its folds seen to float,
Than a poison'd dart plunged, like a snake, in his throat.
Then Torstein, the swarthy-brow'd son of the seas,
Flung the magical folds of the Flag to the breeze,
And he bore it triumphantly on thro' the din
Of the battle-cloud, raining the life-blood of men.
And Sigurd's strong steel struck the reeling chiefs down,
As the plague-spirit smites the pale sons of the town;
Or, as yellow October's bleak, northern gale
Tears the perishing leaves from the boughs of the vale.
A plumed head went down at each thrust of his spear,
And the shout of his fury was dreadful to hear,
As thro' the deep front of the phalanx he broke,
Like fire bursting red thro' a column of smoke.
The brave Kerthalfadus,* with vengeance, survey'd
The wreck which the prowess of grim Sigurd made,
And he press'd to the centre where, hotly engaged,
Round the banner of ruin the war-furies raged.
Before him his shield, like the broad setting sun,
He held, as to check the dread warrior he ran,
But a blood-mist around his dimm'd sight seem'd to grow,
Concealing the iron-clad form of his foe.
* The Chronieles of Denmark and Ireland agree in stating that many of
the Danes, inspired with admiration for the ennobling qualities and virtues
of King Brian, fought on his side against their countrymen at Clontarf.




332           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Yet his long-shafted lance cleft the heart of Torstein,
And the standard once more lay o'erthrown on the plain,
And the sheen of its folds was with purple dyes stain'd,
From the blood-shower that o'er it tempestuously rain'd.
" Come hither, brave Rufus! thou hawk of the field!"
Cried Sigurd, indignantly striking his shield;
" Lift my proud raven Flag o'er the cloud of the fray,
That thy name may be heard in Valhalla to-day!"
But Armund, the tall, red-hair'd chief of Dunnair,
Spoke aloud to the warrior, " 0 Rufus, beware!
" If thou bear'st that banner, thou'lt perish, for all
Who are fated to bear it, are destined to fall!"
As the hero ceased speaking, a mighty spear flew
On his corslet of iron and clove it in two,
And he fell on the sward, with his stout bosom sever'd,
Like the ash of the hill by a thunder-stroke shiver'd.
Then Rufus said fiercely to Sigurd, in wrath,
"The demons of bloodshed are loosed on thy path,
And the Fates round thy curst Flag, are grimly in league,
So 'tis meet that thy own hand should carry thy plague!"
Grim Sigurd glared furiously round on the van,
And he called on his Viking troops, man after man,
To carry the banner, but all were dismay'd,
And none the command of the chieftain obey'd.
Then he struck his red spear in the blood-moisten'd clay,
And tore from the staff the dread ensign away;
He wrapt it his garment of iron inside,
And advanced on the foe, in the fire of his pride.
But a stone from the sling of some strong son of war,
Forced its death-pointed way thro' h s visor's steel bar;
It enter'd, and shatter'd the dome of his brain,
And laid the proud Viking chief dead on the plain.
Bold Rufus sprang forth to the spot where he lay,
And uplifted the warrior to bear him away,
But scarce had he turn'd, with the corpse to depart,
When he felt the cold sting of a lance in his heart.
Death shadow'd the soul-ray of life on his face,
And he sank, with the corpse in his freezing embrace;
Thus, all who approach'd the dread Ensign were killed,
And the words of the Sibyl were darkly fulfilled.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMONTD.


333


THE WATER SPIRIT.
A LEGEND OF CASTLE-CONNELL.
ON the fringe of the fern the moonbeam is yellowOn the shore's dusky marge droops the gray-tassel'd willow
From the bank's misty verdure the tide is retreating,
Where young Donal Bhan for his sweetheart is waitingNo breath the blue sheen of the river has ruffled;
No cloud the brown head of the mountain has muffled
No sound the dim face of the landscape floats over,
Save the shrill, airy note of the lone moorland plover.
The night-flies are out on their silvery winglets,
Playing round the green herbs and the flowers' dewy ringlets
Pale trembled the stars in the deep sapphire heaven,
Like groups of white blossoms by May-zephyrs waven.
O'er the field the gray veil of the weeping dew hover'd,
'Till the dank grass with thick crystal fragments was covered,
And the wood in calm, shadowy grandeur was lying,
As mute as a harp when its minstrel is dying.
Up and down paced the youth on the moonlight bank airy,
He linger'd and watch'd till his spirit grew weary;
The moon stole her splendour away from the valley,
And he must go home without greeting his Eily.
But a sound thrills the air, and he pauses to listen,
Near the hedge of wild brier where the thorn-flowers glisten'Tis gone-yet again his young heart-pulses quiver,
As the rising sound swells and rolls up from the river.
Around him a gush of wild music 'rose, flowing
In rich waves of harmony, coming and going,
Note after note, with deep breathings of sweetness,
Rush'd into his spirit, with passionate fleetness.
As one in a dream hears the Fairy-choir singing,
Where the snow-bosom'd buds of the woodland are springing,
Thus his senses, enraptur'd, grew madden'd with pleasure,
And he danced, in wild joy, to the full-swelling measure.
While for some rosy partner his bosom was yearning,
To dance to those wild, magic numbers 'till morning,
A light, floating shade in the moonbeam pass'd o'er him,
And a lady sprang up, like a white cloud, before him:
From the stream to the bank's dewy slope she ascended,
And her pale, azure hand to the youth she extended;
He felt it as something 'twixt substance and shadow,
Like a "cean-a-bhan" moist with the dews of the meadow.
Autumn's gossamer-mist on a lake-shore reposing,
When the pale, yellow curtain of twilight is closing;
A star's trembling glance on the ridge of a billowThe light, airy sway of the zephyr-rock'd willow;




334          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The dim, ghostly brow of November's moon waning,
When midnight's gray cloud on the lone field is raining,
Are types of her strange spirit-beauty and bearingHer face, and the chill, hazy robe she was wearing.
Donal look'd on her face, with a feeling of coldness,
That damp'd the hot flame of his ardour and boldness,
For her lip, cheek, and brow hath a winding-sheet's whiteness,
And her eyes the weird glow of the bog-meteor's brightness.
But her step, in the dance, was so light and elastic,
She floated around, like a shadow majestic;
And he mark'd, o'er the dew, her white feet glance and quiver,
Like the foam-wreaths that leap down the Falls of the river.
As the youth, in the flying maze, pass'd and repass'd her,
His blood leapt in fire, and his pulses beat faster;
The swell of the music grew richer and sweeter,
And the feet of the dancers flew lighter and fleeter.
Their steps on the pearly sward, humid and hazy,
Circled on, for an hour, over grass-blade and daisy,
'Till the moon, in the west, like a white flower, descended,
And the farm-cock proclaim'd that night's journey was ended.
Into deep silence melted the numbers enchanted,
And the pale-bosom'd stream in the breathing dawn panted;
Like a thin airy shade, o'er the waters blue-sheeted,
Thro' the dim river's cold fog, the white lady fleeted;
And Donal sank down, 'mid the dawn's fairy stillness,
With his tired limbs, like icicles, stricken with chillness
And there, while the morning-birds warbled around him,
The young milking-maids, in a frozen trance found him.
And Eily, with tears in her beauteous eyes welling,
Has gone o'er the hills to a weird woman's dwelling,
Who, fearing the priest, to a lone glen retreated,
And for years the strong power of the Fairies defeated.
The red-eyed witch heard the maid's story, and turn'd
To a dell, where the fern by lightning was burned;
There she cypher'd some spell on the moss of the heather,
With the blood of an owl and a hill-raven's feather.
Then she said, in low words, to the maiden repining,
" Come here the first night, when the new moon is shining,
Alone, you must shun the broad track of the highway,
And come by the brier-skirted path of the by-way.
I tell you a fact-but let nobody hear itYour lover has danced with a grim Water Spirit;
But the charm is set by my skill to restore him,
And chase the deep gloom of the spell that lies o'er him!"




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


335


EITHNE'S VISION.*
WHEN April, the dewy-eyed bridesmaid of May,
Renew'd the sweet verdure of forest and field,
And the flowers, from their green hoods, look'd out in the ray
That pencill'd their dyes and their beauties unveil'd;
Young Eithne arose from her white couch of dreams,
While the spring-dew yet wept on the leaves of the lawn,
And the slumb'rous glory of day's infant beams
Crept over the roseate threshold of dawn.
But the loveliest ray that from morning's fount springs,
Could not peer the sweet light of her eye's glowing spell;
And her locks roll'd, a rich tangled mass of gold rings,
Round her cheek, like the rose-tinge that lines the sea-shell.
Never before hath the visions of night
To her couch, with such wild spirit-harmony, stole;
Never before did they show such a bright,
Regal image of love to the eyes of her soul.
For she dreamt that she saw, near the marge of a spring,
Whose cool ripples freshen'd the heart of the wood,
A bright-featured youth who appear'd like a king
Of Heber's proud lineage, or Heremon's high blood.       '
And, near him, there grew on a moss-shaded mound
A tree whose high foliage to heaven was raised,
And richly, on all its long branches around,
Beaming clusters of jewels, like summer-stars, blazed.
Delighted in spirit, the maiden look'd on
The glorious-brow'd youth who stood under the tree,.
While the diamonds dropp'd down at his feet, one by one,
Like red meteor-sparks falling into the sea.
He gather'd the treasure that flash'd on the ground,
And advanced to fair Eithne, with love-lighted eyes;
And he hung every gem on her garment around,
Till it gleam'd, like the bow of show'ry May-skies.
Then he kiss'd the soft, delicate snow of her hand,
Which, pulse to pulse, lovingly thrill'd in his own;
And he led her away, where a garden, all grand,
Like the bright Land of Youth, in its radiancy shone.
As the wind stirs an apple-tree's white cloud of bloom,
She felt his sweet voice all her bosom chords move;
"Virgin daughter of Dunluing! here is thy home,
If thou'lt give me the soul-treasur'd boon of thy love!"
* The readers of Irish history must be well acquainted with the romantic
incident illustrated in the above Poem.




336         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
So o'erpower'd was her heart with the glory that grew,
Enchanting and dazzling her brain and her sight,
Her spirit dissolved, like a white cloud of dew,
And she sat, 'mid the roses, and wept with delight.
The sun, like a large ruby, peer'd in the East,
While Eithne review'd the romance of her dream,
And, wild as a white billow, heaved her young breast
Like a lake-lily rock'd by the pulse of the stream.
For, around her, instead of a garden of lightWith the sun-painted tints of its blossomy sheen,
And the proud youth who seem'd like a god in her sightWere the walls of her shieling, so humble and mean.
With a heart-sigh she turned from her lattice aside,
And carelessly flung on her plain peasant-gown;
"And, alas! where are all the rich jewels," she cried,
" Which on this poor robe, but an hour ago, shone?"
Like a seraph in marble, so beauteously pale,
She bound up her bright curls, ring after ring,
Then hastily snatching her white milking pail,
Like a sun-ray, she flew to the cool forest-spring.
For her spirit still kept the loved vision in view,
Like the flower that looks after the glory of day;
And while, by the fence of wild rose-brier she flew,
She pull'd the young blossoms that glow'd in her way.
The morning had given the night's dingy shroud,
On the mountain's blue shoulder, its first yellow dye;
And the lark, 'mid the pale-floating rings of the cloud,
Warbled sweet as a fairy harp touch'd in the sky.
The risen sun shower'd his red shafts on the ground,
And the spring wind's fresh breathing was heard in the trees;
And the wood's dewy vistas grew musical round,
With the sigh of young leaves and the hum of wild bees.
And Eithne long mused by the blue-shining well,
With her large eyes' dark fringes half-shading their beam,
While a pearl from their depths on her lily-hand fell,
As she sweetly look'd round on the scene of her dream.
She fill'd her white pail from the heart of the fount,Went home and return'd, and fill'd it again;
But still, as if dreaming, she paused to recount
The glories she saw in her sleep's phantom-scene.
A tree on the bank of the spring-brooklet grew,
Like that which appear'd in the charm of her sleep;
Its foliage was glistening with crystals of dew,
And its calm, golden shadow around it lay deep.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


337


This tree, with a mixt look of pleasure and grief,
Her dark eye, a thousand times, scann'd and survey'd,
'Till her glance seem'd to conjure a glorious young chief,
From the green leafy hall of its calm vernal shade.
With a smile like a flower, and an eye like the glance
Of a perch'd eagle fixt on the sun's zenith blaze,
He stood out before her, as straight as a lance,
While her heart's living current was thrill'd with amaze.
Is this the magnificent phantom she saw
In the vision of beauty that haunted her sleep?
Are those the soft eyes that dictated love's law
To her heart, and first taught her in rapture to weep?
'Tis no shadowy creation of vision or dream,
That now has appeared to her soul-glowing eyes,
But Tara's high ruler-the brilliant in fameKing Cormac the splendid, the mighty and wise.
That morning, while chasing the air-footed roe,
To this spot, from the band of the huntsmen, he strayed,
And saw radiant Eithne's fair image of snow
Bending o'er the blue well in the cool forest-shade.
Unobserved, in the gloom of a sycamore bower,
With mute admiration he gazed on the fair,
While his charm'd soul ask'd how so beauteous a flower
Had grown, to adorn the desert-wilds there?
He watch'd her, and, every moment, he felt
A new ray of her loveliness steal to his soul,
And her sweetness seem'd into his heart-veins to melt,
Like honey dissolved in a bright golden bowl.
He woo'd her, and soon was the lord of her heart;
A rich, queenly bride, to high Tara she's gone;
And long did the proud-born Cormac Mac Art,
With the peerless Eithne share his love and his throne.
THE MURDERED PRINCE.
A HISTORICAL LEGEND OF THE HOUSE OF THOMOND.
PRINCELY Donogh* fled, defeated, from Bunratty's plain of
death,
O'er the dark hills of Hy Caisin and their gloomy wastes of
heath;
* Donogh O'Brien, the hero of the above tragic poem, was crowned'King
of Thomond, A. D., 1306. He was the eldest son of Torlogh the Warlike, in
whose reign the De Clares got possession of Bunratty. The assassin who




338            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
But when he reach'd, at night-fall, the blue valley of the
streams,
The heavens wax'd red above him, for his palace was in
flames.
At morn he led his army to the field, in banded pride;
At night of all his warriors only one was at his side;
And the chief was sorely wounded, for a lance, with fury
thrown,
In the blazing crash of battle, pierced his strong thigh to the
bone.
Sadly gazed he for a moment on the red, o'erhanging cloud,
Beneath whose fiery shadow the destroyers shouted loud;
Then he feebly knelt, and, sighing, with the anguish of
despair,
Bow'd his head and raised his lock'd hands in deep, passionbreathed prayer:"JHoly God! who raiseth the humble and casteth down the
proud
Oh! save me from the vengeance which my cruel foes have
vow'd!
In thy mercy and compassion, turn thine eyes on my distress!
Thou art the right Avenger and the source of true redress!
" Send the angel of thy pity to a fallen prince to-night!
Do, 0 God of strength, whatever in thy holy eyes seems
right!
Like a dreary wreck deserted, on a wild, surrounding sea,
I am sinking,-Blessed Maker, reach thy saving hand to me!"
Slowly 'rose the sorrowing chieftain, and he call'd his clansman
near,
As he propp'd his drooping figure on the strong shaft of his
spear;
"Bind my wound, oh, faithful Munchin! surely God hath not
denied
His succour to the fallen, when He sent thee to my side!"
The clansman pluck'd some green herbs, with the drops of
heaven fresh,
And applied their soothing virtues to the torture-torn flesh;
Then he stripp'd the silken linen from his cochal's shaggy hem,
And, with care, he gently bound it round the chieftain's
wounded limb.
basely deprived him of life, on his retreat, after his power had been destroyed at the battle of Bunratty, was a near kinsman of his own. The
records say that this traitor fell at the battle of Tully O'Dea, two years
after the murder of Donogh; but I prefer the tradition, as most suited to
the purpose of the poem, which says he was killed by lightning on the very
spot where he committed the murder.
See a poem on the battle of Bunratty, in this volume.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.              339
"Thanks, my friend!" said the O'Brien, "for the growing
ease I feelNever did I for kind service my heart's gratitude conceal!
Now, go down to yonder wild dell, where the three gray
hazels grow,
At the angle of the furze-bank, where the curving fountains
flow!
There, between those slim trees, hidden, you will find my
jewels all;
At the dead hour of last midnight I conveyed them from my
hallOh! 'tis well my household treasure has escaped the greedy
hands
Of black Dermod's hireling kerns, and De Clare's marauding
bands!
Munchin, in my day of glory, when I sat upon my throne,
When the splendid gifts of fortune, power, and honour were
my own!
Thou wert poor, and bow'd with weakness, till I rais'd thee,
like a sword,
To my side, and gave thee honour and distinction at my board!
Round the wound misfortune gave thee, I a golden bandage
tied,
And I trusted thy affection, tho' thy faith I never tried!
Now has come the hour of trial, when I yearn to find in thee
The steady faith and friendship, which you always found in
me!
But, a truce to idle gossip, my brave palace is a wreck,
And the blood-spears of the Norman may be soon upon my
track!
We must turn our faces northward, and by lonely ways retire,
For rest and sure protection, to the country of Maguire
Haste! those jewels, which I mention'd, from the dell's green
bosom bring,
And share, if thou art willing, the sad exile of thy king;
Thou wert my trusty favourite, in the bright days of my reign,
And heaven may make us happy, with such joyful times, again!"
With a light step, like a wolf-hound, to the valley Munchin
sped,
And he brought the sparkling treasure from the wild del's
mossy bed;
Then they turn'd their faces northward, thro' the forest's waving arch,
And the lonely stars of midnight saw them far upon their
march.




340          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And all the night the bleak wind on their pallid faces beat,
And the desert-thorns, like adders, stung their slow advancing
feet;
While the trees, like wailing giants, with a hoarse, continuous
moan,
Blent their million leafy voices in one ghostly monotone.
And along their desert pathway, like a white star 'mid the
gloom,
From tree to tree, before them, flew a bird of flashing plume;
Grim and gaunt in shape and pinion, while, by turns, it
droop'd its head,
And murmur'd, like a mourner o'er the dark sleep of the dead.
Toiling up a sterile hill-side, as the red dawn fringed the East,
The tired travellers sought a ravine, and took shelter in its
breast;
The chief was faint and weary, for his wound grew stiff and
sore,
And a fever-thirst was parching his brave heart-veins to the
core.
"Munchin, bring me drink!" he murmur'd, while his quick,
retreating breath
Scarcely help'd his struggling accent, like the faint prelude of
death,
"Pull a bed of broom and fern, till I rest my sinking frame,
My spirit's strength  is failing, and my veins are all on
flame!"
Munchin, in his helmet, brought cool water from the rill,
And he pluck'd the broom and fern from the brown brow of
the hill;
The chieftain drank the fresh draught, as a scorch'd plant
drinks the dew,
And on the fragrant heather his exhausted frame he threw.
Slowly o'er his darkening eyelids stole a shadow, dim and
deep,
And his sorrows were forgotten in the breathing death of
sleep,
While dark Munchin watch'd beside him, with a quick eye
prying round,
'Till in the chieftain's helmet he the treasured jewels found.
One by one, he closely view'd them with a fast, admiring gaze,
While his stern eye, like a demon's, with fierce light began to
blaze;
What were faith, allegiance, honour, love or friendship, now
to him?
All vanish'd from his bosom, as he view'd each shining gem.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                341
Ah! the fiend of self is master of the dark thoughts of his
heart,
And his brow is sternly knitted, and his blue lips set apart;
Thrice he glared upon the sleeper, with a rigid, iron frown,
Thrice he raised his lance to slay him, but his hand fell powerless down.                                           '
The traitor's strong nerve shudder'd, for a wild cry, from the
wood,
Stay'd his raised steel and suspended the mad action of his
blood;
Long he listen'd to the sad wail that return'd and died away,
And he knew that song of sorrow came from Oebhin of
Craiglea! *
She who watch'd the House of Thomond, ever chanting, in her
tears,
Dreary death-keens for its chieftains, thro' a thousand misty
years!
Oh, mysterious, faithful spirit! that forewarn'd them of the
tomb,
But thy airy hand was powerless to avert the stroke of doom!
"Nerveless coward!" in the traitor's ear, the jealous tempter
cried,
And again the sparkling beauty of the brilliant stones he
eyed;
And above the slumbering chieftain gleam'd the horrid lance
again,
Which descended, with a death-plunge, to his cleft heart's inmost vein.
Dimly gliding, like a moonbeam, from the shadow of a tree,
In the dusky, golden dawn-haze, moved the marble-brow'd
banshee,
And the white rings of her long hair, like a floating cloud of
snow,
Roll'd along her bending shoulders to her misty feet below.
With a brow as white and icy as the cold brow of the dead,
She gazed at the assassin till his black heart sank, like lead;
For her red eyes seem'd to curse him, till his very soul was
sered
With the look of wrath she gave him, as she sobb'd and disappear'd.
Beneath the beetling granite, where the slaughter'd chieftain
lay,
The blood-stained gems the murderer in the cliff's chink hid
away:
Then, furious as a maniac, from the place of crime he flew,
'Till Bunratty's ghastly Castle 'rose, in darkness, on his view.
* For a description of Oebhin, the Banshee of the Dalgais, see poems and
notes at pages 41 and 103.




342          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.
There he told De Clare the story, how he slew the Dalcas
prince,
And the traitor was rewarded with a golden recompense;
But the eye of heaven was on him for the hideous deed he'd
done,
And God's kindled wrath held o'er him a red scourge he could
not shun.
Danced the sunbeams o'er the valleys, in their balmy
morning play,
And the woodlands' vernal freshness in a dream of beauty
lay,
And the mists arose, like spirits, from the heather's crimson
bed,
Round the darkly-shadow'd ravine where the noble victim
bled.
Chimed the bird of heaven above him, in the sapphire plains
of light,
And the blossom'd rock-brier near him waved its wreaths of
green and white,
And the lonely mountain-plover raised its shrill voice at his
head,
While the winds, like mourners, whisper'd round the pale
brow of the dead.
He who ruled o'er all those valleys, hills, and woodlands
yesterday,
With ten thousand proud heads bowing glad submission to
his sway,
Lies unshriven, unanointed, without requiem, shroud, or
prayer,
Unlamented and abandon'd, like a wolf slain in his lair.
And the murderer lived unpunish'd, tho' a hell was in his
mind,
For his presence was detested, curst, and scorn'd by mankind;
'Till two circling harvests lifted their brown billows o'er the
plain,
And the battle-clans were marshall'd for the deadly toil again.
Andblack Munchin was amongst them, in the army of De Clare,
The leader of a squadron which himself hath trained with
care;
But the Norman bands were routed, and their allies hewn, in
blood,
And the regicide, for refuge, sought the lonely mountainwood.
And he said, in self-communion, as along the wold he ran,
"I'll leave this land of bloodshed, where the curse of man is
man!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.               343
But I'll take those jewels hidden in the cliff of Carrigree,
And I'll make a home of pleasure in some land beyond the
sea!
Away, with deer-like swiftness, to the fatal hill he hied,'
'Till he reach'd the gory ravine in its torrent-cloven side;
There he saw the blood-stain'd heather, but the corpse was
brought away,
Long since, for pious burial in the consecrated clay.
Burn'd his brow and throbb'd his eye-balls, for the brand of
cursed Cain
Seem'd to pierce his aching forehead, 'till it scorch'd his reeling
brain;
While the stiff gore on the dry broom, changed from dark to
melting red,
'Till the mass of wither'd heather, with reviving freshness,
bled.
Round the brown hill roll'd a black cloud, that o'ershadow'd
stream and plain,
And the dark firs shriek'd and shiver'd as if seized with fearful
pain;
For God's thunder-voice of judgment, in red words of flame,
began
To pronounce perdition's sentence on the wretched, guilty man.
Thro' the blue gloom of the valley rush'd the blast in fiendish
squalls,
And the dancing sheets of lightning whirl'd around, like
blazing palls;
And the huge hill thrill'd and trembled to its mighty granite
knees,
Like a panic-stricken giant who impending danger sees.
Some pitying angel whisper'd the doom'd wretch to kneel and
pray,
But the fiend was in his steel'd heart, and it coldly answer'd,
"Nay!"
While fiercer, louder, nearer, roar'd the elemental peal,
And the fork'd flames, like red war-brands, glared and leaped
along the vale.
Like the God-denying Atheist, Munchin view'd the scene, and
thought
That the awful change existed, by some freak of nature
wrought,
When the lightning's blazing arm hurled the cliff-pile on his
head,
And its crash might chase the slumber from the cold eyes of
the dead.




344          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Deep, beneath the massive ruin was the hateful traitor crush'd,
The lightning quench'd its blue torch, and the thunder's peal
was hush'd;
Clear'd the cloud, and calm'd the tempest, sung the birds, and
shone the sun,-r
God's fiery agents rested, for his vengeance-work was done.
TORLOGH AND MARY,
A LEGEND OF QUIN ABBEY.*
BRING to this table t a goblet of flame,
'Till I drink a toast to the gallant and true!
Bring not red wine-for red wine is too tameBut a fiery bumper of "Mountain Dew!"
Here's to your memory, bold Seaan Bwee!
That lies there below, in the Abbey of QuinOh, heavens of light! shall we evermore see,
In the land of Brian, such brave, wild men?
The soil is curst with degenerate seedGone is the race of our battle-gods;
Yes, the diamonds are gone, and in their stead
Is a cold generation of fireless clods!
There's wrath in my heart-veins here, to-day!
Ah, Denis Moloney, my friend, don't laugh!
What I said is true, and again I say,
Death took the wheat, but he left the chaff!
You say that you knew the fierce man of fire,
That tyrant or demon could not controlGive me the glass-fill it up entireHere's eternal joy to his god-like soul!
* Quin Abbey was bu:lt, in 1402, by Sioda Cam MacNamara, Prince of
Clancuilen, whose remains were interred under the grand high altar. Though
now in a ruinous state, it yet retains much of its prstine grandeur, and
stands a magnificent memorial of the affluence, munificence and piety of
its princely founder. Within its venerable precints rest the ashes of many
of the warlike chieftains and lords of Clancuilen, who ranked next in power
and prestige to the princely O'Briens themselves. With it are connected
many romantic legends and sensational traditions of the old, bygone times
of feud and chivalry.
t An old festive table and other antiquated articles of house furniture
which belonged to the celebrated Dalcassian fire-eater, MacNamara, are in
the possession of a man named Denis Moloney, who keeps an inn opposite
the abbey. The tomb, in which lie the relics of the intrepid Fireball, is to
be seen in a small compartment of the ruin at the left side of the high altar,
and nearly opposite is to be seen the tomb of O'Callaghan the Great, who
fell in a duel, by the hand of Seaan Bog MacNamara, of Ennis, through
the instrumentality of Fireball.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


345


Yon tower rises up, like a phantom of gloom,
As I look from the window, with mournful pride,
At the palace of shadows that darken his tomb,
And the low, little cot where the warrior died!
I enter'd the abbey, with panting speedI signed no cross, and I said no prayer,
For my heart leapt about, like a goaded steed,
O'er the noble ashes that moulder there;
Ghosts of old memories, on the blast,
Seem'd flitting around me, like things of lightOh, God be with the immortal past!
And the glorious men who could feast and fight!
Grand Temple! where chieftains and princes knelt
Before thy high altar, which richly blazed
With pure, waxen tapers, and humbly felt
The presence of God, when the Host was raised!
War and time, 0 majestic Dome!
Have plunder'd the beauty of choir and nave;
Thy altar stands naked, and ruin and gloom
Frown, grim at each other, o'er many a grave!
On column and tracery, chancel and arch,
Art lavish'd the wealth of her brain and hand;
And the curious eye for a fault may search,
But yet see none in thine order grand!
How splendid thou wert in thy bright, young time?
And a calm, dark splendour is round thee yet,
Like the awful stamp of a soul sublime,
On the brow of a saint, when life's beam is set!
Thou'rt gilt with the beams of September noon,
But I'd give the best jewel of Inchiquin,
To see thy gloom-glory, when midnight's moon
Thro' yon tall, gray window, looks dimly in!
When the mist spirit sits on the dreary lea,
And the bird of sadness and solitude moans
From the skeleton-branch of yon ghost-like tree
That stands 'mid a hillock of human bones! t
When the weird ivy rustles along the dim walls,
As the spectral-wind walks the dismal aisle,
And the dew, like the tears of the banshee, falls
On the gaunt, sere leaves of the shadowy pile;
* Fireball drew his last breath in a little cottage, in the neighbourhood
of the abbey, See a poem on his grave, at page 118.
+ A huge pile of human bones, the grisly trophies of the surrounding
graves accumulated, from time to time, in one horrid heap against the old
abbey wall, disappeared in a night, but no person could tell whether they
were taken by the original proprietors, or others for some profane purpose.
23




346          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
While the sombre glow of the dreaming night
Robes column and tomb, like white drapery thin,
O Palace of Death! what an awful sight,
In thy dark, spirit-grandeur, to see thee then!
Ah many a mournful change hast thou knownChange of races, and rulers, and creeds;
Old customs abolish'd, old dynasts o'erthrownBattles, rebellions, and fearful deedsAnd that skeleton-heap, the gray wall beside,
O'er whose sun-bleached fragments the gaunt boughs bend,
Oh, Love and Beauty, Ambition and Pride!
Rank, Title and Honour! is this your end?
Denis Moloney, sit here on this knoll,
The heavens are clear, and the meadows are dry;
And I'll bring forth a page from the book of my soul
To read you a story of times gone by!
There dwelt a young maiden in Quin, long agoThe bards of Clan Tail could her loveliness tellB er hair was like mist on a mountain of snow,
And her eyes were as clear as a holy well!
She loved young Torlogh, of Ardsoillus wild,
But a wealthy knave proposed for her hand;
Not for the sake of her beauty mild,
But her ample dower and her father's land.
And her father, in anger, before her stood,
And vow'd that his daughter for ever should part
From the manly youth of the generous blood,
To marry the knave of the shrunken heart.
She wept all night, and she wept all day,
Lock'd up in her chamber, and watch'd by spies,
'Till her cheek-flowers paled and wither'd away
In the bitter grief-tide of her burning eyesBut vainly she wasted her heart's hot rain,
And vainly her sighs thro' the long night rose;
Her spirit must wear the detested chain,
For Torlogh's father and her's were foes.
The wedding-night came-'twas a night of doomThe wine was rich and the mirth was loud;
And the bride came forth from her private room,
In her snowy dress, like a morning cloudIn silence the pitying guests behold
The beautiful sadness of her look,
Where her soul its story of anguish told,
Like a dark tale penn'd in an angel's book.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


347


The priest was ready-the pair knelt downA low moan parted the lips of the bride;
Her slight frame sway'd, with that deep heart-moan,
And out on the floor gush'd her life's red tide.
The craven-groom, like a frighten'd hound,
Sprang up to his feet, and soon took the door,
While guests and kinsmen, gathered around
The maid that lay dead on the gore-dyed floor.
Confusion and fright filled the festive roomThe bridesmaids clamour'd and tore their hair;
Strong men look'd aghast, and the priest stood dumb,
And her father gazed round, with an idiot-stare,
Thus heaven punish'd the cold-soul'd sire,
For the victim he made of his innocent child;
Remorse ate his heart, and his brain's mad fire
Drove him out on the world, a maniac wild.
Nine nights in her coffin the maiden lay,
But Torlogh knew not that she was dead,
For his friends kept the tale from his ears away,
They only told him that she was wed!
'Till, one dusky eve in the dark-red wood,
When the moon of the harvest began to shine,
He wander'd down by the Fergus' flood
To see, in the meadow, his browsing kine:
The scene was calm as a dream of love,
And his eyes were raised to the pearl-like star
That glows, 'mid the west's gold and purple above,
As it follows the sun in its journey far:
And his wizard fancy aspired to trace,
In that gentle planet, with sweet regret,
The mournful beauty of Mary's face,
When last on those wild, green banks they met.
The tear was dimming his dark, hawk-eye,
And the wave of his bosom began to swell,
When he heard a low voice, like the nightly sigh
Of the wind-swung reeds by a haunted well.
He turned, and look'd thro' the plain's blue haze,
And he saw, moving towards him, with footsteps slow,
A maiden, as bright as the spring-noon blaze,
When it suddenly bursts on the hill's new snow.
'Twas Mary-her slow, stately step he knewAs she pass'd near the haunt of the black-wing'd ravenWith her garment as white as the frozen dew,
And her face as sweet as the flowers of heaven.




348


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIHOMOND.


Her brow was pale as the cold dawn-star,
The sheet of the mist lay unstained where she trod;
And she looked as if, at the judgment bar,
She had caught the sweet glance of the face of God.
"Oh, welcome, dear Mary!" the glad youth said,
Extending his hand, with a bright'ning smile;
"I was told, but did not believe, you were wed,
Tho' I felt, when I heard it, my blood-springs boil!
Oh, Colleen, darling! I never, till now,
Saw my beautiful lily so tenderly bright!
And the silver arch of thy virgin brow
Seems to borrow from heaven its angel-light!"
"I am not wedded!" the maiden rejoined,
My heart to its idol is still too true!
Machree I'd not give to the best of mankind
The hand and the word that I pledged to you!
I've left, for ever, my father's home,
And the stream of our love shall run smooth again,
If, to-morrow night, at twelve, you'll come
To meet me alone, at the Abbey of Quin!
"There our hands in eternal truth we'll plight,
And ere the white star of the red-dawn hour,
Shall fade in the morning's increasing light,
We'll be far away from the cold world's power!
And we'll go to a golden realm of joy,
Where the sun never sets, and the spring never dies--
Where the tear of regret and sorrow's dark sigh
Never tainted the air of the roseate skies!
"No envy, nor pride, nor ambition is there,
But soul meets soul, with a song of love!
And lovers, as free as the flowers from care,
Thro' rosy valleys of brightness rove!
And the streamlets from diamond-mountains flow
Thro' beds that with sands of crystal gleam,
And the winds, on the gold-banks, come and go,
Like the heavenly song of the fairy dream!
"And the rich meads seem in a rosy trance,
With their glistening verdure that never fades,
Where golden honey-drops glow and glance
On the star-like flowers and the scented blades!
And the blossoms shine on the sunny trees,
Like pearl-cups hung 'mid the bright green leaves;
And fields of lilies play in the sweet breeze,
Like sheeted foam on the green sea-waves!"




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


349


The joyful Torlogh promised to go,
And his glad heart gush'd, like a festive bowl,
For he felt a delirious enchantment glow
Thro' his bounding blood and his spell-wrapt soulA dream-like rapture around him grew,
And his being seem'd changed into melody sweet,
As if the strong power of the Fairies drew
A wild web of magic around his feet.
But he saw his beloved one gliding away
Thro' the pale, yellow twilight-mist, like the gleam
Of the new Spring-moon, at the close of day,
Stealing into a cloud, o'er a waveless streamHe followed her down by the dark-red wood,
But her form diminish'd, until, at last,
By a bush-grown curve of the echoing flood,
Like a vanishing ray, from his sight she past.
And all that night, and the next day-noon,
He seem'd to walk in a palace of dreams,
'Till the sun behind Callan's blue summit went down,
With his fiery banner of crimson beams.
The rain-clouds gather'd their dull, dusk veil
O'er the varied hue of the changing sky,             9
And the wind, with a low, sad, ominous wail,   o
Came over the moor, like a giant's cry.     o( A    M
Night's features darker and darker grew--      -
The blast ravedwilder-the hours waned late--     f' 0'
And Torlogh to meet his dear Mary flew,
Alone and unseen, from his father's gateThe cold murk shrouded the colder rain,
The angry squall thro' the black trees roar'd,
As he sped thro' the village, and down the plain
Where the Fergus winds, like a silver chord.
And colder and darker the old pile seem'd,
With its ghostly steeple and crumbling navesRound its naked gables the owlet scream'd,
And the rain-clouds wept o'er its floor of gravesBut Torlogh felt not the least afraid
At the house of the dead, or the blackness it wore,
For his passionate love for the mild-faced maid,
Had a golden root in his heart's soft core.
He walk'd 'mid the horrid sepulchral gloomThe blast, 'mid the ruins, sung requiems deep,
As he stepp'd over many a white-stain'd tomb,
Where the princes and lords of Clancuilen sleep.




350          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And before him there stood at the mouldering door,
His Mary, all lonely and dismally whiteSWTelcomIIIe, " she whispered, " Oh, Bridegroom pure!
You are just in time for the sacred rite!"
He gazed on the maiden, so cold and tallA strange fire glow'd in her starlike eye,
As she pensively leaned 'gainst the drooping wall,
Like a banslihee tireed of her funeral cryHe touch'd her white garment's airy wave,
But his hand, at the touch of that robe, grew chill,
For 'twas like the snow-fog of a wintry eve
Lyiing over the side of a frozen hill.
They entered the chancel-the scene was changedA richli-robed 1priest at the altar prayed,
And his calmn, dark, solemlln eyes slowly ranged
O'er an open missal before him laidThe altar was dress'd in its holiest styleTwelve tall white candles were buruing there
And a congregation kniielt round the aisle,
With clasped hands raised, andl heads bow'd in prayer.
And Torlogh gazed on the knceeling crowd,
But peolple and priest were unknown to himiii;
And the sighs of thIe penitent souls grew loud
Thro' the drearly aisle aniid tie chlancel dim.
The Ipriest froin the throne of the Host camne downTo his bosom he held thIe sacred BookAt Torlogh he stared, wNith a stony frown,
Till his every nerve, like a gossamer, shook.
He beckon'd the silent couple to kneelThey obey'd, andll thIe ceremony soon began,
But the young bride's clasp was, like frigid steel,
Congealing the hand of tihe dooin'd young man.
The wordls were utter (d-the pair gave consentThe rite was comniplete(;--lut, was it the wind
That lifted its voice thro' an ivied rent,
With a hoarse '' Amen!" from the tombs behin
Poor Torloghd,bewilder,  around himin gazed,
And look'd up to tihe roof, but his wondering eye
Saw no roof, but tihe star's, that, like death -lights, blazed
7Thro' tihe wind-tomnmm veil of the gimastly sky.
The rain-drops slplaslie(l on tihe tomlb-stones oldThe gaunt ivy mmustledl alove his head;
And the hollow-tommed blast on his face blew cold,
As it whistled its mIiduighit tune o'er thIe dcead.




LAYS ANDT LECGENDS OF THTOMONT)D.


*%il


The youth gazed close at his Mary's face,
And he saw the grave-sweat from her lrow ooze (lamp
The priest disappear'd from the altar-place,
And the candles died out, like a glow-worm's lam i!
Shuddering and soul-sick, he sought the (0oor,
The bride's snowy form moved on at his sidle,
But his heart-veins grew numnlb (1, anll he sank on the floor,
And there, 'mid the dust of the dleal, he liedl.
Now gray-hair'd Denis, you've heard my frhyme,
And fain would I stray in the abbey alone,
Whliere thle whlite footprints of the spirit of time
Are stamp'd on the face of each hoary stone,
Lo! yon gray tower, with its bald head( riven,*
O'cr awhose tottering suinnit tlhe \-white clouds swii
II11 spend a fev niiinutes up there, ill heaven,
At the risk of a fall and a broken lil)mb!
II c7 aze aronlll on thle rich, grieil llaiils,
That lie, il the suniliglit, froii east to wlst,
XWhere lawi Iis millade ruin, anid cilirI;s ill chliaiIIs,
Like poor, dull leasts w-ith l(11111 Ilinrlelns iless'dl
They adore one god-and tlhat god is goldlThey live for nought lulit their own base sake,
With hearts in their bosoms as tiniii  andl coldl,
As perishing frogs in a wintry lake.
Alas! poor Clare-not the Clare of yore!
The generous spring of your souls is deald l
They feel no love for their ancient lore,They know no pride for the soil they treall
Peace, with poverty, here appearls,
And the old abbey shakes its ivy cap,
As if giving a sigh for the golden years
When blood andi spirit stood in thle gap.
Bright land of Cas, of the silver shields!
Thy arm of fire was once strong in strife,
And every foot of thy regal fields
Was bought by tile blood of some noble life!
CGone are the forests of Tpines and oaks
That vestured thly hills of thle fragriant air
And thy abbeys and towers, with their leafy cloaks,
Tell tales of the grandeur that once was there!
SThe annalists tell a fearful story of the execution of Donogh na Beg (the
little) O'lrien, at Quin. Hie was brought by Cruise, the Sheriff of the
county, before Sir John Perrott, thel English Dleputy, who sentenced him,
viz., he was half-hanged from a car and is bonlles were smashed with the
back of a Inrge and hIeavy axe, and his bodly, thus mangled and half-dead,
wos affixed, fastened with roples, to the top of Qullin Steeple, uindler the
talons of the fowlsof the air, that the sight of himn in that state might serve
as a warning to other relbellious evil-doers. His crime was no more than
robbing the Eiiglish settlers of Connaught.




352            LAYS AND LEFENDS OF THIOMIOND.
THE BATTLE OF THURLES.*
A. D. 1174.
TiHE war-fires' light
Gleamed red all night
Along the mountain gloomKing Donald's men
Are up again,
From Luimnoch to Slieve Bluim
From glen and wood
The hone and blood
Of his fierce and fearless clan,
In wild array,
At dawn of (lay,
O'er Ormond's plainis swept on.
And fiercely blew
The loud harabloo,tj
And his harls their war-hymns sang,
While the martial breatlh
Of that chant of death
\Was timed lby the steely clang
Of falchion keen,
And glittering skein,
And strong iron-plated shield
AWhose blue orb bore
The red marks of war,
In many a victor-field.
And ]rightly above
The tall spear-grove
Clanced the banner of Munster's kings,
With " Thrwe lions " of might,
In grolden ligllt,
I)isplay'd on its emerald wings
And high in the van
Of his desperate clan
Strode the kingly D)onald More;1
As strong in the charge
As the hleadllong surge
That bursts on the western shore.
* The battle of Thurles (Durles O'Fow'arty) in which, according to some
annalists, seventeenhlnidried of thie Nornm0an army fell, was the first important encouniter tlhat took placo betsCUeea Ilie Iih ando i their English invaders. Thie 1)algais of 'IlThornond, commanded(l by their irrepressible king,
Donald More O'Brien, wsere tc1omiplcte victors in that stern engagement.
+ The baraboo wa-s a sonorous war truimpet used by the Irish for sounding the advanice of an a rI'IVy.
t '-King D)oeahl wsas the follnderr 111d erolowerof severnl fine churches and
abbeys, thi prmicipal of which Lre C ismrore Abbey, Ilsly-cross, Killaloe
Church, and the grand Cathedral of St. Alry's, in Limerick, where his re



LAYS AND LEGENSD OF T11OMOND.


353


From Waterford
The Norman horde
To the plains of Ikerrin came,
In vengeful haste,
The land to waste,
WVith sword and destroying flameThree thousand strong,
They march'd along,
With fierce Stringul at their head;
Nor house nor herd
Their fury spared,
As on their foray they sped.
Across the plain
Is darkly seen
One flood of helms and plumes
As sweeping (down
The hill-side brown
The mighty army comnesBut as the. heave
Of the mad sea-wave
Is barr'd by the crag,-pil'd shore,
So that iron-tidle,
On Durles's side,
Was stopp'd by King Donald More.
Then, hoarse and high,
The wild battle-cry
Of the stern Dalcassians peal'd,
And the Normans proud,
With a shout as loud,
Their martial defiance yell'd;
Then, left and right,
With sweeping inighit,
The headlong hosts en gage(d
And life ne'er bled
Ina a strife so redl,
While that combat of bloodhounds raged.
maine reposo. o w1as sixth in deocent from the great King Brian, and inherited the proud blood and magnanimous spirit of his illustrious ancestor.
le was for twenty-six years constantly in arms against the English power,
which he repeatedly drove, with loss, from the borders of his prinicipality.
His Queen was Urlacam, dauighter of MacMorrough, Ring of Leinster; by
her he bad nine sons and two daughters, Mary and Caithlin.  ie burned
the city of Limericlc twice, in order to prevent the English adventurers
from establishing themselves thiere. Ile died in his palace at Limerick, in
1194, in the 32nd year of his reign, and the 78th of his age.
"1 He fought another battle at Thurlcs twenty years after his first victory
at that place, for he attacked ard routed the Normans, near Killaloe, and
pursued them to Thurles, where he encountered the main body of their
army, which he triumphantly defeated, with great loss, after a stubborn and
stern resistance.")-Asnnccls of hoasonad.




354


5LAYS ANDT) LFGENDST OF TITOMOND


But the javelins' rain
WTas launch'd in vain
Against the strong Norman mail;
WAith a quivering boundl
They fell to the ground,
From the rivetted plates of steel,
While the Dalcas' breasts
Thro' their saffron vests,
Were plougll''d by the Norman b1rands,
Till, as steel rives stone,
A red pass was hewn
Thro' the heart of the riven blan(ls.
Yet those brave, stern men
Their ranks closed in,
And the desperate o(1(Is withstood,
Tho, the plain around,
WXhere they lieh their grounid,
Was fat with their valiant blood0;
Lance clang'd on lance,
In a flashing ldance,
And the crash of the migi(hty strokes
Roll'd on, like the swell
Of the thunder's knell,
When it peals thro' a wood of oaks.
Then King Donald More,*
Higl towering( o'er
The snuge of the stomny frayLike a giant-rock,
'Mid the whirl and shock
Of a tempest-maidll el'(ld seaO'er the reeking wreck,
And the wild attaCk,
The (leath-shriek and wrathful yell,
His voice peal'd out,
Like a war-god's shout,
Or the clang of a mighty bell:''Your javelins fail
'To lpierce their mail,
Tho' with vigour and swiftness thrown!
* " Kin- Donal] More tarniChea hiis lorv by the barbarous act of putting
out the eyes of his two neaphlews, at Castle Concell, to dlisqualify them from
their claims on the chieftaincy. Whon dlerickle  O'Connor, monarch of
I reland, heardl of this, hle advlanced to chastise the Prince of Thomond for
his cruelty, but on his return hImTe lie ewas obliged to commit the same
barbarity on his own son, whoi, ini his absence, had taken armins to usurp his
th lrone and ovcerthrow his govecrnmnt. "-- Aniiii 1U IT -111Nad.t




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
But, if you would smite
Their iron might,
'Tis your axes must hew them down!
Dismiss the brands
From your valiant hands,
And strike with your axes keen,
As your sires, on the day
Of Clontarf's red fray,
Smote the bands of the robber Dane!"
The spear and sword,
At the leader's word,
Are flung from each warrior's hand;
Skeins lie in the sheath,
And the hatchets of death
Are grasp'd by the Dalcas band.
Then, as crags hurl'd down
From the hill's blue crown,
On the woods of the sounding vale,
They leapt, like the slash
Of a cascade's dash,
On the phalanx of Norman steel.
Burst the helms in two,
And the breastplates flew
Into fragments, like stricken fire;
And down, with the crash
Of a falling ash,
Roll'd each chief in the reeking mir'e;
And broad and red,
In breast and head,
Did the battle-axe leave its mark,
Like the yawning dint,
Where a rock hath rent
The hull of a founder'd bark.
In vain! in vain!
With rowel and rein,
Did the horsemen fling their steeds
Thro' the deadly crush,
As wild beasts rush
Thro' a morass of quivering reeds;
For, as reapers hew
A wide passage thro'
A thick mass of redundant corn,
With a hollow sound,
To the reeling ground,
Mail'd riders and steeds are borne.


355




356          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And fiercely peal'd,
O'er the ringing field,
" Lanh Laidir Inochtta!" wild,*
As gallowglass stern,
And stalwart kern,
At the harvest of carnage toil'd!
And dread Donald More,
'Mid a wave of gore,
His men to their grim work cheer'd,
Like a lion's roar,
On a stormy shore,
O'er the sound of the breakers heard.
With madden'd speed
Steed plunged on steed,
And rank was flung back on rank,
'Midst a cloud of blood,
As a wintry flood
Sweeps in thro' a broken bank.
Steel blazed in air,
Like the fiery glare
Of the meteor-flames of death,
That flash their rays
Thro' the midnight haze,
As they shoot o'er the blasted heath.
And, scatter'd, back
On their red war-track,
The Norman forayers fled,
Leaving behind
The wide field lined
With the wreck of their army deadThe flower and boast
Of their valorous host
Lay there on the purple plainGreat champions of swords,
Brave knights and lords,
With the common soldiery slain.
Here, in armour bright,
Lay a stalwart knight,
With Ils hisead half sever'd away;
And another lay there,
With his dead eyes' glare
Turn'd up to the orb of dayAnd others lay dead,
With the blood-gouts re(l
Oozingf freshly from trunk and lilmb,
* The war-cry of O'Brien's clan, i. e., " The strong hand upJprmlost!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.
With the angry scowl
Of the parting soul
On their features, rigid and grim.
And the brave war-horse,
Of spirit and force,
Lay there, like a fallen tower,
With a deep wound sank
In his gaping flank,
Deprived of his pride and power.
And, face to face,
In a death-embraceStretch'd stiff on the batter'd clay,
Where the grappling throng
Of the fight surged strongDalcassian and Norman lay.
Throughout the land
The tidings grand
Of King Donald's victory ranThe first death-blow
Is given the foe,
And liberty's fight is beganProud Strongbow is gone
To Waterford town,
But blood is before him there,
For the citizens rose
'Gainst their garrison'd foes,
And slaughter'd them in their lair.
There's revelry high,
And boisterous joy,
From Cashel to Shannon's shore,
And Luimnoch waits
To open her gates
For her conquering Donald More!
Bright wreaths and flowers
Hang from the towers,
To adorn the chieftain's way;
And the bards proclaim
His immortal fame,
In many a glorious lay.
Stars of the Gael!
O'Connor! O'Neill!
O'Rourke of the wrathful hand
Come forth, and join
The royal O'Brien,
In sweeping the pest from your land!


357




358         LAYI AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
O'Donnell! Maguire!
Proud souls of fire!
MacCarthy! O'Sullivan Beare!
Arise -and unite
For your princely right,
And fling your base feuds to the air
High princes and lords
Of the cleaving swords!
In your handls is your country's fateUiiite!-0 unite
Your dlivided nmight!
Andl strike, ere it be too late!
Ere your landl's despoil'd,
And your homes defiled,
By those war-hawks of plunder and prey!
Arise, and join
With the lrave O'Brien,
And hurl them into the sea!
THE BRIDE OF THE SUIR.
A FAIRY LEGENDI OF CAliIli.
STERN Donald, the son of proud Callaghan More,
Has gone for his bride to the banks of the Suir,
F'or he promised, ere Christmas had lighted its flame,
To Ibring to his mansion thile silken-haired (ainle---
And his tall gallovwglasses, with javelin and skein,
Like the wolf-hounds of Caltee, aroun1 d himn are seen
And they rode with the rings of tlieir long, yellow hair,
Like the cloudlets of sunset, afloat onil the air.
'Twas December--the frost ill tile \alley was gray,
And thle winll-lo-Ile sllow-llift dlescelIled all lday,
And those silvery f        oaglelts of winters costume,
In white splelndour, glistelledl  o  llmanltle all(d lIpluile,
While headllong, as torreniits, o'er mIIoolaldls alln Illeadls,
I)ash'd those eagle-eyued lmen on their ire-hiooded steedls,
'Till the gloaming behield thiem, is; gatlei'd tile nigilt,
Sweeping dlowin by the river, like ghosts all in white.
There was silence aroundl-scarce thle ihorse-hoofs were heard
To awaken a sound froml thle slow-coveredl sward;
And the river look'd black as alln ebolly vein,
Stretch'd along the wide breast of the white-muflled plain



LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.


359


Hoar and huge in the distance, the Galtees look'd down,
With the snow-angel dimly enthroned on their crown,
And the pine-shafts, like pillars, seem'd lightly to bear
Pearl palaces built by the Genii of air.
The moon's horn peer'd thro' the cloud's broken ring,
Like a silver bow under the cloak of a king,
While a star, at intervals, reveal'd its red eye,
Here and there, thro' the mist-piles that floated on high.
The polar wind breathed its nighlt-vesper low,
As if whispering a story of God to the snow,
And telling the pure thing of heaven, in its song,
That its radiant sojourn on earth was not long.
"Ten miles hence!" said Donald, " our journey will soon
Be done, in an hour, by the light of the moon!
My Mora is waiting-your fare shall be goodAnd I'll give you red wine till you swim in its flood!"
Spur and whip are applied to the flank of each steed,
And the flight of a meteor was slow to their speed;
Their air-lifted cloaks, in their swiftness, seem'd riven,
And their toss'd plumes shook off the hoar spangles of heaven.
They rode by the base of 'a gray, olden cairn,
Like a naked ghost, rising 'mid broolm-hush and fern;
The owl, with her spirit-voiced wailing, was there,
And the curlew's lone note sounded shrill thro' the air;
When, lo! by the sheen of the dim lunar-beam,
Right against the small phalanx a acavalcade came,
And Donald commanded his resolute men
To poise their long spears, and their coursers rein in!
The pageantry moved on, majestic and slow,
But the hoofs of tile steeds left no marks on the snow:It first, like a rolling mist, seem'd to appear,
'Till it grew more distinct as the horsemen drew near;
But their figures were strange, and their faces were pale,
And they wore not the " co/tl," nor garh of thle (ael,
For a gloom hung around cavalier and mail'd knight,
And their cloudy plumes d(arkenl'd their harness of light.
But their regal-eyed leader, who rode in the van,
Scarcely hore the terrestrial resemiblance of man,
For the light of a strange sl)here around him seem'd thrown,
And his brow with the glow of the Beautiful shone;
And his locks o'er his neck in an amber" wave roll'd,
Like cloud-curls steep'd in the sli's aerial gold,
When the spirit of light, at the calm evening hour,
Is bending in heaven (od's bow of the shower.




360          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And close, at his saddle-end, seated behind,
With her white bridal-robe flowing loose on the wind,
Was Mora, the chosen of Donald the proud,
With her head on the throne of her snow-bosom bow'd.
The jealous chief look'd at the bride of his heart,
With the glare of an eagle, when pierced by a dart,
And he sprang, with a passion-curse hot on his lip,
On her captor, as dashes a wave on a ship.
One lunge of his javelin thro' corselet and vest,
And the spear's azure point disappear'd in his breast;
But the stranger, unmoved, sat erect as a reed,
While the lady fell down, in a swoon, from the steed.
Donald drew back the lance without blood on its steel,
As if it had pass'd thro' the night-fog's cold veil,
And the weird group ascended above the white plain,
Like a shadowy column of mist after rain.
Dim and slowly they rose, in the moon's dusky eye,
'Till they mixed with the haze-banks that lined the gray sky,
While the mute band, with looks on the firmament cast,
Saw them soar, 'till the night-clouds received them at last!
Fair Mora lay stretched, in her weird trance, below,
With her locks' yellow rings scatter'd out on the snow,
'Till Donald uplifted her slight lily-form
On his brave steed, and rested her head on his arm.
"Away!" cried the chief, "give your coursers the rein!"
And away, like wing'd demons, they sped o'er the plain,
And their steeds never slacken'd the nerves of their fire,
Till they came to the tall castle-gate of her sireThe horn is winded-the barrier's unbarredAnd the horsemen dash'd in thro' the wide castle-yard,
But their ears were assail'd from the chambers within,
By the harp's song of grief and the thrilling death-keen.
And the candles of death burn'd dim by a pall,
Where Mora's white corpse was laid out in the hall,
And her maiden-companions wept over her there,
While her sire sat beside her in silent despair.
Green wreaths from the wood were festooning the bed,
Round the placid snow-brow of the beautiful dead,
And the keeners, with melody plaintive and wild,
Rehearsed all the virtues of Cormac's fair child.*
* In singing the caoine (keen), the personal endowments and virtues of
the departed formed the general eubject of the death-song.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TITOMOND.


361


That evening, the Fairies the bright maiden won,
And were bearing her off to the Hill of tle Sun,*
But they left in her stead a fair semblance behind,
That looked like her corpse to the eye and the mind.
Then her brave lover met them, slow wending their way,
By the old haunted cairn, so gloomy and gray,
And he conquer'd her captors, and broke the dark spell
That lay on her spirit, like ice on a well.
And the night-hag seem'd casting her shade on the floor
When Donald, the fearless, appear'd at the door,
Bearing up, like a seraph asleep, in his arms,
His innocent bride, in the glow of her charms:
The corpse, from the mourners' sight, vanisl'd in air,
And the wail of the keeners died into a prayerMorning 'rose, like a vision, o'er valley and moor,
And the happiest of brides was the bride of the Suir.
THE BATTLE OF MAGRESSTAN, AND MURDER OF
BRIAN ROE AT BUNRATTY.t
NINE years were past since Brian Roe was hurl'd from Thomond's throne,
And proud De Clare had finish'd well his towers of massive
stone;+
And to fulfil his promise, made to Brian, in his need,
He call'd a council of his friends to know how they'd proceed.
Then Brian Roe proposed to march, at midnight's favouring
hour,
To high Clonroad, and there surprise the rival of his power;~
* The Hill of the Sun, Knoc Greine, in the county Limerick.
It was supposed to be governed by the Fairy Queen, Mave, who ruled a
select order of her own lovely sex there. Every beautiful woman who died
young was carried away to this hill, by fairy enchantment, according to the
belief of the simple-minded peasantry. Whatever way their mythology may
err, it was certainly an innocent anid beautiful one, for none but an innocent and virtuous people could conceive or believe that suc(h charming
spiritual accommodation was so near them. At least there is something
more interesting and harmless about it than in the scheming sophistry of
spirit-rapping, and the wily, material science which some employ to delude
others.
t The incidents illustrated in the text are strictly historical. See page
283 for full particulars.
t The Castle of Bunratty was for nine years in course of building. It
was the theatre of war for 150 years.
i Here is a sad picture of Irish domestic disaffection: uncle and nephew
in deadly opposition for royal ascendency.
24




302          LAYS AND LEO ENDS OF TIHOMOND.
" For," said the Chief, "'twere better slay the war-wolf in
his den,
Than give him time and chance to try the bloody chase again!
" But, if we meet him in the field, and in the open day,
The furious monster and his pack inmay give us dangerous play;
And so I deein the surest plan, and best provision laid,
Is to attack him ere his friends can rally to his aid!
" By firm resolve and strategy great objects are attain'd,
Tho' oft the cross is sorely borne before the crown is gained;
And if with my suggestions hliere your council has agreed,
The blossom of our high design to ripe fruit shall succeed!"
Then all concluded, with one voice, that Brian's plan was
wVise,
And off to higih Clonroad they march'd, brave Torlogh* to
surprise.
It was a cloudy April nighit, the wind, w-ith soleimn croon,
Seciii'd in the dlarkli halls of the woods to hum a funeral tune.
T)own on the palace of the prince the swift invadlers burst,
And soon were its retainers all laid grovelling in the dlust
T'hen I61ian, the usurper1, seizedl oil sceptre, crown  and
thmIrone --
A prize obtaiii'd ly fraud and force, niot long to be his own.
The eagle's nest was captured, but the royal bird escaped,
And off to Coiiiiaight's friendly land his angry course he
shaped,
And there lie vow'd a fearful vow that, conime, God wot, what
may,
Hie'd make those Noriiian hell-hounds feel his lash another
day!
Swift heralds, rounil about the land, to all his friends lie sent,
And quickly to thile c(hieftain's aid a mighty hosting went
OUladdeis I and 0'Mig, O'lld,  Kellys, stern and stout,
And fierce D)e IHurgos, w\-ith the 1Princce, to Thomond took their
route.
There Nwere their strong battalions joiiiedl by minany a warlike
uaIu, --
MacMahon, fromi tile wild west, with his Corcovaskin clan,
Aiid the ipower'il MflcLNamlaras, with (Clancuilen's valiant men,
And proud O'Loghliu, brave O Dea, O Hehir, and O'Quin.
* This prince, mlled hr tihe annalists " Torloghi the Warlike," was the
founider of the towni of iE:nnis.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


363


The spies and scouts of false De Clare, and ill-starr'd Brian
Roe,
Brought tidings of the muster and the movements of the foe;
And soon to barrier his advance the active chiefs found way,
For Norman bands and Irish clans were gather'd for the fray.
With drum and pipe and cymbal's clash the fiery legions
wound
To green Magressian* where, in strength, they chose their
battle-ground:
Nor were their arms kept idle long, for, with tempestuous
cheers,
On came fierce Torlogh's wrathful host-a blazing surge of
spears.
As on a grove of mountain-fir a thunder-tempest leaps,
And flings the lightning-stricken trees to earth, in blasted
heaps,
So soon the war's devouring wrath, with mad uproarious din,
Commenced to heap the batter'd plain with piles of bleeding
men.
Great feats of vigour, strength, and skill, on every side were
done,
And many a brave soul pass'd away before the day was won;
The Norman troops contested stern the warfield, foot by foot,
Till, mown in heaps, like harvest grass, their bleeding ranks
were cut.
And sorely were their Irish aids, the clans of rich Hy-mbloid,t
By lance and sword, and grinding axe, in reeking carnage
mowed;
And Brian Roe, and fierce De Clare, like hounded boars, were
chased
To high Bunratty's iron-halls, in fear and headlong haste.
Few were their followers from the field, for few survived to say
What perils, toils, and grim events, had mark'd the awful
day;
Like ghosts around a murderer's tomb, the gloomy chiefs sat
down,
With blood-dyed hand, and burning cheek, red eye, and wrathful frown.
The banquet-board before them     stood, with wine and rich
repast,
But little cared the anxious chiefs to break their weary fast,
* Now called Moyrisk, once the estate of the hospitable " Fireball."
+ The clans of Eastern Thomon(d who were, ii conjunction with the Do
Clares, opposed to the rule of the senior branch of the O'Brieub.-(See note,
page 228.)




364          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
For, from their trouble-darken'd hearts the light of hope was
fled,
And red-faced shame and black defeat sat heavy on each
headWhile thro' the sounding Castle-rooms the bitter wail ascends
Of those who in that fearful fight had lost their bosom-friends;
And even in the iron eyes of spearman, scout, and chief,
Like oozing springs from flinty cliffs, appear'd the drops of
grief.
Uprose imperious Juliana*, De Clare's majestic bride,
From her white brow the tier of gems she pluck'd and dash'd
aside;
Close by her sire, Fitzgerald bold, the beauteous Fury stood,
While o'er her angry features swept a crimson surge of blood.
Her hot glance, like a poison'd spear, at Brian Roe was cast,
While from   her large, blue, shining eyes the melting drops
roll'd fast:
That day her lordly brother in the throng of battle fell,
And frantic was the lady's grief for him she loved so well.
" Listen to me, my noble sire! and you, my Lord De Clare!
Great evils have we suffer'd thro' this Irish caitiff here;
He gave us, in an hour accurst, those broad, surrounding
lands,
On which, raised up by ample cost, our stately Castle stands!
" He lured us to accept the grant of this disastrous soil
Where, since we came, our lives have been in constant war
and broil!
He made us dupes to work his curst ambition's bloody aim,
Till his base schemes involved our house in dire defeat and
shame!
"See now what tenfold misery and mischief have been spread,Thro' his fell means our bravest kin in fruitless war has bled!
For those misfortunes, 'tis but just that we demand his life,
Else never more shall proud De Clare address me as his wife!"
Out spoke her dark sire, in reply: "Thy words, my daughter,
show
That in a trusted friend's disguise we had a wicked foe!
On his account our stoutest hearts in woeful strife have bled,
Then shall his life, in justice, pay for all the blood that's shed!
* (See note, page 285.)-" Her husband, De Clare, ruled the Castle, but she
ruled him, and often acted as " 'Chiirm;an" of the several war councils held
in that mighty fortress. She also acted as " Jvdge of Assize," and sentenced
many to a perpendicular death, like Lord Norbury. Her brother, Fitzmaurice Fitzgerald, fell at the battle of l agressian, which aroused heranger
against Brian Roe."-Traditions and Annals of Thomond.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             365
"Ho! faithful guardsmen, seize the wretch, and bind him fast
and strong
To four wild steeds-secure his limbs with many a trusty
thongAnd lash them fiercely with your whips, till they, in fragments,
tear
This pest and scandal of the house and race of proud De
Clare!"
Then, pale with fury, from the board bold Brian Roe leap'd
upHe spilt the wine, and on the ground he dash'd the silver
cupHis back he placed against the wall, and drew his sweeping
blade"Let those who certain death despise, approach me now!" he
said.
"De Clare, is this the base reward your treachery would
bestow?
Is this your hollow friendship's boon conferr'd on Brian Roe?
And have I lived to curse the day, and doubly curse the deed,
That poison'd Thomond's hallow'd soil with your detested
seed?
"Have you not sworn, within yon fane, before the Eternal
King,
By all the consecrated bells that at the altar ring!
And by the sacred book of truth that holds God's awful word!
And by the relics of His saints, so holy and revered!
"That you would always be to me a friend, unchanged and
true?
While by those sacred things I swore to be the same to you!
Nay, more, we shared the Holy Host between us, as a bond*
To link our hearts in union strong, and, in affection, fond!
"We drew the hot blood from our veins and mingled it, like
wine,
To be of our united faith the symbol and the sign!
And, further to cement our love, your gossip I becameA false connexion, doomed to end in violence and shame!
" For now, when fortune flings me down from my paternal
throne,
And adverse fate has turn'd its scourge on me, and me alone,
I find you black with perjury, and treach'rous as the fiend
That, with soft whispers, lures the soul to tortures without
end!
* They divided the Holy Eucharist between them at the altar in order
to consolidate their friendship.




366          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.
"I granted you those large domains, I shared with you my
gold,
To build those mighty granite towers, a murderous sway to
hold!
And here you sentence me to death!-perfidious hell-hounds! I,
Who brought you here, and housed you well-you doom me
now to die!
But, by the God whose patience spares the perjured and
unjust!
Wihoe'er attempts to do me harm, his blood shall wet the dust!
Unbar your gates-your draw-bridge lower-and let me go in
peace!
I'd rather herd with mountain-wolves than trust your cursed
race!"
As furious, yelling hounds assail a gaunt wolf in his den,
So was the fated clief attack'd by twenty ruthless menThree felt his falchion's deadly weight, till, with a crashing
fall,
They brought him down, and bore him, bound and bleeding,
from the hall.
To four strong horses, in the yard, the wounded chief they
tied
With ox-hide thongs and hempen cords, and then the whips
they plied!
Impetuous, from the smarting strokes, the coursers plunged
and rear'd,
While thro' the place the crackling of the victim's limbs was
heard.
From their strong joints the solid bones were sunder'd, red
and bareEach courser, with a desperate spring, tore off a bleeding share;
Still clinging to their bloody flanks the horrid fragments hung,
And round their legs, like painted ropes, the trailing entrails
swung.
Then deep beneath the donjon tower, into a cavern vast,
The grooms and serfs, with reeking hands, the gory remnants
cast;
Such was the doom and stern reward of royal Brian Roe,
Who introduced to Thomond's soil the treacherous Norman
foe.




LAYS AND LEGENDS9 OF THITOMOND.37


367


THE CHIEFS OF LA'MH LAMDMi
RESPECTFULLY IINSCRIBED TO THlE RIGH~T 110ON. LORD INCIIIQUI-N.
ON Song's eagle pinion, my spirit is snumnnosi
To the vapour-veild hills and 1-iowni mouintains of Tliomlond!
And I sit where the thundlcr-split sunimiits loom ocer mne,
With the flood bounding do-wn, like a wvar-hor-se, b)efore nac.
Thro' the pulrple 1 room-desert fli e inihoitrreI-w iius sli i atle,
Plucking Oil the gray pdiinie of the down-cirested thistleWhile I lean onl the red-spaiey-1ed enueicý offte icthici,Aj( -
]Dreaming o'er the grand dayS of tie. h;iiefs of "Laom/ Leeidir!"
On yonder brown caini a ([lisk11yel    d   hu
Rises up, like the (lark gle)-t ofl 1woil ( 1)l hid  )H noý
To weep for his children's ihsoiiui      nit  oll.s
That stainid his 01(1 kingdlomn anii led( it Iin neWs
There's a golden suii-erest on fitidde      noilnd,
As it glides dow"7n the hill to tile  ciiitdiiiow
To mly fancy it seemns lik-e the   ou1 '0    fe[e ~ l~
That was worn of old by the 11Jilu's O     I Looi 'r/ I
Proud shadles of the 'Mighity!x Nvbos-o 'hlor.) his 1'
Those plains, where the chas4e aiid( the   nubila w  on folloed!
Aslethiiiks yon are iiidhi an nillmy faiicy rej(,r i.co
To hear inl the blast the w\Nar-toiie of yom V(JTu
Your chariots I see in thie imist-wvaves, unii iti d
And inl the red snmi-clonil(s yu   aim  Isiin1d
Wh~len the winid and the flood r-oll theLir citiie 'the,A9
I dreaim 'tis your battle-cry  shoutiti~gi Lonii   I il!
Mortogh Moret of the Itostiiigs!whio., vciieanum        wrouight
sorrow
To Aileach's p~roudl halls, for the fall oif Kinkora!
And lie iiiarchi'd around Erun, iii triiniiihd and~ splendour,
And mnade her high kinigs to his valour surrenider.
* olliol Olbim, from who-se two sonls, og10pln anld Comwae Gas, thle gre-at
tithes of (he, I~ateassian1 s-in A Eu gel an lice d ell((~d,. 1-\ lii willt 1 1 0 11111
of those iiinetri1-olns ee'ts11, wvere lo 11(0 l   /c 10 alt 1111lk. eIV 'Ii. ill 1(Q11-sý(
of tinx, little retgaird wit, ail ll toficl rmigh t suc fi0t'w 11111 01110il 1101 iltllti
asinui~lsi to (0  irgl  III'1io11  081 llsfl   1111(1w1 \  tylie. st1010  h'istl It
ViioleiiC( (Ver ea1ch 1111(10"- 111 h. T cr11111110 11. 5111 I~t 011011 115111
str~angoer, Whose Io]lieN vas tol alii nw (aide to thie filue of1 t leir dicyiOslli-l i
they saw, too late, itirir pCilC1]1ipililies iii hlis gi 51 amid ilie s.wNord of extienilnation. raised over their heaids. Olliol. Olluni, Icing oi Mlunsler, died An.D
234.
tMortogh More O'Brien was gr-eat-grindson to the illustrious itrian 130o1i,
and was the most accomplished statesniaiia and inidoirnlalle warrior of the
age in which he lived. A stern exponent aiid vigorous practitioner of




368            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.
As the mountain-deer starts at the cry of the beagleAs birds shrink with fright at the scream of the eagleSo the Northern forayer and Connaught marauder*
Heard, with terror, his fierce battle-shout of "Lamh Laidir!"
In the council of lions his words were the proudest;
In the crash of the battle his war-shout was loudest;
In greeting a true friend his voice was the mildest;
In chasing a foeman his wrath was the wildest!
His heart beam'd with love for the good and the holy;
His hands scattered gifts to tihe weak and the lowly;
And his rich board was loaded with sirloin and " meader," +
For the travellers who call'd at the House of "Lamh Laidir!"
Donald More of the Conquests!-Dalcassia's high leader!
Who first broke the power of the Norman invader;"
Magnanimous Prince!-how the foreigners trembled?
When the clans, at thy call, in the war-field assembled!
How Thurles shook with thy dread battle-clangor?
How Luimnock blazed with the brand of thy anger!
How the steel-sheathed host of the plundering marauder
Fled, like wolves, from   the wrath of the Chief of "Lamh
Laidir!"
Lo! when to Moyadair,~ the Dalgais are summoned
To crown an O'Brien their Ruler of Thomond;
From mountain and valley, with proud bosoms longing,
To hail their new king, arm'd thousands are thronging;
physical force, as he never enjoyed life better than at the head of an army.
lie was the last of the royal O'Briens who was acknowledged supreme king
of Ireland, for which lie battled against powerful rivals with great energy
and valour. He died on the llth of March, 1119, and was buried in the old
church of Killaloc. Three years before his death he made a present of
Caslel to the clergy of Muinster, the most munificent offering ever made to
the Church by any Irish king since the dawn of Christianity in Erin. He
was also the last of the sons of Brian who occupied the palace of Kinkora.
* MalcLoghlin, Prince of Aileach, and Torlogh O'Connor, King of Connaught, were inveterate rivals of Mortogh O'Brien for the supremacy of
Ireland.
t A large table was placed in the hall, always supplied with a repast for
the refreshment of tiavellers and poor persons, who often remained for
months without being asked who they were.
t See the battle of Thurles, and note, at page 352.
~i Maghadair. the coronation place of the Princes of Thomond for centuries, is situate in the townland of Toonagh, parish of Clooney, barony of
Upper Bunratty.
A curious story is told by the annalists concerning Torlogh, the father of
nlortoghmore. " His great enemy, Donald O'Malaghlin, King of Meath,
was slain in battle and buried at Clornacnoise, and Torlogh, excited with
wine, one night, at a banlquet in his palace of Kinkora, despatched some of
his clansmen to bring to him the headof O'Malaghlin from the churchyard.
1'The head was accordlingly brought, but as soon as it was laid before
Torlogh, something like a black mouse ran out of it and flew under his
garment. He was immediately attacked by a frightful malady.which, after
long suffering, ended his life!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.


369


Bards, Brehons, priests, prelates, and princes surround him,
And he smiles, like a sire, on his children around him;
He swears to protect, with the love of a father,
The proud septs who crown'd him their Chief of " Lamh
Laidir!"
Cheers ring to the heavens-rich banners flash o'er himAs his loyal clans show their brave homage before him;
And his large, dark eye glows, with the pride of an eagle,
As he waves the white wand of his chieftaincy regal!
There's a foe on the borders-his war-heralds tell himHe marshals his band, and he marches to quell him;
Soon the chief is engaged in the red work of slaughter,
And the wild hills re-echo the shout of " Lamh Laidir!"
Behold the O'Brien returning from battle!
The broad plain before him is thronging with cattle;
Like the dread god of war, in the vanguard we find him,
With his terrible clan, like a forest, behind him:
Did e'er Spartan king or imperial-crown'd Roman,
Return so proud, with the spoils of a foeman?
See his Ollamhs and bards, how delighted they gather,
To welcome and hail the high chief of " Lamh Laidir!"
Behold him again, when provoked by a neighbour,
How his eye flashes up like the blaze of his sabre!
War-war is the word, and the fierce son of Brian
Rushes into the field, with the wrath of a lion.
Whole troops are mown down-fields and hamlets are burn'd,
Proud leaders o'erthrown, and tall castles o'erturnedFire and sword rake the lands of the haughty defrauder,
Who dared to take spoil from the Chief of" Lamh Laidir i"
When Morogh* had barter'd, with Henry the churl,
The crown of a king for the crest of an Earl,
What dark vows of wrath and fierce vengeance were sworn,
That the vile badge, in Thomond, should never be worn;
War roar'd in the land-towers and strongholds were storm'd,
Towns ravaged, and red deeds of terror perform'd;
And they chased, like a wolf, the degenerate seceder,
For selling the proud, royal rights of " Lamh Laidir!"
* " Morogh O'Brien, who surrendered the royalty of Thomond to Henry
VIII. for an earldom, was, like his great predecessors, a powerful opponent to the advance of the English power. lie did not submit until the
majority of the Irish princes had acknowledged the supremacy of Henry.
Then the Prince of Thomond, seeing that further opposition would be
worse than useless, made his submission, and accepted a coronet. This act
involved the Dalgais in civil war, which commenced by an attack on the
palace of Clonroad, from which Donogh, the second Earl of Thomond, was
forced to fly. This happened three months after the death of Morogh, the
first Earl."--lMemtoirs of the O'Briens.




370            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Illustrious race! had not discord pursued you,
No earthly potentate nor power had subdued you!
One hand was uplifted to strike down your brother,
While you warr'd 'gainst the fierce alien foe with the other.*
The Dane felt your scourge, and the proud Saxon fought you,
In vain-till his dark wiles corrupted and bought you!
But no royal Plantagenet, Stuart, or Tudor,
Was ever so grand as a Chief of " Lanh Laidir!"
The cromleachs are old-but your royalty's older;
The eagles are bold-but your high souls were bolder!
The torrents are strong-but your valour was stronger!
Twenty ages are long-but your proud line is longer!
When England was crush'd by the Danish intruder,Ere WVindsor's grand halls heard the name of a Tudor,Those old regal hills, with their red capes of heather,
Saw the splendour and power of the kings of " Lamh Laidir!"
Most noble descendants of great Hebcr Fion,
And Cormac the valiant, and conquering Brian!
No wonder our annals are rich with your glory,
And filled with your high deeds of battle and foray!
The swiftest-winged falcon would tire on his pinions,
Ere he'd fly the extent of your princely dominions!
From the sea's clifted marge to Slieve Bloom's purple border,
Lie the lordly estates of the chiefs of " Lamh Laidir!"
But yet, tho' the pomp of their royalty's ended,
And their star from its zenith of light has descendedTho' the majestic branch of the King-Tree has wither'd,
From which the bright fruitage of glory was gather'd;
Old Thomond can still show a true noble sciont
Of the proud, honour'd stock of the princely O'Brien!
And may the high boughs of tly house never wither,
Descendant and heir of the chiefs of "Lamcr   Laidir!"
* Although fiercely quarrelling amongst themselves for the royal honours
of the chieftaincy, they still managed',to scttle accounts with the foreigners,
which they often succeeded in doing with a vengeance.
+ The present Lord Inchiquin is tenth in descent from Donogh, the first
Baron of Inchiquin, and the third son of Morogh, the last prince and first
Earl of Thomond. And well worthy lie is to rcplreent the nobility of his
time-honoured house. lie is generous, humane, and considerate to his
tenantry and dependents, and strictly honourable to all who approach
him.
" See Geneology of the Ea:rls of Tb(:cliquin, in Memioirs of the House of
Thomond. The Drnlcolaid (O'Bri(ns were( connei((cted by miiiri.ige with
English royalty. Lucius, son of sir l)onogh,-was married to Lady Catherine
Keightly, who was a first c(osin to queen Mary a d Queen Anne. Thomas
Keightly, the father of this lady, got two grants, containing 12,381 acres,
as a marriage portion for his daughter, and in consideration of his own
losses during the Williamite war."-Ainals of Thomond.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


371


A MIDSUMMER EVENING.
WVEN the scent of the wild thyme,
At dreamy eve's mild time,
Honied the airs of the midsummer-leaDown in the valley's gloom,
Where the marsh lilies bloom,
On a moss-bank of flowery broom, Mary met me!
Bright was the aerial blue,
Brown was the landscape's hue,
Spangles of sunny dew silver'd the gladeFringes of ripe hlsmore
Crimson'd the fountain pure,
Where, down the mountain-moor, glistening it stray'd.
Splendid the parting light
Blended its red and white,
O'er the hill's purple height, skirting the seaBerries, like beaded fire,
Glanced from the wreathed brier
Borders of meadow-lands, rich with new hayLight as a lover's dream,
Laughing, the zephyr came
Over the pulsing stream, like a young beeTrembled the glossy waves
Under the mossy leavesDanced the broom-bells on the bank's dewy knee.
Red-where the airy path,
Winds by the Fairy RathHaws gemm'd the crest of the white-thorn screenOn the enamelled ground,
Daisies were glowing round,
Like pure, little pearl-drops, dotting the green.
I look'd on the mountain wide,
Zoning the forest's side,
Gushing with wild fruits of green bush and treeI look'd on God's hall above,
Murmuring " all is love!""All is love!" whispered sweet Mary to me!
Gently I heard her speak,
While a light-flushing streak
Sunn'd her bloom-blushing cheek, like a ripe peach;
" Sweet one, those scenes," said I,
"Fill me with strains of joy,
And you are the bright fairy genius of each "




372          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
As a rain-drop, at noon-day hour,
Falls thro' a heated bower,
Into a thirsty flower, freshening its bowl,
Thus my heart felt the dew
Of her eyes' melting blue,
As her glance, like a sunburst, flew into my soul.
Up the dark-brown ascent
Of the calm hill we went,
Soft to our footsteps bent hare-bell and sprayRabbits, like showy things
Flitting on snowy wings,
O'er the pink heather-rings bounded away--
High in a floating cloud,
Skylarks were noting loud,
Like sweet little silver bells tinkling in air;
Low, on the sallow plain,
Gold waves of yellow grain,
Freshen'd with mellow rain, swell'd and sway'd there.
Joyful we sat to rest
On the hill's fern-crest,
Fronting the fiery west, where the red flames
Of the sun's glowing eye
Melted the flowing sky
Into one rich dye of roseate streamsSongs o'er the heather rush'd,
Airs full of odour gush'd,
Like fairy sighs, wafted the hill-side about;
All in such glory lay,
Everything seem'd to say,
Angels on some loving mission are out.
Feathery clouds glided on
O'er the flush'd horizon,
Each, like a sleeping swan, floated in gold,
Forming a rosy ring
Round the day's (lying king,
Like pictures of Eden's Spring brightly unroll'dSky above, hill and grove,
Vernal dells, flowery bells,
All their wild beauty-spells sccm'd to unite
In one elixir cup
To our lips lifted up,
Circling our hearts with a wave of delight.
Rush'd our souls, hand in hand,
Flying thro' Spirit-land,
Treading bright diamond sand, lit by love's sun;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Drinking the music-air
Of that resplendent sphere,
Where the cold eye of care on its joys never shoneYouth   what grand sunbow dyes
Garnish thy morn skies,
Ere earth's evil shadows rise up in the heart!
Ere the world's cold stain of clay
Blots the soul's dewy May,
0 Love! what a radiant Hy-Brazil thou art!
YOUTH'S GREEN SPRING.
SONG OF AN OLD MAN.
FnoM sylvan lawn and mountain height
The wintry haze is gone,
With yellow beam and blossom white,
The vernal (lays come on;
The wood-shades, like an altar-choir,
With golden solos ring,
And youth's glad spirit feels the fire
Of love's sweet Spring!
Love's bright SpringLove's sweet SpringThe flowering May-time of the heart,
Love's green Spring!
My soul delights to roam back
Those dreamy scenes among,
Thro' many a pleasant home-track,
When I was wild and young,
Before the world's wisdom, cold,
Threw gloom on every thing
That wore the hue of fairy gold,
In youth's bright Spring!
Youth's gay SpringThe heart's sweet SpringThe Eden May-day of the soul,
Youth's bright Spring!
The frost of years is on my brow,
Its ice is in my blood;
I've pass'd life's weary campaign thro',
In trials, ill and good;
But when, in April-morns, I hear
The glorious sky-birds sing,


373




374         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
My soul looks backward, with a tear,
To youth's bright Spring!
Youth's green SpringThe heart's young SpringThe sweetest, brightest time of life,
Is youth's gay Spring!
Youth is a fairy dream of loveA glimpse of Eden's light,
Reflected from the bowers above,
On young souls' innate sight;
But when we climb to manhood's years,
Our worldly lot to try,
The wintry cloud of care appears,
And Eden's roses die!
Youth's green SpringThe heart's young SpringThe soul's sweet morning-walk on earthYouth's bright Spring.
The comrades of my early time
Have vanished, one by one;
Some to a world-divided clime,
Some to the grave are gone;
And when to strip the summer-glade,
Dark autumn has began,
In every fallen leaf I read
The fate of wretched man!
Youth's bright SpringThe heart's sweet SpringOh, the world is not the world it was
In youth's green Spring!
With staff in hand, andydrooping frame,
Out in the fields I go,
Where, on the moss-bank of a stream,
The milk-white haw-flowers blow;
I sit to see the children play,
And hear their laughter ring,
Then my life's December feels the ray
Of youth's green Spring,
Youth's sweet SpringThe heart's bright SpringThe golden morn of life's romanceYouth's gay Spring!
O Man, when in thy green years,
How beautiful thou art!
Till thle wintry day of age seres
The rose-bloom of thy heart!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TITOMOND.


375


Then with feeble steps you move aboutA solitary thing,
Like fallen Adam driven out
From Eden's sunny Spring!
Youth's bright SpringThe heart's sweet SpringThe fairy hours of life and loveYouth's gay Spring!
THE MOUNTAINS.
I CLIMB'D to the mountain's heavenward brow,
Till I seem'd to stand 'mid the gold-brow'd stars;
While far, like a dull, cold vision, below,
Lay the crime-stain'd earth, with its plagues and wars.
The trees of the valley were at my feet,
With their green heads bow'd to the morning sun,
And the birds 'mid the glistening boughs sang sweet,
As happy souls in the light of God's throne.
The clouds open'd round me their silvery arms,
As if bidding me welcome to heaven, awhileThe winds, like unseen wizards, muttering charms,
Whisper'd vernal life to the cold, dead soil.
On the blue heath-flower hung the drops of morning,
Like tears of love in a young maiden's eye;
And the fresh dew-mists, from the plains returning,
Arose, like spirits, to their native sky.
The cloud-shades were, like sunny spectres, chasing
Each other o'er the emerald of the hill;
The streams, exultant, down the rocks were racing,
Like young fawns bounding at their own free will.
On the brier's arm sat the crimson berries,
Rock'd gently by the zephyrs' breathing wings;
On the weird fern the night-dance of the Fairies
Circled the dewy sheets with airy rings.
Oh, ye Mountains ye sublime aspirants
Of light and gloom! ye haunts of solitude!
No sickly slaves, nor iron-handed tyrants
On the dark glory of your shades intrude!
On you the fogs encamp, the rain-cloud settles
To rest its burden cre it moves at large;
On you the tempests fight their mighty battles,
While the big thunder sounds the roaring charge!




376          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
O'er you the sullen eagle makes his highway,
In the fierce freedom of his flight alone:
Down your dark sides the torrent shapes its by-way,
Like a wroth god descending from his throne!
Your craggy foreheads are the lightning's pavementYour heathery beard is sing'd by meteors red;
On you dim midnight wears her gloomiest raiment,
And sits, with all her clouds, upon your head!
God wove a robe of grandeur round you flowingThe summer's brightness and the winter's snows;
And oft his bolts, from heaven's furnace glowing,
Are smash'd to fiery atoms on your brows!
In your gray bosom sleeps the dusky vapour,
And 'mid the silent blackness of your frown
The ghostly wild-fire lights its nightly taper,
And, redly glinting, to the plain flies down!
Freedom's true spirits in your laps are born,
To right the land God gave their sires to till;
At your green feet springs up the spiry corn
Whose yellow waves the teeming valleys fill.
Oh, ye grand ramparts of insulted freedom!
Why do your peasants from your shelter fly,
And let the tyrant and the brute succeed 'em,
Ye glorious Hills of Erin answer-Why?
A SUMMER LOVE DREAM.
I DREAM of you in the flowering time,
When the summer is all aglow,
And the kingly sun flings his heavenly fire
On the blossoms that laugh belowWhen the fairy birds, like living harps,
Give a voice to the woodland wide,
Then I dream of you, as I walk alone,
And wish you were by my side!
I dream of you, when the moonlight dew,
Lies white on the glistening mead,
And the world with silent wonder looks up
At her beautiful sisters array'dAnd a honey-drop, from the angels' feast,
Seems into my soul to glide;
Then I dream of you, at that lovely hour,
And wish you were by my side!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMONOD..)77


I dream of you, in the lbowery grove,
In the hush of the glowing noon,
When the lusmore-bells wear a richer dye,
In the sultry breath of June;
And the fairy hum of the fleeting bee,
And the sound of the restless tide,
Weave their pensive spells round my musing scul,
Then I wish you were by my side!
I'm ever in love, for my heart is fresh,
With the dews of ethereal spring,
And my spirit is drunk with the m1agic wine
Of each beauteous and brilliant thing!
And my banquet-hall is the dark-green wood,
With its bloom in the sun-beams dyedOh, living rose of my charmed soul,
I wish you were by my side!
The world is old--and( te selfish and cold
Are daily incieasing there,
And the glory and love of its youthful time
Have flown to some other sphere.
The gold of life has changed to lbrass,
And the flowers of the heart have died;
In the heavenly Eden where they are gone,
I wish we were side by side!
Thank God! who gave my soul a wing
To fly where the eagle flies!
And freshen'd the blossomls of my heart,
With the dew of his holy skies!
And, with the desert-honey of song,
Has sweeten'd my life's (lark void,
And sent me one of His Angels of Love
To sit at my poor hearth side!
GOLDEN-HIAIIRED ANNIE.
A SONG OF THE IR1IS1   EXODUS.
SWEET is the heath on the blue hills of AraRich are the flowers in the fields of Clonlara:
Bright are the woods, when the morn laughs o'er them,
Where Shannon's gray billows are daicillg before them.
But richer and brighter tlhan all those togetherWoods, waters, and wild hills, and purple-bell'd heatherIs a sweet little spot in the vale of Kn1ic-~Iany,
The birth-place and home of young golden-hair'd Annie.
25




3733          LAYS AND LEGCENDS OF TIIOMOND.
Mild by the brookiet the primrose is glowingWild in the hedgye-row the haw-blossom's blowing;
White on the bank-slope the daisy is springing,
Light o'er the hill-broom the fresh gale is singing'rees, flowers, and birds are at home with each other,
IPraising the bounty of Nature, their mother;
But happiest of all sings young golden-haired Annie,
A-milking her cow in the vale of Knoc-Many!
Pair, o'er yen moss-crag, the brier-rose is flushing,Clear from the blue rock the rill-spring is gushing;
Bright looks the furze, with its star-clusters mellowBlythe hymns the lark in the cloud's bosom yellow.
Creature! go forth-lo! the morning is rosyNature is radliant and rich with God's poesySee, 'mid the dew-lawns, bow golden-haired Annie
Trips home, with her pail, thro' the vale of Knoc-Many.`
in Erin there's many a green valley, pleasant,
But vainly enrich'di by the sweat of the peasant,
For the lords of the soil, and1 the laws that enslave him,
Deiny him the fruits of the plains which God gave him!
And off to the land where the Star Banner 's glowing,
The pride, hope, and health of our Island are goingOh, curst be oppression -young golden-bair'd Annie
Is gone, with the rest, from the vale of Knoc-Many!
Air of the mountain, there's grief in your sighing!
Where, bleak on the cold swvardl, hier cottage is lyingBoweies of the valley, her looks ceased to bless ye!
Flowers of the meadow, her feet will not press ye
Skybird that sings to the beauty of morning!
You'll see her no more, from the bright field returning,
With a voice like your own, when, on light wing ascending,
Where the hues of the rainbow in glory are blending!
Sinig on, little bird, on your sun-gilded pinion
LanIlordls can't trouble your lofty (bolninionl
High 'mid the clouids you have taken your station,
Far, far from the reach of the brutes of creation
I'll climb to the to1) of the lull, to be near you!
IFll sit on the )'edl-1)losso011'd heather to hear you!
Your sweet straius remind inc of golden-bair'd Annie,
When she first sang of love, in the vale of Knoc-Many!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


379


THE BATTLE OF BUNRATTY,*
A.D. 1311.
ALL night, in Bunratty, the forges glow,
And the smiths are busy about the fires,
For the Lord of the Castle, to meet the foe,
Five hundred spears for the field requires;
The scouts are abroad in valley and woodThe aids are rapidly coming in;
To-morrow shall be a red day of bloodMake haste with the spears for De Clare's brave men!
Ding, dong, ding, the anvils ring,
As the hammers clash on the burning bars,
While, to and fro, at each fiery blow,
The white sparks shoot, like little stars.
Ten men at the rusty anvils toil,
Shaping the red bars to weapons keen;
Ten more at the vices, with rasp and file,
Polishing off the rough blades, are seen:
The bellows roar and the quick flames soarSledge, hammer, and rasp, are dinning away;
And when dawn appears, five hundred spears
Shall be ready to shine in the dashing frayAnd the grim smiths sang to the iron clang,
" To-morrow the bloodhounds and wolves shall tear
The flesh of each other, for right and for wrong,Make haste with the spears for the fierce De Clare!"
Ding, dong, ding, the sledges ring,
With a mighty swing on the bars blood-red,
While the dusky gleams of the dancing flames
Glare up, like fiends, from their raging bed,
All night in the Castle the banquet smokedStewards and warders were busy kept;
* This battle was fought on an extensive field adjoining the Castle of
Bunratty. The action commenced on the morning of the 14th of May,
1311. There exists no real account of the numbers engaged on either side,
but it is very probable that the armies were considerably strong, and the
commanders were men of princely blood and high military distinction.
Dermod O'Brien was joined by the clans of eastern Thomond, with De
Clare of Bunratty and his Norman troops, to depose Donogh O'Brien,
the rightful King of the l)algais. Donogh, after a valiant fight, was defeated, leaving the best of his officers and the flower of his troops dead
on the field. Six hundred of his veteran gallowglasses were cut to pieces,
and but a few of his footmen, i.e., kerns, survived the battle. The loss
of the confederates was also very great, Tradition tells that De Clare's
policy on that day kept his Norman band iin reserve, while the Irish on
both sides were cutting each other down; lie did not bring his troops into
action until he saw Dermod and the lIym-bioid clans nearly exhausted, and
then he issued to their assistance, repulsed Donogh's prevailing arms, and
snatched the victory from his hand.




380          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Over their ale-cans the soldiers joked,
And not an eye of a thousand slept.
Cooks and attendants, with weary hands,
Huge sirloins carried from kitchen to ha
And every hour, as the march-tired bands
Arrived at the gates, there was plenty for a
Full twenty chiefs in the council sate,
Discussing the plan of the morrow's fight,
And twenty arm'd aids-de-camp wait
On their surly lords, all the long, dull nightTill heralds announced that the foe's war-van
Was rapidly moving on Cuill-na-lawn;
Then the rising chiefs for their arms ran,
And armour and broadswords were buckled on,
And orders were issued to every clan,
In battle-array to be drawnThe war-horns bray'd, and the war-steeds neighed,
And the banners were flung to the cold dawn airOn every side, thro' the courtyard wide,
They were rushing, and mustering here and thereOut on the lawns of the Castle tall,
March'd many a bearded and banded clanForth from the Castle's majestic hall
Strode many a lordly and lofty manSteel glimmer'd, like flitting rays of light,
Along the lawns, 'mid the wood-shades brown;
Collected in groups, on the tower's dim height,
Ladies and servants stood gazing down.
But where is Dermot the evil-eyed,
Whose wild ambition the hosting form'd?
Like a lightning-cloud, by the ash-grove's side,
The dark chief stands, with a broad axe arm'd.
And the withering fire of his sullen eye
Seem'd to blast the verdure it look'd upon;
While over his head, in the dawning sky,
A flame-edged cloud, like a blood-speck, shone.
There's a beam on his stern brow's cloudy shade,
As, in gloomy triumphl, his wolf-eye scann'd
His glittering spears in close lines array'd,
And the firm-set front of each steady band.
To serve the usurper, O'Cearneigh* came
From the golden borders of:Raite's tide;
And many a lord of valorous nameWhose deeds were long the " Scaaclhies' " theme* All those chiefs whose names appear in those eleven lines were leaders
of the clans of Ilym-bloid, or IEa;istern Tihomond, and in general united
with the De Clares to overthrow the senior branch of the O'Bnens, and
exalt the junior one.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND.


381


Wild waves and whirlwinds all were tame
To their chivalry's fiery pride.
O'Shanahain bold, O'Kennedy stern,
O'Conaing, O'Hogain, and stout O'Hearn;
O'Lonargain of the silver brands;*
O'Congail of the numerous flocks,
And O'Ceaffa, from Glenderg's mountain-rocks,
Were there with their stormy bands.
In his iron towers De Clare remained
To watch the events of the awful (lay,
And his fierce reserves, like wolf-hounds chain'd,
In the square of the ample courtyard lay.
Lo!-there's a stir on the crowded plain,
'Mid the wavy ridges of slanting spears;
The enemy's coming!-again and again
The heavens are smote with his hostile cheersAnd, pouring out, in the sun's broad blaze,
From the misty skirt of the woodlands brown,
Rank after rank, like moving seas,
Came Donogh's clans the wild hill-side down.
Clan Cuilen's race of gigantic men
March'd first of the desperate powers;
Next came O'Loghlin and tall O'Quin,
And fierce O'Dea from Magowna's towers.t
The Clanna Dongail, of stubborn deeds,
With their flame-headed spears, was there,
In number, like the autumnal reeds
That circle the lakes of woody Clare.
A spear-cast from his army's van,
Proud Donogh, with Lord )D Burgo, rode,
A stern, majestic, princely man,
Whose " glibbe "~ like a morning sun-cloud flow'd.
His curling " crommealll hid his lip,
His clustering beard to his breast-plate fell;
His "cochal "11 flowed to his stalwart hip,
And his "goclal"** fitted him tight and well.
Two jewels in his helmet gleam'd,
Beneath his tall plume's quivering wing,
And the dignity of his eye proclaimed
The haughty soul of an Irish king.
Sternly tramp'd his host behind,
Surging to the battle's brunt,
The silver-hilted brands.
t The Castle of Magowna and the Castle of Dysert were the family
seats of the warlike O'Deas of Inchiquin. A firm and faithful friendship
existed, during centuries, between this brave sept and the senior branch
of the O'Briens.
t The O'Gradys.
~ Coolun, or long locks.
I Hair on the upper lip.
T A cloak.
** A tight-fitting jacket of striped leather.




382          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And soon the several bands stood lined
Against each other, front to front.
War-pipes, with a savage breath,
Sung the banquet-hymn of deathO'er the hills, and through the wold,
The martial anthem rung and roll'd.
Souls are thrilling-hearts are beatingAs each dark host came in sight;
Blood from proud cheeks is retreating,
Leaving face and forehead white.
Friars * breathing prayers, are waiting
To attend each dying manBusy captains are completing
The arrangement of each clan,
While the horrid spear-groves, meeting,
Form their ridges, left and right,
With the trumpets' dirge repeating
Notice of the coming fightAnd the fiercely-featured leaders,
In their martial harness bound,
Proud as eagles, tall as cedars,
In the fore-front take their ground.
Banners streaming, axes gleaming,
Armour'd champions, gilded steeds,
Valour-mettled ranks embattled,
Throng Bunratty's wounded meadsBlack clouds gather round the heather,
And the red sun closed his eye;
Mists assembled, and resembled
Funeral feathers in the sky.
With a stifled croak, the raven
On the tower-top grimly stoodPale rays pointed down from heaven,
Like spectres' fingers ring'd with bloodRound the cairn moaned the fern,
As the wind-gust brush'd the hill;
Shriek'd the dark trees, like a death-song,
And the spear-grass whistled shrill.
The signal's given-the war-fiends risePhalanx on phalanx flung
Its might, like the crash of the riven skies,
When the thunder's mine is sprung.
Chief charged chief, and host charged host,
In one yelling "melee " dire,
Till the reddening face of the plain was lost
In a whirl of i ron-fire!
"Lamh Laider! + on them!" Donagh cries,
And his clan, like a hill-flood, broke
* Friars from the Abbey of Bunratty, built by the De Clares.
+ Pronounced, Lauv Lauder.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TITOMOND.
To the strong steel-heart of his enemies,
With headlong thrust and stroke!
Into the war-wolves' pack they dash,
Like wedges thro' flint-rocks drove,
Or a hundred axes cleaving ash
In the heart of the quivering grove.
But backward roll'd their prowess proud,
By the steel of their foes o'erturn'd,
As eagles fly from a flaming cloud,
By the angry lightning burn'd.
For a while the clang of death
Subsided o'er the red-hued plain;
The war-god was but taking breath,
To roar for draughts of blood again!
And, tightening up their wounded strength,
The gather'd ranks recharged, at length,
While their wild shouts to heaven roll'd on,'
Like bursting seas, one after oneDensely moved the surging masses,
Kerns, bonnacCt.s, and gadloWglasses,
Like rain-swell'd floods thro' the dark-hill passes,
Leaping from opposite sides,
And furiously dashing headlong in
To the bosom of the wintry glen,
Thus, desperately, those wrathful men
To the fight flung their banded tides.
Thrice was Dermod's battle broken,
And thrice he rallied and held his ground;
Havoc left its reeking token
In his steel-thinn'd lines around,
Donogh saw the time and chance
Of the victory were at hand;
Holding up his gold-ring'd lance,
He shouted loudly to his band"Lo! proud Dermod's columns shakeThe iron vultures are grown weak;
Charge, De Burgo! "J'crrah!" " farrali!"*
Onward-onward-M acConmara!
Bear them down-ranks, flags, and leadersAs a storm o'erthrows the cedars!
See the fiery war-clouds breaking,
And their banner'd lines are shaking!
Ere De Clare comes forth to aid them,
Let the sum of blood be paid them!
On them, warriors of 'Lamh Laidir!'
Knit your souls and charge togetherGrasp your war-axe handles shorterGlut your steel and give no quarter!"
* Hurry, hurry.


383






3SAIYS AN~D LEGEFNT-4 OF THTOMO-NI
T)owii tli" plaini like 11111 rock~s rolling,
1) sli 1 thc war-bnlmds of (I knienilen,
iiire as din i'ifls, full six hnhi1(lI'ed
Oni piroud 1kiniod xs phailanx thund~ered
1)1  li( N bin 1 tlem ichief oil Chief4  1 (1 - ithi niany,t blloody miark,
As the cawxsonl a reef
a -4i01- e Ilii  after lbarkiSine-i'e cee i in aid van"Iile  t!( e      i%( lis  Ie ery roxeels,
Biurst, t  0 hc(I lii  lii  t, anid boxvels
Aiid ti fl)sx eepiiwe x) l   NX axe, speedy'
i'or, des triic Iioi,,,y iu and greedy,
Ea't the -iriiioiii f o' aind t1ir'o',
W\itli i toot ii ohii iiiihe
a -; LOS' 'Sstorniy Lilloxis,
Were Cut dcxvii, like perishi'd -willows
Blood-drops fell, like shioxwers of fire,
Smiokingy 'niidst the sodden mnire,
Which the warriors' trampling feet
Into crim-sonl mortar beat.
And the banner of ''Looh La;dii-,"
Danced above the whiirlinig slaughterLike a pdagne-clonid stiea~ining dTow-n
O'er an eaitli qiake-runinn townvSlingr'-stonies siiiote aiil arrows tore it,
Still the gallant ~eai'er bor'e it
IRonild it, in one s'caiino' snurge,,Javelin, falchiion, axe mlid targe
Blazed and( elashi'd, in mingled clangor,
Like the ocean in its ang~er,
Leaning o'er tbe parapet's breast,
On1 the Castle's irocky crest,
Ifighs as spirits thiroiied in air,
Stood the household of D~e Clare,
Looking dToxvn, With thrilling wonder,
Onl the war-flood rolling nnder.
Thulnd~ering, towards the R1aite's marge,
Swnng the battle's buniiing surge
On the spear-grass and the reeds
(G'ore-drops hutng, like coral beads.
Inl the river's bed of gloom
1)ermod's host had fonnd a tomb,
But IDe Clare, the flight behlolding,
His strong Castle-gates unfoldiiig,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF TIIOMOND
Hurl'd forth his grim war-beagles
On brave Donogh's fiery eagles:
Madly to the fight they spring,
Like the hurricane's headlong swingSway'd the war-mass to and fro,
As crashing on the ranks they go;
O'er the steep verge of the stream,
Clash'd and flash'd the iron flame;
Backward from the reeling bank,
Rank is driven after rank,
Blent on one recoiling torrent,
As the mill-wheel hurls the currentThick as corn-sheaves, man on man,
Fell the yellow-shirted clan;
Bloody weapons shriek'd and shiver'd,
As the death-strokes were delivered;
Round the towers the thunder-clang
Of the desperate conflict rang.
Like a broken wave, fierce-boiling,
From a jagged cliff recoiling,
Donogh's clans were borne amain,
Disorder'd o'er the deadly plain,
Lord and baron, knight and squire,
Perish'd in the battle's fireHere and there they lay about,
With their giant-limbs stretched out,
Stout and stiff as fallen oaks,
Stark and still as cloven-rocksAnd their stony eyes, upturn'dWhere no more a soul-beam burn'd,
Glared, reflecting frigidly
The light they could no longer see.
Youth, in its spring-year of gold,
Manhood in its noblest mould,
There lay dead on every side,
For a royal dream destroyed!
There's no more of Donogh's hostThrone and army-all are lost
Bleeding, thro' the forest fled
The living remnant from the dead,
And the wounded prince alone
Thro' the dark woods stagger'd on:
His sick soul weeping in his eye,
And a deep spear-head in his thigh;
Heart-wither'd, weary, feeble, faint,
Against a tree the warrior leant,
While, on the low breath of the wind,
He heard the blood-wolves' howl behind.
O Mercy! are his friends all goneIs no one near him?-no, not one!


385




386           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Yes, there's one whom he had known,
W1hen his full noon of glory shone,A kinsman of his name and blood,
Still lingers near him in the wood;
One who to power he lifted up,
And honour in an evil day,Oh, wine pour'd in a rotten cup!
Oh, worth on baseness thrown away!
Keen on the blood-trail of his prince,
The traitor sought the desert-place;
He gazed on him, with confidence,
And gladness, in his sickly face.
"Thank heaven!" he cried, "one hope is near,
One helping arm to aid my way!
A friend, in this dark hour of fear,
Is more than armies yesterday!"
With the last accent on his tongue,
"Welcome! brave arm of help!" he cried,
When the foul murderer forward sprung,
And ran a javelin thro' his side!
Wrath of the Holy Spirit! fall,
Thou more than demon, on thy soul!
May fire-plagues turn thy heart to gall,
Black as hell's blackest burning coal!
Oh. may thy tenfold hideous deed
Weigh, like a mill-stone, on thy hand,
And all thy hateful, future seed
Die by a foul assassin's brand!
May the Recording Angel trace,
In blood-lines, with his weeping pen,
Thy crime, accurst, detested, base,
Ne'er to be blotted out again.*
THE FAIRY GLEN.+
THERE'S a glen 'mid the dark hills of Cappantimore,
Where the hazel-bowers play to the sweet mountain-air;
Thro' summer and autumn, and winter-time hoar,
Spring's beauty, in all its green freshness, is there.
On the slopes of the valley the vernal moss weaves
Its emerald sheets in the red rowins' shade;
Thro' the grove, like a golden hall, wreathed with leaves,
The wild mountain-harp of the echoes is play'd.
* For a further detail of the above tragedy, see a poem called "The
Murdered Prince," in this volume. The annalists record, and tradition reports, that this perfidious assassin was made wealthy and raised to a very
high post of honour and trust by Prince Donogh, in fact, he was his
favourite companion and most conffidential friend. Alas! for dark, selfish,
ungrateful, and treacherous human nature.
+ This romantic Glen is in the ancient territory of Clan Cuilen. It now




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


387


In its deep lap of shadows, a fairy-voiced flood,
Like an organ, sings on, with its choir of wild tones,
And its wavelets are honied with blossom and bud,
In their silvery dance o'er the pale-yellow stones,
And the hawthorns, clad with a white cloud of sweets,
Look up to the hill's purple helmet of broom,
As if winning the breeze from its sunny retreats,
To bear off the wealth of their sleeping perfume.
There the blackberries glisten, like dark maiden-eyes,
Peeping out from the shades in the calm harvest ray,
And the ripe nuts, like golden hail flung from the skies,
Fall down as if fairies had dropp'd them in play.
Oh, to hear, at red eve, how the throstle's notes gush'd,
Like a silver-key'd flute, the green vistas among;
While the trees, like a crowd of admirers, stood hush'd,
As if drinking the passion that thrill'd in the song.
To that valley of streams, with a song-bird's delight,
Oft I fled from the sin-darken'd heart of the town;
And stray'd 'mid its desert of blossoms, till night,
Like a shadowy dream of God's beauty, came down!
Then my heart, like a May-tree, was flowering with joy,
And love, like sweet honey-dew, gush'd in its core;
'Till care's cloudy Autumn came on to destroy
That heart-bloom which Spring-time shall brighten no
more!
As a lover remembers his passion's rich dreams,
When his soul, like a wild rose, was glowing and young;
Thus I dream of past joy in that vale of blue streams,
When the mist o'er my brow, like a diamond-arch, hung!
Tho' my soul's summer vision has ended in gloom,
And life's pleasant May-day of brightness is o'er,
Yet my fancy is fresh with the sweetness and bloom
Of that scene 'mid the dark hills of Cappantimore.
forms a part of the large estate of John C. Delmege, Esq., J.P., who, at
immense cost, reclaimcd the surrounding hills, and made them fruitfulto
their highest summits. Places which produced nothing but furze, brier,
and fern since the cre ation, are now turned into hundreds of rich acres by
his persevering industry. If the reckless absentees would remain at home,
like him, and follow  is improving example, very little waste land would
be seen in Ireland.




388          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
COLLEEN DHU.
A WINTER LOVE-SONG.
IN Ballycar the woods are bareOn Truagh's hills the frost is gray;
And, thro' the pass of wild Doonas,
The rock-cleft torrents surge and swayIn lone Glenmore the fern is hoarOn moor and marsh the mists are blue,
But winter's lea had sweets for me,
When meeting thee, my Colleen Dhu!*
The flower-roots spread beneath our treadTheir little stems and leaves were gone,
But yet the heart-flowers are not dead,
Which grew for you, my dove-eyed one.
No frost-blight drear could ever sere
The spring-bloom of my love for you!
A summer-day, thro' all the year,
Are you to me, my Colleen Dhu!
On Boolah's head the broom was redThe corn was reap'd-the summer goneThe dark-brown clouds their shadows spread
Along the landscape wild and wan,
When, by the side of Shannon's tide,
As fell the silent twilight dew,
I met you there, my heart's sweet share,
My fairest fair! my Colleen Dhu!
My life was as a sunless thing,A dead leaf on a withering tree,Till you, like heaven's dawn of Spring,
With beam and blossom came to meMy heart was as a lonely well,
That song or sunshine never knew,
Until your beauty's radiance fell
Into its depths, my Colleen Dhu!
And tho' the sentence was severe,
That bade our souls each other shun,
Yet from our hearts it could not tear
The golden tie that love had spunOur adverse fate made doubly sweet
Each happy, stolen interview,
And then our rapture when we'd meet,
Was more than sweet, my Colleen Dhu!
* Dark little girl.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


389


I sat by Avondoun, last May,
Upon a glowing primrose throne;
A world of brightness round me layGod's arch of gold above me shoneBut, oh, my heart was empty still,
Because, sweet life, it wanted you,
With all your wealth of love, to fill
Its pasSion's grasp, my Colleen Dhu!
I never look'd on thy young face,
Without a soul-thrill of delight!
Then, when I sought my resting-place,
I dreamt of angels all the nightThe fresh, wild spring-rose on the lawn,
Set in a silver ring of dewThe sweetness of the summer dawn,
Remind me of my Colleen Dhu!
I wish I were a mountain-fay,
And you a little honey cup!
I'd range the summer-fields all day,
To find you out, and drink you up!
Your soul within my soul, we'd live
The long years of creation thro',
And heaven alone could only give
An equal joy, my Colleen Dhu!
THE LAST OF THE ROYAL O'BRIENS.*
A.D. 1539.
A LEGEND OF THE HOUSE OF THOMOND.
HARK! was it the blast that shrieked down the dark hill,
Where a red torrent rolls, which last night was a rill?
Or was it the demon, who rides on the flood,
That sent his weird shout thro' the arch of the wood?
* Conner O'Brien, the last King of Thomond, who exercised, to the
close of his life, the functions of royalty, died in the year 1539. With him
the royal sway of the illustrious and ancient descendants of Brian Boru
became extinct. So great was his power that, after the rebellion arid
execution of Silken Thomas of Kildare, he took the young son of the Earl
under his protection, and defiantly refused to yield him up to the tyrant,
Henry VIII., who used every effort to induce O'Brien to place the gallant
young Geraldine in his power. Threats, appeals, and intrigues, were all in
vain; the stubborn O'Brien was faithful to his charge, and the enraged
Henry was baulked in his design of extinguishing the heir of the princely
Geraldines.
The above legend is connected with Connor's return from Galway, after
conveying the English Deputy, Lord Leonard Grey, under his safe conduct
to that town. In his encampment, on his way home, the family Spirit of
the House of Thomond iv supposed to have appeared to him, and to have
forewarned him of the extinction of his royal line, and the miseries that
were fast approaching his country




30,         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
" O'Brien! O'Brien! arise from thy couch I
Grasp thy war-axe, the bands of the Saxon approach I
See their banners and plumes 'mid the gloom of the plain,The fiends, in their vengeance, are muster'd again!
" Dark Prince of the war-eagles I hark ye! awaken I
The spoils of thy battle-famed kingdom are taken!
Thy foes are abroad on thy borders foraying,
Lord Leonard's grim blood-hounds are furiously baying!"
The chieftain arose from his couch, as a hound
That starts up when he hears the wild chase-horn soundAnd he looked thro' the night for the warner in vain,
But he saw no tall banners nor plumes on the plain.
There's a curse on his tongue, and there's death in his arm,
For the dastard who gave the illusive alarm!
And he stood, in his wrath as if fronting the foe,
Like a tower with a thunder-cloud wrapt o'er its brow.
Again he lay down, and again the voice came,
Like a wind-gust that fans sleepiig embers to flameHis angry soul blazed at the warmng it gave,
And he leap'd from his couch, like the bound of,a wave.
His eye swept the plain, like the wild-fire's red gleam,
And he stampt, like a lion aroused from a dream;
His guards are asleep, and the cold midnight sky,
Look'd dark as the passion that burned in his eye.
The clouds lie, like ghosts, on the mountain's black pillowThe echoes are timing the chant of the billowThe valley is dreary-the crisped autumn-leaves,
At the feet of the chief, roll'd their pale-yellow waves.
Tho' the midnight was moonless, a bird could not fly
Unknown to the search of his far-shooting eye,
Yet the warrior saw nought but a gray Druid stone,
Where the moss and the bramble for ages had grown.
But why is'the head of that old rock so white?
Or is it the snow-spirit sits on its height?
Or some worshipper's soul that, in ages long gone,
Kielt there at that altar, adoring the sun?
Tis the mould of a woman-the dark chieftain sees
The white hem of her drapery stirr'd by the breeze,
And her hair did her forehead and shoulders festoon,
Like the mist's dusky fringe round the ring of the moon.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                   891
"Who art thou?" said the prince, striding forward a pace,
With his gleaming eyes set on her cold, dreary face,
But he shrank, with his burning glance quench'd by the
charm
Of the dark, solemn beauty that froze round her form.
And the awful-toned voice, that broke in on his dreaming,
Again smote his soul, with its ominous screaming,
Now distant-now near, 'rose the ghostly sound breaking,
As if 'twere the wind or the cloud that was speaking.
While the cold spirit-figure sat still, without motion,
Like a white pile of rock-surf flung up from the ocean,
And her lips seem'd unmoved, as if frozen together,
Like flakes of new snow on the bleak wintry-heather,
" Thus Destiny's mandate the sentence has spokenO'Brien! O'Brien! thy sceptre is broken I
And the race of the kings, than the forest oaks stronger,
That reign'd for a thousand years, reigneth no longer 1
" The brood of the eagle shall change into swallowsThe pines of the mountain shall dwindle to willows,
And the brave souls that walked in the glory of freemen,
Shall bend to the ' Galls' * with the weakness of women!
" Lo! the cloud of the curse o'er the valleys is swelling!
A skeleton stands at the door of each dwelling!
God's angels shall weep for the fearful disasters
That await on the Gael, when the land shall change masters!
" On the hills where the tempest its cloudy robe gathers,
Assembled, in grief, are the ghosts of your fathers,
They mourn for their sons, and the black doom that's coming
To lay them, like weeds, at the feet of their foemen I
"The Dragont has broken the arm of rebellionThe brave Silken Thomas has died, like a felon!
The lordly MacWilliam, Clanrickarde's high leader,
Has bow'd his proud head to the merciless raider I
* Foreigners.                        t Henry VIII."
" Silken Thomas, after a fruitless struggle to overthrow the'governtunt
of Henry VIII., was executed at Tyburn, along with his five uncles, on
February 3rd., 1537. The main cause of his failure was the betrayal of the
great fortress of Maynooth into the hands of his enemies, by his fosterbrother, Piras or Pierce, for a large bribe. When the Lord Deputy, 8teftfington, was after getting possession of.the castle, he askedthe traitir about
his connection with Lord Thomas, and the many "favours bestowed on him
by that nobleman. Being answered in the affirmative, he ordered the gold
the price of his treason, to be brought and counted to him. " You are paid
now according to our compact " said the Deputy, then turning to his
minions, he commanded them to seize Piraz and hang him on th nearest
tree, remarking that he was no longer fit to live, after such a taee ag of.
ingratitude and perfldy."-History of the Geraldinea.




3W            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
"In vain has O'Carroll,* his war-axes wieldedModereny's strong towers to the spoiler have yielded!
And the princely O'Kennedy's tal gallowglasses
Are worried, like wolves, in their dark mountain-passes!
"MacIbrien of Ara, thy kinsman and alley,
Has crouch'd to Lord Grey, like the fawn of the valleyAnd the blood of thy house, where the mighty once flourish'd,
Henceforth, like the weed of the field, shall be nourish'd!
"Lo! Connor shall march against Morogh, his brother,
To poison with rancour the milk of his mother, '
And his sons shall contend, in their moon-eyed ambition,,
To make to the stranger the meanest submission!
"Ha! the black discord seeds which your sires have been
sowing,
To a harvest of curses are rapidly growing,
Your power shall be crushed, and your pride shall be humbled,
Your feuds shall be hush'd, and your palcees tumbled!
" For the judgment of God, on a red thunder-pinion,
Shall cleave to the heart of your blood-stain'd dominion!
All Erin must die, and the death shall not leave her,
Till her sons heal the wounds which their rank discords gave
her!
"For ages on ages, each new generation
Shall perish, like leaves, on the grave of the nation!
When the hope of their hearts shall be brightest and dearest,
The withering curse of despair shall be nearest!
"O'Brien i O'Brien! the sentence is spoken I
Thy life-wine is drank, and thy regal cup broken!
The shadows of death on thy house have descendedThe black doom is sealed, and thy kingdom is ended!"
As the blue, living fountain is chill'd into death
By the cold midnight spell of the North's icy breath,
Thus the chieftains hot blood, like a stagnated stream,
Stood tideless and dull in its channels of flame.
He gazed on the gray rock-the figure was gone,
Like the dew's airy mist on the plain of the sunHe gazed on the dim wold, but saw nothing there,
Save the trees with their red foliage trembling and sere.
* Mac William, O'Carroll, O'Kennedy, and Maclbrien, were tributaries
to the King of Thomond.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


393


Again the hoarse mountain-blast shriek'd thro' the wood,
And the wither'd brier sigh'd, like a ghost, by the flood,
As the chieftain strode sullenly back to his tent,
With his dark, thoughtful eyes on the gloomy sward bent.
Nine suns flung their gold on the towers of Clonroad,
And brighten'd the gray hills of cloudy Hymbloid,
But ere the tenth dawn streak'd the orient with red,
The last of the Royal O'Briens was dead!
THE PEASANT TO HIS EMIGRANT DAUGHTER.
ACUISHLA mo stoir! do I see the day
You are leaving your poor father s side?
You, who kept the dark cloud from my heart away,
Since my sunny-hair'd Nora died!
Sure I see her soul in your bashful glance,
And you've borrowed her fawn-like form,
That first, in the ring of the village-dance,
Fill'd my heart with a fairy charm.
Your modest cheek with her bright blush glows,
Like the west cloud's roseate stain,
And your lips are, like hers, as the young Spring rose,
When 'tis wet with the morning rain!
And you have her voice, like the songful breeze,
When the blossoms of May are white
On the mossy boughs of the apple-trees,
All glistening with drops of light I
The daisies are fresh on her bed of rest,
And the haw-flowers above it are fair!
But cold is the pulse of my lonely breast,
Since I laid my poor darling there!"0 gilla mo stoir!"* come to me once more,
Till I kiss you and clasp you again!
My head is grey and my heart is sore,
For 'tis parting its living vein 1
Mo caillin!f you were a joy to me,As a cloud in the noon-day sky
Spreads its crystal veil o'er a drooping tree,
Whose leaves with the heat are dry!
And your image is lock'd in my heart's deep core,
As the honeycomb's golden cell
Holds the mountain-bee's sweet summer-store
Which he gather'd in vale and dell I
* Literally, "Child of my love r  t My little girl I
26




394         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
I never thought a day would come
To part us, achree mo stoir!*
Till the roof was stripp'd from our woodland-home,
At whose hearth we shall sit no more!
But when you shall land in the far, far West,
And meet your brave brothers there,Oh! tell them how Ireland is oppress'd,
But say that she don't despair!
God guard you away to the Exile's Land I
But in Erin I'll die aloneMavourneen! I'd keep your lovely hand
For ever clasp'd in my own!
And my heart's bright love, oh, my dear, dear one!
Shall follow you o'er the wave,
But I'll go to the churchyard, when you are gone,
And pray at your mother's grave!
THE FATHER'S LAMENT FOR HIS CHILDREN.
DEATH came to my house, like a hawk to a nest,
And he tore my two darlings away from my breast;
And my heart is as lone as the nest in the tree,
Since my sunny-eyed dear ones were taken from me!
December blasts howl round the gloom-vested hill,
And the life pulse of Nature is torpid and still;
Yet Spring will return from the clouds of the Pole,
But it will not revive the dead flowers of my soul!
Sure my Patsy's blue eyes were as blossoms of light
That glow in the galaxy-splendours of night;
There was health on his cheek, like the sun-bloom we see
On the peaches that hang on a sweet garden tree.
Good heaven! was it all but the dream of an hour?
He's gone-and without him I'm lonely and poorWill you meet me no more, oh, my heart-cherish'd boy!
With your innocent face and your bright laugh of joy?
The winter will pass, with its rain-cloud and storm,
And the spring-grass will rise o'er the dust of your form;
But when will the bleak, wintry darkness retire
Which you left in the heart and the home of your sire?
I hoped, when the gray days of age would come on,
To find a protection and prop in my son,
That he'd love and care me, as I loved and cared him,
When my hands and my eyes would grow feeble and dim 1
And my lily-fair Maggie-my bosom's white doveWhose face had the light of God's sweetness and love,
My heart's love!




395


LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


Did I think that the star of thy beauty's young noon
Would lie shrouded in dust and in darkness so soon?
Like the delicate flower of the field was your fate,So sweet was your life and so short was its date;
Oh! my memory is full of the joy of your look,
Like a modest young rose in a green, mossy nook!
Sure you said, ere your tongue in its death-silence lay,
That your fond little brother had called you away I
Yes, he call'd you away to partake of his joy
In the palace of God, in the halls of the sky!
Oh! the thoughts of that morning are chaining my breath,
When your fair waxen image lay frozen in deathWhen I enter'd my house, from a long night of toil,
And dreamt but of meeting your loving young smile.
There you lay in death's trappings, so frigid and white,
Like a blossom blown down by the cold winds of night:
Your eye had no ray and your cheek had no rose,
And your young brow was iced in its marble repose.
A few seasons hence, you would sit by my side,
In womanhood's sweetness and maidenly pride!
And my heart would exult, and my spirit grow warm
In the joy of your eyes, and the grace of your form I
And lovers would come, like wild bees to a flower,
When its young heart is wet with the dew's honey shower;
But God's eye may have seen through futurity's gloom,
Some dark blight awaiting thy ripeness of bloomSome gloomy affliction, or soul-killing grief,
To slay with rank poison thy green virgin-leaf,
And he snatch'd thee away to his kingdom of light,
Ere thy pure angel-soul would be stained with the blight!
Oh, 'tis better-if a world were staked on thy lifeTo be safe with thy Maker, than be a king's wife 1
Thy life was a transient and innocent dream,Pure gold with no dross to be purged by the flame;What glory can earth with your glory compare,
Or could earth's grandest queen wear the robes you now wear?
The splendours of heaven are bound on your bro,'
And earth's queens are all needy, compared to you now!
How many, in convent and temple, for years,
Have knelt to their God, with devotion and tears;
Pray'd, fasted, and suffer'd, and struggled and strain'd,
For the Heaven my doves have so easily gained 7
They went in the time when his image was fresh
In the spirits that kindled their passionless flesh,
Ere the foul, evil mists of the world rose to dim,
In their young gentle souls, the grand likeness of Him!




396          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Tho' my house and my heart are as desolate made,
As the dreary churchyard where my darlings are laidTho' my heart, like a sere leaf when summer is gone,
Is left in life's winter to tremble alone!
Yet why should I murmur-why should I repineAgainst the high will and the mandate divine?
He took them away, and He has the best claimThey're His own-I was only their parent in name!
THE OUTCAST.
PALE, at the corne    he long, dark street,
Poor child of iht,   ur wasted form I see;
The cold flags frzing up your naked feet,Oh, frail, yo g blosso4r fallen from Virtue's tree!
Deep darknes   the congerSal mask of crime,
Attends yo, footstepq aad befriends your shame I
Ah! your,sadllpoks say, once there was a time,
When Guilt's black finger could not touch your name!
Was it the tongue 4f sl seduction pour'd
Its fiendish honey'n your heart's young core,
And nipt the plant which in God's garden flower'd,
And added to sin's waste one foul weed more?
The world, on which an outcast you are thrown,
Will ne'er forgive thy erring life nor thee!
None, save the outstretch'd arms of God alone,
Shall e'er receive you, with a pardon freel
You've fallen!-Magdalen fell and rose again,
Tho' wild and wicked the career she ran 1
They'd cast her off, but Jesus stood between
Her and the judgments of corrupted man I
He look'd into her heart-the black clouds there
Burst and dissolv'd to drops of burning love;
She bathed his feet and wiped them with her hair:
Man frown'd-God smil'd, and heaven rejoic'd above!
Poor child of sorrow! is your mother dead?
And did your kin the homeless daughter spurn?
Some friendly action done-some kind words saidYour straying footsteps back to grace may turn!
Man may seduce, betray, and nothing lose,
In what society character calls;
But ruthless is the principle which shows
No mercy to a woman when she falls!
Instead of lifting up the broken reed,
The godless verdict lives to crush it down;
Stern Riour sits in judgment on her deed,
And every hand is raised to cast the stone.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.            397
This is the spur that farther drives astray
The reckless culprit into guilt's retreatThe same reproach which sought to turn awa
Poor, loving Mary from her Saviour's feet
Give me your hand, forlorn one-it is coldCold as the charity of the human race;
In years you're young, and yet in sin you're old,
But heaven to you may send a beam of gracePoor brother man, weak sister woman-all
Have, more or less, some cruel cross to bear;
Oh! pity, but condemn not, those that fallLife's path is slippery, and the way'is drear!
In the short journey which we have to tread,
Our footing's insecure, infirm, and frail;
None knoweth where the hidde, snare is spreadNone knoweth where or how a step may failNot always can we good from ill select,
So weak our judgment and our will so blind!
Great oaks have fallen while reeds have stood erect;
Strong ships have sunk where skiffs brave tide and wind!
Many a pearl in the dust is cast,
And spurn'd by the foot of ruffian pride;
Many a piece of dross for gold has pass'd,
While the pure ore is basely flung aside;
Many a tender floweret born to bask
Ini Virtue's light, is torn from its sweet bed;
Many a scarlet vice wears Virtue's mask,
And " fools rush in where angels fear to tread!"
Turn, erring sister, to thy Saviour's knee;
One loving tear thy darkness will dispel;
Theipirit of his mercy smiles for thee,
As sweet as for the child that never fell.
For such as thee, rank vinegar and gall,
To quench his death-thirst on the cross was given;
For such as thee, his longing, loving call
Is echoed thro' the realms of earth and heaven.
If thou hast yet the memory of one prayerThy poor, fond father taught thy lisping tongue,
While on his knee he stroked thy curling hair,
When thou wert sweet, pure, innocent, and youngRepeat it in the language of thy heart,
And tho' polluted be thy life's young rill,
The sullied stream has yet a crystal part,
Where God, with love, beholds his image still.




398         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMO.-D.


MARY O'NEILL'S ELOPEMENT.
A TRUE STORY.
THE twilight cloud shook from its pale golden arm,
Airy crystals of Spring upon moorland and farm,
While the breeze, like a fairy-bard, walked thro' the w ods,
And kissed into sweetness the mouths of the buds.
There's a feast in the cottage of Mary O'Neill,
And her kinsmen are gathered from hamlet and vale;
And the piper is there, since an hour before noon,
Drawing out the heart-sweets of each old Irish tune.
Maid servants are busy, with brown arms bare,
At cooking and boiling, and cleansing of ware;
And many a youth did old Patrick invite
To dance at the nuptials of Mary, to-night.
But the groom was a "bodogh" who barter'd and sold
Land and cattle, to glut his soul's hunger for gold;
And he had, by his drudging, to twilight from dawn,
Large wealth in the Bank, and ten cows in his bawn.
E Every scheme of the world's slave-market he sawQuick and small was his eye--pale and thin was his jaw;
Shrewd, cold-soul'd, and cautious, his years were two score,
While the blooming young IMary was just twenty-four.
Bold Phelim O'Keefe, from the banks of the Faile,
Came down to the wedding of Mary O'Neill;
Tall, graceful, and gallant, -nd comely was he,
With a hand, like a giant's, that reached to his knee.
A good-hearted devil for fighting and fun,
As stout as a tower and as straight as a gun;
Every fair in the country knew Phelim right well,
Tho' no pig, goat,' nor garron he ne'er had to sell.
Oft he imet pleasant Mary, when going to toil,
And she paid his salute with a kind word and smile,
And she said, in her heart, "may I never know grief,
But I like your fine shoulders, bold Phelim O'Keefe!
And she went to her cottage-door, day after day,.:i
oMr a peep at bold Phelim when passing the way, j
-aut she was so rich that he still pass'd'her by,  "
With m humble salute and a wink of his eye.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


But when he had heard that her marriage was fixed,
His heart was bewilder'd, his head was perplexed,
And he came to her wedding to wish her good-luck,
Tho' he wished that Old Nick all the match-makers took.
He entered the cottage and greeted her sire,
And he stood, for awhile, with his back to the fire;
He watched and he waited till Mary appear'd,
And old Patrick was gone to look after his herd.
As a queen-picture, kindled with life's spirit-flame,
(We only suppose) stepping out from its frame;
So stately in movement-in beauty so realWere the sweet face and figure of Mary O'Neill.
Her small feet, with stockings as white as bog-down,
Slyly peep'd from the hem of her gay bridal gown;
Her cheeks were as poppies the sun looks upon,
But the wild-laughing fire of her large eyes was gone. /
"Sweet Mary I " said Phelim, so soft in her ear,
In a low tone which none but the maiden could hear,
"Be poverty curst that forbade me to woo
So lovely, so noble a maiden as you!
S"Batwere I a lord or a prince's high son,
I'd die or the wealth of your love Id have wo I!
No man in all Erin would take you from me,
For you're wrapt in my heart, like a bird in a! "
"'Tis a pity," the maid, in a whisper, replied,
" That love to the loving should e er be denied I
'Tis a pity that wealth should exist to o'erthrow,
The sweetest heart's joy human bosoms can know I
"Go 'round to my sleeping-room window, unseen,
I'll hand you my mantle, then run thro' the green,
And wait near the grove, till the light leaves the sky,
And ere the priest comes, I'll be with you or die I"
He took the maid's mantle, and ran to the grove,
While his heart almost blazed with a fever of lv e;
And she, to disguise her intentions the more,
Stay'd to welcome the guests, and then stole from thseoor.
TIwy met at the grove-side-one grasp ofthe hand,
One wild kiss of joy, and one glance round the
And away went they off thro' the mist aoo
As gldA as two souls on their journey tO.aey




400          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
The bridegroom is come, with the priest by his side,
And there's feasting and fun in the house of the bride;
Hot smoked the fun dishes-fast flow'd the bright ale,
And there's many a shake hands for old Patrick O'Neill.
The wicked-eyed youths at the coy maids are winking,
The maids on their dinners and dresses are thinking;
Some sat near the piper and cheer'd him the while
He squeezed from his bag "Norah Creina " in style.
But where is the bride?-she was there while ago!Good Lord, sirs, where is she, does anyone know?
She is out at the next house, with Nelly Mulcare!
Go, tell her-he groom and his reverence are here!
The neighbours were questioned,-no Mary was foundThe guests grew suspicious, sly whispers went round;
The feast was abandon'd; they search'd far and wideAnd the groom has ran home, fiercely cursing the bride.
The night waned away, but no news, nor a trace
Of the lovely deserter, were found in the place;
Her sire stamped and storm'd, like one raging mad,
And the priest for his twenty gold guineas was sad.
Next week, in high triumph, came home to the vale,
Fair Mrs. O'Keefe-alias Mary O'NeillAnd her gossips and cousins declared, with one voice,
That 'tis hard to debar a young maid of her choice!
Old Patrick look'd up at the runaway pair,
With an oath on his lips, and a black-scowling stare,
While Phelim, as straight as a pike-staff, stood by,
And Mary look'd down, and pretended to cry.
Her father leap'd up-kick'd the rush chair aside,"Away from my sight!" hoarse with anger, he cried,
" You stole my fine daughter, you night-walking thief!"
"'Twas your daughter stole me!" said bold Phelim O'Keefe.
"We want nothing from you, the world is wideI have stput hands, thank God, to win bread for my bride;
To give ier a good living I'd toil in a ditch,
SAnd with peace, health, and love, we'll be happy and rich!"
Oh J to see the old man how he fought with his heart,
When Phelim and Mary prepared to departHeBuaihed to the door, calling Mary, twice, thrice,
aMpa pSeliot ten derness yearned in his voice.
+ +        '....  e+i+ -,,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


401


" Stay, stay, Phelim! stay with your wife in this house,
'Tis your own, and I'll give you the land and the cows!
I'll count you her fortune, five hundred pounds brightIn her choice of a husband perhaps she was right!"
The matter was settled-her friends were called in,
And old Conway, the piper, was sent for againThree casks of poteen and ten sirloins of beef,
Were despatched at the wedding of Phelim O'Keefe.
THE BATTLE OF KILBARRON.*
A.D. 1259.
O'BRIEN sate in his mountain-hall,
On a seat of rushes and dark-green fern;
His shield hung o'er him, on the wallAt his feet lay a wolf-dog, grim and stern.
His daughter Mor was at his side,
With her milk-white hand on the " cruit-wires;"
And his bounding spirit thrill'd, with pride,
As she sang the deeds of her kingly sites.
But ere the lofty song was done,
Three stern-brow'd, hawk-eyed mountain-menWith their faces bronzed from wind and sunTo the royal chieftain, came rushing in.
"Oh, mighty son of kings!" they cried,
" MacMaurice is marching on thy land 1
He comes from Connaught's bordering side,
With two score knights, and a numerous band!
His English host is two thousand strong,
And the Welshmen of Mayo have joined the chiefThey come, a lawless, ravening throngTo plunge our realm in dole and grief!
* MacMaurice Fitzgerald led a strong army into Thomond, to attack
Connor O'Brien and to despoil the country. O'Brien having timely intelligence of the intended raid, called his clans together, and marched to oppoe
the advance of the invaders. The armies met at Kilbarron, in the pa  of
Feakle, county of Clare, and a fierce battle was fought, in whib  Macarice and his English host were defeated and driven into Connai  in headlong rout, leaving seven hundred of their army dead on thie.  The
Welsh settlers of Mayo who joined the English were nearly all desroed,
and the victors also suffered severe loss, for many of the nobles an  ohieft
of Thomond fell in the heat of the action.
Connor, shortly after his victory at Kilbarron, was killed at the wo f
Suidane, m Burren, in combat with the O'Loghlins and O'Conlort, wCo
lie endeavoured to subdue as tributArles to his power. From thl iu a
be is known in history as Connor na Suidane.




402           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
They'll camp to-night on Kilbarron's height,
And plunder the country at break of day,
For, while shaded from view, near the host we drew,
So we heard the knights and the captains say!"
O'Brien leap'd up from his ferny seat,
Like the angry fiend of a stormy night;
Mor's silver "cruit"* fell down at her feet,
And the bloom of her cheek became cold death-white.
"Go,.rouse Clancuilen!" the stern prince cried,
And summon from Dysart the fierce O'Dea,
To meet me to-night, by Loch Doon's dark side,
With their bravest troops, in their best array!
Like a burning plague, I will cross the track
Of those robbing invaders! those beastly men!
By the holy St. Flanan!t they'll never go back,
With the coveted spoil from the lion's den!"
Away flew the scouts, with unslackening speed,
Thro' the plains of Clancuilen and Dysart O'Dea;
Their spurs grew tinged with the blood of each steed,
So furiously rapid they rode away.
And long ere the setting sun redden'd the west,
The signal of war through the land was spread;
And nightfall saw on the mountain's crest
The fires of battle blaze large and red.
And the clans were muster'd and marshall'd all,
And old and young rush'd the host to join;
And the war-slogan rung from shieling to hall,
"Lamh Laidir Inochta!" brave O'Brien!"
They march'd along thro' the gloom of night,
Till they came to the side of Loch Doon's blue flood,
Where they pitch'd their tents, till the morning's light
Would guide their steps to the field of blood.
They lighted their camp-fires, and spread their feast,
And drank fiery goblets of bright red " mead;"~
Then the clans lay down on the sward to rest,
With their heads on their folded "cochals" " laid.
The army sank into sleep profound,
And nothing was heard, save the sentinels' tramp,
As, with measur'd paces, they walk'd around
The shadowy ring of the silent camp:
SCruit, a small harp.
+ St. Flannan was one of the patron saints of Thomond.
$ Lamh Laidir Inochta-i.e., the strong hand uppermost-was the warcry and motto of the O'Briens.
I Wine.
II The cochal was a woollen cloak, with a hanging collar, striped with many
colours, and fastened at the throat of the wearer with a button or brooch of
gold or silver. It covered the body to the middle of the thigh, and the
warrior often used it as a shield in battle by winding it tightly round thp
left arm.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


403


But the wakeful chiefs, with their brehons, and bards,
In the tent of O'Brien held council 'till dawn;
While abroad in the night-shade the royal guards
Surrounded the place, with their long swords drawn.
A dark-blue cloud o'er the dim woods hungCold was the beam of the setting moonAnd dismally the night-wind sung
To the fairy waters of wild Loch Doon;
The dark foeman's watch-fires flamed afar,
Thro' the hazy gloom of Kilbarron's height;
And ghostly murmurs of woe and war
Were heard in the gale, all the lonely night.
Morn gushed, like wine, o'er the purple lake,
Like golden harp-strings, its ripples play'd;
And the wild-birds' anthems, from bower and brake,
With the woods and waters, rich concert made.
But ere the sun climb'd the reddening east,
A solemn Mass in the camp was said;
And all receiv'd, from the gray-hair'd priest,
The shrived soul's living eternal Bread.
Then the priest, with his eyes and hands upheld,
Pray'd God and his Virgin Mother to bless
The warriors' toils, in the dangerous field,
And crown their arms with bright success.
Then the dim shore clang'd with the sound of steel,
And the gathering tramp of the rising clan;
And the princes and bards sent a brave appeal
To the strengthen'd heart of each martial man.
Away to Kilbarron's dark height they go,
Like the volumed roll of an autumn flood,
Where, in bristling masses, the banded foe
On the broad, yellow hill-slope grimly stood.
Their banners red to the winds were'spread,
And the shifting blaze of their spears and shields
A quivering torrent of radiance shed
O'er the dewy green of the glowing fields.
Scowling, in front, stood the archers grim,
With their quivers stored and their long bows drawn,
And each arrow's keen point flashed, like a gem,
In the brightening glow of the red-eyed dawn.
The armour d cavaliers, four deep,
Stood ready, with rein, and spur, and lance,
To dash their steeds, with headlong sweep,
And deadly might, on the foe's advance.
" Go," said The O'Brien, to bold O'Dea,
Attack their right, where the Welshmen stand!
And if any escape with his life away,
May your heart's blood smoke on a foreign brand I
And you, MacConmara, strong arm of power!
Hurl Clan Cuilen on their left wing;




404          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
By the soul of my sire, in another hour,
The eagles and wolves shall have banqueting!
Myself, and the warriors of Inchiquin,
Shall deal with the centre our spears and sparths;*
Now, sons of "Lamh Laidir," 'tis time to begin
To speak, with our steel, to the robbers' hearts!"
Then the cornast were blown, with a mighty sound,
And the English bugles made fierce reply;
And up the hill-side, with a surging bound,
Dash'd the wild clans, shouting their battle-cry.
A torrent of arrows, like hurricane-hail,
Leap'd, with deadly hiss, from the English bows,
And the foremost ranks of the fiery Gael
Fell dead ere their weapons could reach their foes,
And, as wolf-hounds sweep thro' a bed of fern
The cavalry down on the footmen sprung;
But the long, sharp spears of the active ker,
Riders and steeds to the red sward flung.
As a whirlwind shivers a forest of oak,
So reel'd the closed hosts on the steel-ridged height,
And the quick, shrill echoes of shout and stroke,
Told the glorious madness of the fight.
To the crest of the hill surged the roaring mass,
With stormy clangor and deadly thrust,
While the weapons of kern and gallowglass
Were cleaving the archery to the dust.
On front and flank of the Welshmen bold,
Thunder'd O'Dea, with his mountain-band;
Their "cochals" around their left arms roll'd,
And the grinding axe in each strong right-hand:
Then the yell of death shriek'd o'er the heath,
And the shattering blows smashed helm and targe;
And the warriors fell on the hill's rough swell,
Like cliffs lash'd down by a mad sea-surge.
With equal valour on every side,
The wrathful conflict blazed and raged;
And the vigour and strength of the chiefs were tried,
As their arms, like sweeping flames, engaged.
Into a dark hollow, adown the hill,
The stern Clancuilen the right wing bore;
And there the demon of war roar'd shrill,
While his red hand was reeking with copious gore.
Falchion to falchion, and spear to spear,
In furious " melee" they grappled long;
Till the " Galls" were driven, like routed deer,
Into flight, a mingled, impetuous throng.
* Battle-axes.
t Military instruments for sounding the advance or retreat of an army.
$ Foregners.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


405


Clancuilen's chief, in that furious strife,
Exhausted the strength of his powerful arm,
While over the grim devastation of life,
His war-shout was heard, like a midnight storm.
Still brave Mac Maurice, with desperate might,
With his central phalanx his ground held good,
Till fierce MacConmara, upon his right,
Like a hurricane hurl'd his spears of blood.
Then backward the tottering band recoil'd,
Like a cloud of fire, o'er the hill's red height,
While vainly the brave knights and captains toil'd,
To shield the retreat, and prevent a flight.
MacMaurice was wounded by fierce O'BrienHis guards bore him off from the burning fray,
And across the brown hill, in a reeking line,
Large drops of blood mark'd the warrior's way.
With iron valour and desperate force,
Three times did his brave troops charge amain,
Till the rolling masses of foot and horse
Grew mingled together upon the plain.
Then the broken rush of the flight began,
Their order was ruin'd, their courage was gone;
In headlong panic, man struck down man,
Where the rout, like a scattering wave, roll'd on.
"Give the Galls no quarter!" O'Brien roar'd,
And his voice thro' the fieldflike a trumpet rang,
While his swift Dalcassians, with axe and sword,
Like sharks on the flying squadrons sprang.
And the grim chief stood on a moss-headed crag,
With the dead at his feet and the blood on his mail;
And o'er him the folds of his glorious old Flag,
With its " Three Yellow Lions," stream'd on the gale,
While the loud war-slogan of victory grew,
Like a thunder-peal, from his warrior-clan,
SLamh Laidir Inochta! baus na Sassenach ruidh P/"
As after the fugitive troops they ran.
And few of the Welshmen escaped, with life,
From the terrible kernes of fierce O'Dea;
Two hundred braves, in the blaze of the strife,
A feast for the crows, on the hill's crest lay.
Lynotts, and Barretts, and Tymlins bled,
On the field's right wing, in one reeking pile;
Leonards, and Wattins, and Grosses lay dead
On the left, where their blood-gouts fatted the soil.
Five hundred men in the centre fell,Brave men of high prowess and mettle, and might;
Their stark corpses ridged all the hill's red swell,
And six hundred were slain in the rushing fliglt.
* Baus na Sassenach ruidh, i.e., Death to the red Saxon..'*.




4Q6           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Nor soon did the victor-Dalcassians forget
The carnage and wounds of the deathful fray;
For bloody and hot was the greeting they met,
In that ruinous field, on that fatal day.
THE BARD'S PROTEST.
A LIFE PICTURE.
I AM Bard to none but the God above,
Who sent me the gift of Song
From His angel-choir, and taught me to love
The right, and to hate the wrong!
I sing no tinsell'd autocrat's praiseI crouch at no lordling's knee;
Not birth nor blood, but the True and Good,
And the Loving, are themes for me    '
But scarce as the Just are the True and GoL,.
And the Loving on earth are few,
For the hemlock grows where the sweet wi1M T0se
That was planted by God's hand, grew!:
Heaven wastes its glory in endless floodsEarth blossoms in every partWhile the serpent breeds and the nettle buds
In the gloom of the human heart.
In these rigid and icy Christian days,
I wish that I ne'er had been,
To know the sorrow my heart has known,
For the mockery my eyes have seen.
Has your "Civilisation" sown one seed
Of love in your bosom's ice:?,       '
Has ypur "march of ProgreAM" crusb'd, fo... S
In the desert of human-vie-:v i'e  ~
I have seen the image of God thrown dowt4, ir-;
And a beast set up in its place,
And truth's and honour's perverted crown6 -
On the head of the false and base.
I haye seen insipid buffoonery pri*ed,
And extoll'd as a goldeSS e.While the god-like scholat'i  'been despised,
And the patriot mock'd as a foo..
I have teen the philanthropist betray'd. -
*Athe gloom of a dungeon cold,
While the heaven-curst traitor was amply paid
For the innocent blood he sold.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
I have seen, at a beastly Herod's feet,
Vile sycophants worship the brute,
And a Judas raised to the judgment seat,
To pervert and betray God's truth.
I have seen the low clods of ignorance
At majestic wisdom sneer,
And poltroons scoffing at manly sense,
And cowards, without God's fear.
I have heard the honest, brave man reviled
By the tongue of the dastard knave;
I have seen the generous soul beguiled,
By the snares of a sordid slave.
I have seen sly, silken hypocrites
Exalted above the just;
I hate seen Mammon's hungry steel-claw'd kites
In high places of godly trust.
I have heard a mongrel, huxtering wretch,
Applauded for Christian zealA vampire who'd suck, like a grim horse-leech,
The blood of the common-weal.
I have seen. the sluggard and dullard fed
By the sweat of the starving poor;
I have seen from the kindly hand, the bread
Snatched away by the churlish boor.
I have seen the honest man cast aside
In the shadow of stern neglect,
While the villain, who Nature and God belied,
Was greeted with marked respect.
I have seen the noble sons of worth
To the hell of felons consign'd,
While reptiles, whose crimes disgraced the earth,
Walk'd: free as the summer wind.
I have seen'the swaggering upstart turn
His fiend's sneer at merit's claim;
And the devil-soul'd profligate spat, with scorn,
Oh the virtue he bronght-to shame.
I have seen a ravening human wolf
Devour half a country's side,
And swallow whole granaries at a gulp,
While God's poor with hunger died;


407




408         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And the monster revell'd on broken hearts,
Ay, hearts of the pure and trueAnd the law gave him aid, with its devilish arts,
His mission of ruin to do.
I saw the Apostle of Holy Writ,
To the godless wronger lean,
And at the banquet of Dives sit,
While poor Lazarus begg'd in vain.
I saw a covetous steward of God,
His wealth with a steel-grip hold,
While famine stalk'd thro' the land, plague-shod,
And the poor lambs starved in the fold.
I saw Christ's vineyard overrun
By huxters in saintly shapes,
Who thro' the top of the roof stole down,
To rob and to eat the grapes.
I have heard a shepherd, in holy clothes,
Preach eternity not too long,
Nor hell too hot, to punish all those
Who dare rise against tyrant wrong.
I saw the greedy monopolist haste
To devour the small fry of trade;
I saw the scheming bankrupt feast
On the wealth that industry made!
And the law for the rich thief could forget
The thousands he squander'd away,
While the struggler was whipp'd for a paltry debt,
Which his poverty could not pay.
As grubs in a narrow, earthly hole,
Men grovel in low pursuit,
And the generous bound of the manly soul
Has deserted the breast of youth.
Old social manners have died away,
And kind fellow-love is no more,
For men's hearts with selfish schemes are gray,
Ere one hair in their heads is hoar.
Like Argus, for every sordid chanceThey watch with a hundred eyes,
As spiders grim, from their cobwebs glance
To seize on the hovering flies.
No wonder the sons of the desert-camp
Should fly from the Christians' greed,
And fear it more than the poisonous swamp
Whe: the deadly copper-snakes feed.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.            409
If this be your " Civilisation's " sway,
May the Lord put an end to it soon!
And enlighten the age with a brighter ray,
And give nMankind a happier noon!
Look around, and behold, on every hand,
In these days of political law,
Worse Cromwells and Iretons in the land
Than our forefathers ever saw.
Earth and ocean, shake from line to pole,
With the strides of the giant steam;
And progress advances, cheek by jole,
With the march of deceit and schemeThe lightning to herald the thoughts of man,
Has left its ethereal clime,
But it might have on nobler missions ran
In the gloom of the pagan time.
Once my bosom's core, like the flower of the wold,
Knew the sweetness of love for all
Earth's daughters and sons, till the cruel and oold#
Changed my heart and my blood to gall;
Till Isaw the world as dark as hell,
V/hx man's perfidy unto man;
Theril cried, 0 worms I the Lord doth well
To shorten your evil span!
They sent me to drudge in the market place,
Till my hands and my heart grew sore,
And the blood-sweat burst from my burning face,
Till the weary, long day was o'erHow slowly the sun sunk down to the main,
While my toil-crush'd spirit sigh'd
For the holy breath of the summer-plain,
And a seat by the river's side!
And the heart and tongue that would feel and speak
The language oilove for all,
Grew rank as thp railgf the death-fang'd snake
SForedoom'd in the dust to crawl!
And I flung back the sneer to the monied slave,
My conteipt for the vile to show;
And I reddei d the cheek of the scoffing knave,  *
With a hot and vindictive blow.
1   ve seen, on the bough's silver arm high,
A little bird sing in glee,
While a treacherous cat, with his tiger-eye,
Stoleup in the moss-clad tree 1,.     27




410          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And thus while song's empyrean cup
Was grasp'd by my thirsting soul,
Some demon-shadow of earth sprung up,
And threw dust in my aerial bowl.
And the golden fools at my folly laugh'd,
For my spirit disdain'd control
Of the servile yoke and the sordid craft
Of the spurious and dull in soul,
And I stole away to the mountain-wood,
From the city's detested den,
And I blessed, in the flowers, the beauty of God,
And curst the base greed of men.
Avaunt, false pride! with the arrogant stride 1
The black deed, and cold hard stare
Of the steely eye, which tells no lie,
That the "civilized" wolf is there!
Not love nor worth, at thy trifling birth,
I   But a snake to thy soul was given,
To ecatter more seeds of ruin on earth,
Than Satan hath done in heaven.
There's a mystery in the thunder-cloud
That darkens the summer-airThere's a mystery wder the death-white shroud,
And the ice-cold ashes there!
There's a mystery in the grave enshrined,
With its darkness damp and chill,
Btt the human heart and the human mind
Are darker mysteries still!
THE EXILE'S RETURN.
THE breezy w1hg of morning swept the silver beads away
That on the yellow fringes of the Susky heather lay;
Blade, flower, and leaf, and soaring bird, blue rill, and cooling
gale~
Made golden spirit-music in the glory-lighted vale.
A village-maiden sat within a ruin'd cottage hall,
Beneath the tawny grass-blades that were tremblingapn the
wall;
Her moisten'd eye and pallid cheek, and drooping brow de*
fined
That some loved image stood before the mirror of her mind.




IAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             411
"Three cloudy winters o'er yon hill, have shook their sleety
wings,
And yonder vale has worn the robe of three successive
Springs,
Since, o'er the dark-green waters of the distant western-sea,
Mo bochail doun,* my bright-haired one, has gone away from
me.
These are the four walls of the home where his young life was
nurstHere, at a dance, one summer-eve, we met each other first;
His glance of love soon found my heart, as the golden-honey
bee
Finds the sweetest part of the opening flower of the beautiful
apple-tree!
It was not for his bright-ring'd locks, and eyes, like a clear
lake blue,
That I promised to be his own fond wife, with a passi  nchanged and true;
But he spoke so kind, and he loved so deep his own dear,
native and,
There's not a girl in Erin's Isle would deny him her heart and
hand!
And often, by this humble door, when summer nights were
fine,
We sat relating fairy tales, with his brave hand clasping
mine;
And at this hearth, that's now so lone, when winter days
were done,
We had many a song and merry laugh, while the busy flaxwheel spun!
I dreamt last night I saw hint coming down by the meadow's
side,
With his pleasant look, and his free, wild step, and his bearing
of manly pride;
While my joyful heart to meet him sprung, as a little bird flies
awal
To a lov~ tree, all glowingly robed with the blossoms of sunny
May.


* My brown boy.




412           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Sure, the day before he went away, by the river-bank we met,.
And we sat beneath a gray hawthorn, and talk'd till the sun
was set;
He press'd my hand, and pledged his faith to send for me, 'ere
long,
And his deep, sweet voice has haunted my soul, like the sound
of an angel's song I
Pale evening stretch thy shadows o'er the face of the silent
plain!
And hasten, 0 blessed, peaceful night! till I dream of my love
again!
Oh! I'd rather sleep for ever in the heaven of that sweet dream,
Than awake to be the mistress of a palace wanting him!
The maiden ceased, and started up-for she heard a footstep
nighAnd a stranger stood before the walls, with a fixed and brimful
eye;
He walked within the roofless cot, where the nettle and tall
dock grewHe saw and clasp'd the weeping girl-" Dear Eveleen! is it
you?
"And did you come, my lonely love, to this dreary, ruined cot,
To think on me, who, I had thought, that every one forgot?
Oh I my heart is glad to find you true-we'll ne'er be divided
more!
I've plenty of wealth, and a home for you, on America's
friendly shore!
"I came to take a last fond look at the hills of my native Isle,
And her storied fields, where the tyrants' curse has wither'd
the blighted soil!
To say one prayer at my mother's grave, and take, at her
place of rest,
A shamrock from the sacred clay that lies o'er her moulder'd
breast!
"Then come away the ship will sail ere to-morrow's sun goes
d9wn,
And we'll be on our foamy path to New York's stately town;
We'll leave this wretched, lawless land, where oppression's
pandering knaves,
Grow fat on the poor, like charnel rats in the gloom of deserted graves!"




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.            413
ADDRESS TO THE SHANNON.
MY beautiful Shannon! how bright runs thy stream,
From the morning's first smile to the evening's last beam I
Oh! sweet are the odours that float round thy tide,
When the summer sun glows on thy emerald side
My beautiful Shannon! how oft have I strayed
On thy wild, flowery banks, with my raven-hair'd maid,
And open'd my soul to thy music, that 'rose
On the sweet fairy wind, o'er the summer's repose!
My beautiful Shannon! alone on thy bank,
What a banquet of glory my fancy has drank?
There, while thy blue current swept on to the sea,
I stood, like a Magian, in converse with thee I
How grandly thy wild hills and dark woodlands frown,
As thy flood's glancing splendour between them rolls down,
Majestic and mighty as when, from thy side,
Great Brian's Kinkora looked down on thy tide!
'Twas there, by thy stream, dashing brightly along,
My spirit inhaled the wild magic of song;
And there, 'mid the calm, floral shades of the grove,
I first drank the golden enchantment of love!
Oh, my spirit floats back, in a vision of joy,
To the days when I stray'd on thy green banks, a boy,
When my heart, like the linnet that chants in the dells,
Gush'd out into song as it drank of thy spells!
When Earth, like a garden of glory, look'd fair,
As if death, pain, and sorrow hath never been there;
While my bosom, 'mid summer's wild day-dream of light,
Made love to all beauteous things transient and bright!
Oh, Youth! thou magician, one hour on thy stage
Is worth all the gray-bearded wisdom of Age I
Oh, Memory! thou syren of pleasure and pain,
Bring me back to my green spring of boyhood again!
We know not the worth of its sweetness and truth,
While we bask in the beams of the spring-bloom of youth;
Till out on life's rigid sea, shipwreck'd and toss'd,
We look back, in tears, to the Eden we lost.




414          LAYS   AIGtoS OP THOMOND.
Killeely of gray tombs, I haunted thy glades,
Like a fairy-bird singing alone in thy shades;
There nature taught lessons of beauty to me,
In the tinge of the flower and the leaf of the tree!
Oh, sweet Monabraher! whose rich meads have given
The wildest perfume to the breathings of heaven!
There, oft by the May-moon, I wander'd at night,
Till my soul fell asleep in a dream of delight!
Parteen of the sunny streams! Quinsburgh's bright lawn!
Fairy isle of St. Thomas, and airy Kilquan!
May blessings, like honey-dew, fall on your shades,
And plenty and sweetness long teem in your meads!
Weird scenes, where the lore of tradition has cast
Dark legends of Fairy-wild tales of the PastWhere the fisherman saw, thro' the night-shadow still,
Gloomy hosts of the dead marching down the blue hill.
Proud Limerick of fleets, by the azure flood zoned!
How glorious you sit on your green isle enthroned!
Ah! oft has my burning heart gush'd into showers,
As I gazed on your old halls and war-broken towers!
Even now, as I stand by the tide's crystal roll,
The rays of your glory burst bright on my soul!
And I weep as I gaze on thy historic plain,
Where thy mighty sons perish'd or conquer'd in vain!
Roll on, kingly river! thou pride of our Isle,
And glorious life-pulse of the heart of her soil!
The fleets of the world triuniphant may ride
On the broad-swelling breast of thy ocean-like tide!
But thy strands are deserted-thy harbours are bareFor no trade-ships nor engines of commerce are there;
Thy great tide flows idle-our trade is undoneOur fields lie uncultured-our people are gone!
LAMENT FOR THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER.
- GIFrED Meagher! gallant Meagher I
Soul of honour, true and tried;
Have you perish'd thus untimely,
' i'Missouri's gloomy tide?
In the spring-noon of your manhood,
While your glory's wreath was bright,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Are you gone from all who loved you
All who hail'd you with delight?
Noble Meagher! princely Meagher!
Pulse of Erin's hope and pride!
Would to God that, brave and brilliant,
In the battle charge you'd died!
There are tears and throbbing anguish
In the sad Isle of your birth;
And the murmur'd grief of millions
Has resounded o'er the earth,
Since the rushing fire-tongued spirit
Of the lightning-wires of thought,
The dark tidings of your death-doom,
To the startled nations brought!
Golden mouth of flowery sweetnessTowering soul of eagle-prideWould to God that, young and glorious,
On the battle-field you'd died
Like a rich tree, full in blossom,
By a lightning-stroke o'erthrown,
Thus you perished in the moment
When your laurels freshest shone!
As a great ship, proudly bounding
O'er the sea's upheaving might,
After braving the red perils
Of a fierce, tempestuous night,
Sinks into a whirling chaos,
While the sunny land smiles near,
So sudden was your dark fate,
And so brave was your career!
Had you fallen in the war-field,
With your splendid flag above,
And your heroed comrades round you,
With the strong pulse of their love,
Then the bounding souls that prized you,
Would do honour to your bier,
With their noble, throbbing bosoms,
And their valour's manly tear;
But an envious, bitter destiny
Denies you to the brave!
They may wail you but they cannot
Drop a tear upon your grave!


415




416         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Were your kindred angels jealous,
Or did they deem it wrong
That you, who spoke so like them
Should remain on earth so long?
Grand and radiant as a meteor,
Was your swift career of light;
Rare and wonderous as a comet,
But as transient and as bright!
Gallant Meagher! glorious chieftain
Of the sword and seraph-tongue I
A dismal cloud has blotted
Thy life-star, so grand and young!
Had you breathed your soul in Erin,
Where your native Suir rolls blueWhat a heart-flood of wild sorrow
Would unseal its depths for you?
And the dark-eyed Decian maidens,
Your sad funeral "caoine" would sing,
And adorn your honoured pillow,
With the sweetest gifts of spring!
Noble, gifted child of Erin,
'Tis for you our grief'would flow,
With a burst of Irish feeling
Which no other hearts could know
In the war-field and the council
Your high spirit was the same,
Enkindling lofty actions,
With the grandeur of its flame!
A mine of shining jewels
Was your rich and racy mind,
That, like a mighty river,
Roll'd its treasures to mankind I
Thro' Erin and Columbia,
Wail ye for our brilliant One!
Another light of beauty
From our country's sphere is gone!
Freedom lost in you a champion
Of exalted worth and power!
And Genius from her living wreath
Has lost its brightest flower!
And Valour from her warrior-ranks
Shall miss your sword of light
That flash'd foremost inihe war-charge,
On the needful day of fightYou are laid, oh, heart of brightness!
Where no freeman, serfoor slave,
Shall e'er disturb the silence
Of your gloomy river-grave!




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


'417


But there's many a splendid memory,
With your glowing name entwined,
And golden is the monument
Your genius left behind!
And glorious are the lessons
Which your kingly spirit taught,
In the felon dock and prison,
And the glorious fights you fought!
Your long exile now is ended;
Your high spirit's gone to join
Your pure and proud compatriots,
Brave MacManus and O'Brien!
THE BATTLE OF CADMUS.* A.D. 1523.
FALL OF TEIGE O'BRIEN, PRINCE OF THOMOND.
THE war-clans were muster'd from mountain and moor,
And they march'd, with their prince, to the banks of the Suir,
Where false Ormond had gather'd his Sassenach band
To harass the Gael, and to plunder the land.
There are flaunting of banners and prancing of steeds,
And waving of spears, like the tall morass-reeds,
And glittering of falchions, whose quick flashes run,
Like the gleaming of waves, in the blaze of the sun.
The wolf-hounds of Butler left blood on their track,
With the marchmen and scouts of the Pale at their back!
But the eagles of Thomond shall teach the brigands
That the spoil they have robb'd is too hot for their hands!
The prince of the Dalgais ascended a height,
Where he mass'd his brave troops in the order of fight,While, threatening his front, from the wide river bank,
Up march'd the bold Saxons, rank surging on rank.
* "When Piers Roe, Earl of Ormond, was created Lord Deputy of Ireland
he immediately commenced hostilities against the Irish chiefs. Torlogh
Donn O'Brien, King of Thomond, sent his sbn, Teige, with an army, to
give Ormond battle, at Oadmus, on the Suir, where the latter had mawe
an English host for the reduction of the country around. Teige who was
an able and intrepid leader, vigorously encountered the English; but press.
ing the battle too eagerly, he fell mortally wounded by a bow-shaft, an
died on the field. His troops returned, ~ith the spoils of the enemy, an
carried the dead body of their Prince, on a bier, to the Palace of Olonroad."
-Annals of Thomond.




418           LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
"Behold!" said the chieftain, "the pirate appears!
Now grasp your broad axes and poise your long spears;
And f any shall fly from my banner to-day,
May the wolves of the hill tear his vitals away!"
As a whirlwind shrieks from the peaks of Slieve Bloom,
When the thunder-fiend roars in his temple of gloom,
So the fierce chief impetuously hurl'd his clan
On the foe, and the war-tempest madly began.
The blue axes quiver-the broadswords flame out,
And the long spears, like fire-snakes of hell, hiss about;
The broken shields fly, and the plumed helmets fall,
Like the crest of a billow swept off by a squall.
As a flashing bolt severs the mountain's brown head,As a blast rives a rock in the quarry's deep bed,SSo the mail'd Saxon phalanx confusedly roll'd back,
Before the steel-surge of the furious attack.
On press'd the fierce Dalgais, like waves to the coast,
With their proud leader towering in front of his host;
And his sword hiss'd and glared, like a night-meteor's gleam,
Shooting out from the mountain-cloud's bosom of flame.
And the brigands were stretch'd in his pathway of blood,
Like the glen's branchy hazels tore down by a flood;
But the chieftain is doomed, ere the combat is o'er,
To return from the red field of glory no more.
For the Butler, behind a tree, bent his steel bow,
And wing'd a barb'd shaft at the breast of his foe;
Thro' "sciath "* and cuirass the forky dart ran,
And stretched the brave prince at the head of his clan.
As a young mountain-beech, in the spring-time cut down,
With a cloud of green buds opening fresh on its crown,
Across the bright hill-side its stately boughs lie,
And its tall crest that late seemed to brush the blue sky.
Thus the beautiful chief lay majestic, while death
Was freeting his veins and suspending his breath;
And his jewell'd locks, dark as the plume of the raven,
Strew'd the dust, like a glorious cloud fallen from heaven.
The voil of the war-fiend was hushed on the field,
And bearti thrill'd with awe, that to danger were steel'd;
The foeman retreated across the blue Suir,
When helearn'd that Thomond's young prince was no more.
* A wicker shield.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             419
With bow'd heads and clench'd teeth the gather'd clan stood
As silent as trees when the blast leaves the wood;
Proud souls melted down, that ne'er melted before,
And their dark-eagle eyes, with the grief-rain gushed o'er.
Then he wrench'd from his bosom the cold stinging dart,
And held back, with his hand, the hot stream of his heart;
And spoke to his troops, who in sorrow stood by,
While the darkness of death gather'd cold on his eye.
" I am fallen in my youth, and the years of my pride!
For my country I die, as my brave fathers died!
The sun of my fame in its May-time has set,
But unman not my heart with your bootless regret!
" Go-gather the spoils of your insolent foe,
That the people of Thomond your conquest may know,
And proclaim thro' the land that O'Brien's high son
Died in front of his host, when the victory was won.
" On a bier, to Clonroad, let my body be borne,
While the bards chant my dirge on your lonely return!
And tell my gray sire, in his high palace-hall,
That I fell as a Prince of the Dalgais should fall!
" Lay the cross on my bosom, and place on my bier,
At my right and left hand, my blue falchion and spear!
Farewell!"  And the last vital gush of his breast
Ebb'd out while his last word was faintly express'd.
Oh'! fierce was the agonised wail of his clan,
As they closed round their dead prince, man pressing on man;
They kissed his cold hand and they clasp'd his dead form,
And shriek'd out their grief, like the groan of a storm.
The red sun is set, and the death-pall is made,
And the corpse of the chief on the dark bier is laid;
But while thro' the eve-mist they carried that bier,
The voice of their sorrow was awful to hear.
Now rising in wrath, like the bleak desert-gale,
Then dying away, like the breeze of the vale;
For their anguish, with passion's wild vehemence, flung
The cry of their souls into desolate song.
THE CLAN'S DIRGE.
THEY bore him along, on a black-pall'd bier,
From the red field where he fell;'
At the warrior's side lay his blood-stained spear,
And his falchion of Spanish steel;




420          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Around him his drooping banners hung,
While his clan march d slow behind;
Three white-robed bards his requiem sang,
Like the wail of the mountain-wind.
Wrath and grief in each face appeared,
As the dead was borne along,
And murmur'd vows of rage were heard
In each pause of the wild death-song.
THE BARDS.
"Lay the sacred cross on our young chief's breast
While his people around him weep,
And bear him away to his place of rest,*
Where his royal fathers sleep.
No blood shall be shed till his princely head
Is laid on his pillow of dust,
Then, down on the Butler, like lightning red,
Let the flame of your vengeance burst!"
THE CLAN.
"We are laden with spoils, but poor are they,
For our bosoms are dark with griefAll the spoils of Ormond would never pay
For the blood of our high, young chief.
But these fiery spears, in our wrathful grasp,
At the heart of his gloomy foe
Shall strike, like the sting of the angry wasp,
And blood for blood shall flow."
THE BARDS.
"Erin's friend, and Thomond's pride,
Lies cold on his bier to-day;
Clonroad's young eagle, lightning-eyed,
Is a breathless mass of clay.
He lay on the field, with his proud breast riven,
And his soul, thro' his blue eyes bright,
Look'd up at the golden orbs of heaven,
Ere it soared to those spheres of light."
THE CLAN.
"No more shall the splendour of his shield
Be seen in the battle-van;
No more to the toils of the red war-field
Shall he lead his warrior-clan!
In his father's hall, in future days,
His conquering sword shall rust,
While the hand that whirl'd its lightning-blaze
Lies withering in the dust!"
* The Abbey of Ennis was, for centuries, the burial-place of the prineen
of Thomond.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.            421
THE BARDS.
"We knew that the angel of death was nigh
The steps of our princely one;
For we saw the clouds, in the dawn's gray sky,
Melt in blood rings around the sun!
And the raven came, with a low, hoarse croak,
From the old cairn's misty height!
And the Banshee cried, by the mossy oak,
Near the skirt of the camp, last night!"
THE CLAN.
"The Saxon host, by the dark-blue Suir,
Before him vanish'd away,
As wild birds fly from the wintry moor,
When the eagle swoops down for prey;
But, while on the rout of the flying foe,
Our bright-hair'd chieftain press'd,
A death-shaft leapt from the Butler's bow,
And sank in his brave young breast!"
THE BARDS.
"Accurst be the Butler! scorn and hate,
Like hill-clouds darken his name!
Black-hearted and false to our Church and StateMay he sink to his grave in shame!
May the shadow of death never leave his door,
And dogs drink blood in his hall,
And the red dew of murder paint his floor,
Till his house, with a curse, shall fall!"
THE CLAN.
"God's lightning strike his dark eyes dead,
And wither his treacherous hand
May the waters of sorrow wet the bread
That he eats in our bleeding land!
May the ghost of famine stand in his way,
And the fiend of the fever red
Scorch his brains, with the plague-fire, night and day,
Till they melt in his burning head!"
THE BARDS.
"May rank dews, like drops from a poison bowl,
Blast and blacken his burial sod!
And the stains of murder reek on his soul,
When it flies before its God!
And our nation's curse, like a thunder-cloud,
Between him and mercy loom,
Till no ray of heaven can pierce the shroud
Of its deep and ternal gloom 1"




422        LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


THE CLAN.
"Warriors, bear our dead eagle slow,
To his father's high palace back;
Carry him slow, and curse his foe,
Till your tongues with the curse grow black!
Heaven hath no balm, nor earth no peace,
For the sorrow of Torlogh Donn,
When the gray chief shall see the cold, white face
Of the corpse of his noble son!"
TH E BARDS.
"The blue-fork'd lighning spares the reeds,
But shatters the mighty oak,
Thus the blue-eyed son of qur chieftain bleeds
By an ambush'd foeman's stroke!
The tears of sorrow, in Desmond's hall,
Like the night-cloud's drops shall descend,
When the chief shall hear of the early fall
Of his valiant and princely friend 1"
THE CLAN.
"The wild heart wail of his people's woe
To the throne of heaven shall surge,
And a curse for the hand that laid him low,
Shall float up on the pealing dirge!
Dark-eyed women, with milk-white hands,
Shall dress his funeral bed!
While stern-soul'd men shall whet their brands
To avenge the noble dead!"
THE BARDS.
"Clansmen, lay down the prince's bier,
And around, in a; circle, kneel!
With cross'd hands touch the warrior's spear,
And swear, by its purple steel,
That, ere the first blade shall drink the dew
Of spring, on his grave's red clay,
Your vengeance shall wipe the murder-hue
Of our young chief's blood away!"
* He formed an alliance with the Earl lof Desmond and O'Neill of Tyrone against the Butlers and the English interests. He was twenty-two
years of age when he fell. Tradition states that for personal courage, noble
deeds, and high-spirited chivalry he promised to outshine some of the most
illustrious of his predecessors.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


423


THE BEAUTIES OF DROMOLAND.*
A MOONLIGHT PICTURE.
Respectfully inscribed to the Right Hon. Edward Donogh,
Lord Inchiquin.
ONE calm November even',
When the white moon hung in heaven,
And the lonely hour of seven
By the solemn clock was told;
At that beautiful and bright time
Of the growing winter night time,
I wander'd 'mid the white rime'
Of Dromoland's lawns of gold.
One soul, whose kinared feeling
To my own was fondly stealing,
Moved gently, with me, hailing
The gray glory of the scene,
Where Art, like some strict teacher
Of a lovely wayward creature,
Imparted to wild Nature
The adornments of a queen.
I have seen, in visions airy,
Isles and palaces of Fairy,
Till my dazzled soul grew weary
Of the magic-teeming sight;
But a scene of scenes enchanted,
By fays or spirits haunted,
Or by god-like Genius painted,
I beheld it on that night.
Lake and hill-crest, moonlight-bathed,
Bower and forest, silver-wreathed,
Lawn and vista, weirdly shaded
By their glistening sylvan screens:
Royal oaks the paths embowering;
Ivied elms gigantic towering;
Fairy knolls, with dew-buds flowering
On their fragrant evergreens.
Mighty ash-woods, lightning-branded,
Like great Brian's army banded,
Strong, tall, and giant-handed,
On Clontarf's immortal fieldThe stars, like spear-points seeming,
O'er their branchy helms are gleamnng
While the moon m front is beaming,
SLike great Morogh's fiery shield.
* The mapnifcent Palace of Dromoland was built by Sir Edward O'Brien,
the grandfather of the present Lord Inchiquin.




424          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
White birch and hoary linden,
On the golden hill-sides bending,
With the mighty beech are blending
Their grand shadows' silvery blue:
Tassell'd fir and drooping willow
Show their dank crests, dark and yellow,
O'er the valley's ferny hollow,
Streaked with pearly lines of dew.
The circling hill-tops muster,
In many a vapoury cluster,
Curling plumes of snowy lustre,
In the moon's reposing beam;
And, with breathless stealth, the winter
Comes, the beauteous shades to enter,
While calm summer, in their centre,
On her green couch seems to dream.
Snow-white walk and mist-fring'd alley,
Cluster'd bower and glowing valley,
Where bronzed laurel and bright holly
Their immortal wreaths unite;
Shadowy glades, with gold moss spangled,
Gloom-capp'd groves, in darkness tangled,
Their weird spirit-pictures mingled
In a silver frame of light.
All in solemn grandeur sleepingHeaven's pearls the lawns are steepingMisty shapes, like thin ghosts, weeping,
In the white beams float aroundNo ethereal breath is blowingGod's golden fires are glowing,
Their diamond-splendours showing
In the Lake's blue heart profound.
And the noble palace-structurePride of kingly architectureFrames its calm, majestic picture
In the crystal-sheeted Lake;
No cloud its sheen is dimming-.No breeze-wraith o'er it skimming,
Save where the wild duck, swimming,
Its deep-azure slumbers break.
And the lordly towers seem heighten'dBy the moonbeams' glory whiten'dAs if magic grandeur brighten'd
Their imperial fronts of stone;
f




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And their regal summits splendid,
With the blue of heaven seem blended,
While from their halls ascended
Music's golden seraph-tone.
House of Brian's proud descendants!
In whose halls of rich resplendence,
Guests, strangers, and dependents,
Find good cheer and plenteous fare;
For those proud halls yet inherit
Courteous hearts and noble merit,
And the hospitable spirit
Of old Thomond still is there.
In those halls' palacious splendour,
Erin's patriot-defender
Pass'd his young days, bright and tender,
'Mid the storied hills of Clare;
And tho' fortune had assign'd him
Every joy that wealth could find him,
He left them all behind him,
Poor Ireland's griefs to share.
Mighty-hearted, princely-mindedBy no self-devotion blindedBut he felt he was descended
From a royal Irish line;
And when Erin's woes grew double,
Still he strove to soothe her troubleSOh, the noblest of the noble
Was your spirit, Smith O'Brien!
Deep he drank the poison-chalice
Of despotic tyrant-malice,
Since he left a radiant palace
For a dreary felon cell;
But no love of life could win him
From the fate that frown'd again' him,
For the proud old blood was in him,
And he loved his country well.
Alas! that in Rathronan
He slumbers low and lone on
Death's couch, with the cold stone on
His bosom, once so bright.
But mortal life is fleetingYet glad would be our meeting,
And kind would be his greeting,
If he were here to-night.


425


28




426         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
YOUNG ANNIE.
YoUNG Annie's lips are red
As the rich vermilion-dye
By the glowing sunrise shed
On the borders of the sky.
Like the flax-flower's azure hue,
In the May-field's shaded light,
Beams her eye's resplendent blue
'Neath her fair brow, lily-white.
Knoc-Feirin has no fay,
On its red-bell'd heather sweet,
That could lighter skip away
On a whiter pair of feet,
Than young Annie, when she glides
'Mid the daughters of the town,
Like a sygnet on the tide's
Milky foam-specks drifting down.
The willow on the strand,
With soft, downy germs lined,
Dancing o'er the yellow sand
To the music of the wind,
In its airy summer dress,
With the sunshine's beauty warm,
Hath the graceful slenderness
Of young Annie's foot and form.
Have ye mark'd, when May-eve's hour
Reddens Cratloe's mountain-crown,
The gentle primrose-flower
On the banks of AvondounWhen around the scented plains,
And the crystal arch of space,
A calm, fairy sweetness reigns?'Tis the type of Annie's face!
Have ye seen the airy threads
Of the light gossamer play
In the zephyrs of the meads,
On a sunny harvest day?
So the wavy silken-cluster
Of young Annie's soft brown hair,
Flings its cloud of shaded lustre
O'er her waxen shoulders fair.
When, a little blue-eyed one,
With the wild May-flowers she play'd,
The Fairy Queen look'd on,
From a haw-tree's blossom'd shade:




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
With a fix'd, admiring gaze,
On the tiny girl she smiled,
And she whisper'd to her fays,
"Harm not this gentle child!"
THE BUTTERFLY.
FAIR child of the May-beamsSweet nursling of springWith the dyes of the sunbow
All rich on thy wing!
How pleasant's thy flight
O'er the field's glowing sod,
Where blossoms are bright
With the painting of God!
Now circling and playing
Around the lusmore,
Where'the willows are swaying
Along the green shoreNow careless and easy,
You're floating away,
O'er the bank where the daisy
Glows white in the ray.
Now up where the sweet brier
Is scenting the hedge;
Now down where the gold flower
Glows bright in the sedge;
Now off o'er the plain low
You flutter and sail,
Like a piece of a rainbow
Afloat on the gale.
Now into the green retreat,
Where the white plumes
Of the odorous meadow-sweet
Waste their perfumesNow on the red ring
Of the glowing hedge-rose,
For a moment thy wing
Is laid down in repose.
Soft airs, like a gush
Of sweet laughter, awaken,
And from the green bush,
Like a blossom, you're shaken0.


427




428          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Now round the bright leaves
Of the thorn you play;
Now o'er the green waves
Of the corn you stray.
Now down to the gold-ridge
Of rag-weed you go;
Now up to the old hedge,
Where blossoms the sloeNow where the grove's skirt
Spreads its shadowy bars,
Like a snow-flake, you flirt
O'er the furze's yellow stars.
Then off by the river,
Along the bare strand,
Thy gaudy wings quiver
Above the brown sandNow back to the meadow
You're skimming again,
Where the poplar's blue shadow ~
Is dimming the plain.
You see a fair sister
At rest in the bower,
Where a heaven-ray kiss'd her
To sleep on a flower;
Around her you hoverShe 'wakens to greet you,
With the joy of a lover,
She rises to meet you.
Ye sport 'round the blossom,
Impearl'd with spray;
Ye perch on its bosomThen part, and awayAgain you are wandering,
All wildly, alone,
O'er the bright field meandering,
High up, and low down.
On the fox-glove's red ringlets
There's not a rich dye
But is fann'd by thy winglets,
And scann'd by thine eye'Till on its blue crest,
With thy pinions reclined,
In the sunbeam, you rest,
Gently rock'd by the wind,




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
But short is thy stay
On that flower's purple throne;
Like a star-glance, away
To the bank-side you're gone;
Now brushing the gemlets
That shine on the grass;
Now over the streamlet's
Brown margin you pass,
Now airily skimming
The river's breast wide,
Where the foam-specks are swimming
Adown the blue tide.
In the water's clear brightness,
Thy image of snow,
On its pinions of whiteness,
Is fluttering below,
You stoop down to play,
With the bright-miraged thing,
But the stream's shining spray
Clogs thy delicate wingAh! radiant-robed creature!
Thy wanderings are o'er!
The glory of Nature
Shall feast you no more I
Your pinions, all golden,
In tints heaven gave,
Are now ruthlessly holding
You fast to your grave!
Bright child of the meadow
And sweet floral-glade,
By your own silly shadow
You're sadly betray'd!
Thus, flies of humanityEarly or lateBeauty and vanity,
Such is your fate!
With butterfly motion
You flutter about,
By your own silly notion
Puffd up and let out!
Pride marches before you,
In fashion's gay flare,
Poor foplings adore you,
And nincompoops stareYour silken vest covers
A heart dead as stone,
And the hearts of your lovers
Are false as your own!


429




130            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
From pleasure to pleasure,
In vice you descend,
'Till your vanity's measure
Is brought to an endThe halls you resorted,
'Mid pomp's hollow glare,
And the world, where you sported,
Forget you were there!
THE SILVER BELLS.*
A LEGEND OF ST. MARY'S CATHEDRAL.
THE bright-red even' is purpling o'er
The golden summits of Cappantimore,
And the dark-blue Shannon is rolling down
By the war-cleft ramparts of Limerick town.
There roams no zephyr on bank or shoreThe hills are hazed and the plains are hoar;
And the moss-clad bridge, with its rocky chain
Of hurl-built arches, lay o'er the tide,
And its brown shadow rusted the silver plain.
Of the sweeping current from side to side;
While the sunset cloudlets seem'd to diffuse,
In the river's crystal, their diamond hues,
As if spirits were lining its bed below,
With the glistening dyes of the showery bow.
On bank and mead, town, turret, and wood,
A calm, like the charm of dreamland, dwells,
And nothing is heard but the hoarse-toned flood,
And the golden chime of St. Mary's bells,
Whose melody, at that glorious hour,
Fill'd, with thrilling sweetness, the charm'd air,
S  As if angel-harps, from the grand church-tower,
Flung out the rich soul of a love hymn there!
*The popular tradition, here illustrated, states that on the night before
the " Reformers" took possession of St. Mary's Cathedral, the Friars
carried off thirteen silver bells and hid them in a deep part of the abbey
river. Those bells were presented to the church by the Irish princes and
lords of the surrounding districts. It is believed that the locality in which
those sacred treasures are deposited is a secret transmitted from age to
age by the d members of the saintly order to their successors. There is
a liend 4f, e present bells, and it relates how they were conveyed to
the Limerick Cathedral from  a church in Italy, at a time when that
country was convulsed with revolution, but when peace was restored, the
founder of those. bells sailed from port to port of Europe in search of
them; at last he entered the river Shannon, and, when nearing Limerick,
the full chime of his beloved bells was borne on the wind to his ear1 and,
overpowered with the excessive joy of hearing their solemn, plaintive
meoled, he expired on the deck of the ship.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Ring on, sweet bells! 'tis the last Mass-chime
O   our fairy music that mortal ears
Shall hear, thro' the shadowy mist of time,
In this ancient town, for three hundred yearsTo-morrow the spoiler's hand shall hold
The sacred keys of the holy place;
And its altars, yellow with virgin-gold,
Shall be levell'd down to the very baseCensor, chalice, cross, bell, and bead,
As evil things, shall be cast away,
And the saintly priests of God's heaven-taught creed
Shall be hunted out, like wild beasts of prey.
At midnight, in the pillar'd church,
The last immaculate Mass was said;
In chancel, sanctuary, aisle, and porch,
The living knelt o er the silent deadThe tapers, from the grand altar, threw
Their golden lines on the columns dim,
And the choir responded, while Friar Hugh
Sang the holy Virgin's glorious hymn"Sancta Maria!" pealed along
The lofty aisles, with majestic swell,
And the sacred notes of that holy song
Thrill'd arch and roof, with their heavenly spell;
And the people wept, with a passion strong,
As the hymn on their ears, like a blessing, came,
For they knew that her temple would soon belong
To a foreign creed that abhorr'd her name.
Her image look'd down from its altar-throne,
In the living glow of her virgin-charms,
And Jesus, the Saviour, her infant Son,
Reposed in the heaven of her sacred armsAve Maria! Mother of Love!
How glorious in heaven thy state must be,
Since the Great Infinite left the worlds above,
To dwell in thy womb and be born of thee!
Magnificent Queen!-Empyrean Rose
Of Eternal Sweetness! thy name shall be
Heaven's golden honey in the mouths of those
Whose hearts love Jesus and honour thee!
White flower in the bosom of God serene!
The virgins their canticles round thee singOh, the heart that's estranged from so good a Queen,
Feels no true love for so great a King I
The congregation has gone away,
In tears, from the aisles of the holy fane,
With the priests' benediction, the last that they
Shall ever receive in those aisles again.


431




432          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
'Twas a gloomy hour of sorrow and fearMild right was crush'd by remorseless wrongQuiet doves must fly when fierce hawks are near,
So the weak must ever succumb to the strong.
The Friars around the high altar stood;
Oh! keen was the pang of their anguish then'Twould melt the heart and curdle the blood
To see the mute grief of those holy men,
Some bow'd their heads on the altar-steps,
And wet the cold stones with their heart-tears there;
Some stood erect, with their marble lips
Turn'd up to the Virgin, in ardent prayer.
And the morning's radiance would have shone
On that scene of sorrow and desolate fear,
But Friar John, in a calm, low tone,
Cried, " Rise, oh brothers! the dawn is near;
Haste! take from the altars each sacred thing,
And hide it from the hand of blood;
Soon the beastly crest of a godless king
Shall stand in the place where the Holy One stood!
But where shall we hide our Silver Bells,
From the greed of those merciless sons of prey?Under those aisles there are dreary cells
Which never shall see the glance of day!
Yet those cells are not gloomy and deep enow.
To conceal our bells from the robbers' greed;
But down in the Abbey river below
There are caverns cloak'd by the dead man's weed;
Fathoms beneath the miry plains
Those caverns were work'd by the currents drear,
And the demon-spirits of the red-haired Danes,
Who channell'd that river, are dwelling there.*
The fishermen shun its haunted gloom,
When the night-stars glare on its cloudy waves,
For many a mortal has found a tomb
In the treacherous jaws of its fearful caves!
There shall we hide our Silver BellsThere they'll be safe from the spoilers' greedDeep in the river's Plutonian cells,
As false and as black as the Norseman's creed!'"
Down from the Altar the sacred things,
Of gold and silver the Friars tookThe pious presents of Chiefs and KingsCross, Chalice, Image and Holy BookThe tabernacle, with jewels rich,
From its golden frame-work they tore away,
SIt is traditionally believed that the Abbey river was sunk by the Danes
to fortify ancient Limerick. This river has become notorious on account
of the number of men and boys who have, from year to year, been drowned
there. Some people think that it was made by the old Dominican Friars.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


433


And the Virgin's bust from its hallow'd niche,
Where the Infant God on her bosom layTwo by two, thro' the western door,
The priests their sacred burdens bore,
And, as they pass'd from the tall-arch'd fane,
A sheet of lightning, as bright as day,
Smash'd the high altar-window, sash and pane,
And the dead seem'd to sob in their beds of clayRound roof and steeple the dull wind moan'd,
Like a troubled ghost, and the flood shriek'd loud
O'er Curracour's rocks, and the thunder groan'd,
Like a wounded lion, in the low-hung cloud.
Round chancel, monument, nave, and aisle,
A dismal sound, like a spirit's wail,
Throbb'd away thro' the gloom, and the mighty pile
Shook, like a tree in the midnight gale.
The massive bells in the steeple swung,
To and fro, on their ponderous oaken beams,
And their awful tinklings suddenly rung,
And sullenly ceased, like dying screams.
Down to the Abbey river's shore,
The Silver Bells the cowl'd brethren bore;
They loosen'd a boat from the bank's wet side,
To drop the Bells in the central tideThe waters raved, like a sick man's brain,
And the wind, like a Banshee, cried o'er the plain,
And the lightnings came, with a purple gleam,
From their halls of flame in the clouds o'erhead,
And they shot here and there, thro' the troubled air,
Like hissing bars flung from a forge-fire redWhile the thunder's boom, thro' the inky gloom,
Of the pitch-black heavens roll'd, muttering on,
As if the great God thro' the dark clouds trod,
Proclaiming his wrath against fallen man.
Out from the shore, without helm or oar,
The boat was toss'd at the waves' wild will,
'Till over the deep, where the dead weeds sleep,
As if chain'd in the water, the boat stood still.
One by one,
The Bells are gone,
Like things of stone
To the bottom thrown;
And the river grew fierce as a demon's frown,
While the holy Bells thro' its depths sank down.
Loud and long the Friars pray'dFervent and fast were the prayers they said:
" Ave Maria!-Mother blest I
No robber's hand shall thy Bells profane;
Here shall they rest in the river's breast,
Till thy holy fane be restored again I




434            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Ave Maria!-glorious Bride
Of the Holy Spirit that with thee dwells!
Let thy power preside o'er this dreary tide,
To guard thy sacred Silver Bells!"
MANNIX THE COINER.
AIR.-" Mullins the Barber /"
The name of Mannix the Coiner has achieved an almost immortal notoriety in the county Clare, not only for his ready art of producing the
needful, but for his reckless exploits and hair-breadth escapes. He was one
of the wildest characters in Ireland, and led a roving, rollicking life about
the country. His physical strength, active vigour, and swiftness of foot,
were unrivalled. For years he was watched, tracked and chased, by the
police, but he successfully eluded their vigilance, and frequently outstripped their swiftest runners in the pursuit, and he was often seen to
clear walls, seven and eight feet high, at a single bound. He was, at one
time, captured while sleeping in a barn, and conveyed to Limerick jail,
but he managed to escape by cutting the bars of his cell window, which
overlooked the Shannon; those bars. he cut by the agency of aqua fortis,
which was conveyed to him by his wife, who was a elever and accomplished
woman, and was as well skilled in the financial craft as himself. He got
out of the jail at midn:ght, and also effected the liberation of a comradeprisoner, who broke his leg in leaping from the cell-window, but Mannix
forded the river and brought a boat from the opposite side, by which he
carried his disabled companion to the north strand, and from thence bore
him on his back to a place of safety, four or five miles distant in the
country. He at last made his exit to America, where he died in 1840. The
incident illustrated in the following ballad really happened -
MANNIX the Coiner and Neville the PiperRebels and outlaws, jolly as thrushes;
They lived in a Lane where they had a great reign
Of piping and coining, and drinking like fishes.
Neville he swore, with wild fury,
That Mannix should share with him half the prog;.
Then Mannix jump'd up, in a hurry,
And sent off the wife for a gallon of grog.:' Well done!" said the piper; " Play up!" said the coiner,
v"We've gold in our pockets and grog on the brain!
e' k sw and the gallows are made in the palace,
While we, who defy them, rejoice in the Lane!"
When the grog was brought in, they soon swigg'd it,
Arn Neville then rasp'd up another gay tune,
And bold Mannix merrily jigg'd it,
As brisk as a bee in the meadows of June;
' Well done!" said the piper-'" Play up!" said the coiner,
"We are the boys that can live everywhere!
%ife, without fun, is like Spring without sunSo we'll flash it away, and the devil may care!"::' Those guineas--whoever may take 'emAre but flying tokens to worldly fools lent,
And I am the boy that can make em,
As bright as e'er came from the Sassenach mint I"




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.                 435
"Well done!" said the piper-" Play up!" said the coiner,
"My golden character I'll always maintain!
And, compared with the schemers who rule and befool us,
We're real honest men and good boys in the Lane P"
Then Mannix put fire to his grisset,
And out of his mould he shook many a shiner,
But ere he had time to impress it,
In roll'd the peelers and snaffled the coiner.
So there was an end to the piping and coining,
And a ruction was kick'd up, but no one was slain"I'm done!" said the coiner-" Cheer up!" said the piper,
"Fortune will favour the brave in the Lane!"
"We have you, at last!" cried the peelers,
"Tho' many a day we have chased you in vain!"
"Then!" said Mannix, "your dungeons and jailors
May all be high hang'd-and farewell to the Lane!"
Then off ran the coiner, and loud laugh'd the piper,
As his friend disappear'd thro' night's darkness and rain;
Like a shaft from a quiver, he plung'd o'er the river,
And left the bold peelers befool'd in the Lane.
THE BARD AND THE SHANNON.
A DRAMATIC BALLAD.
AIB.-" The Young May Moon P"
The following discourse took place between the author and the genius of
the river Shannon, concerning the embankment of a portion of the waste
shore of that mighty stream, which he was about to reclaim and add, 6 a
valuable piece of land, to his garden. After seven years  the most psevering and excessive labour, the extraordinary work
having put, with his own hands, thousands of tons of stoe
terial into it to fill the chasm anresist the strong up
the rapid down-coming winter f11d!. But after all his
building for himself a handsome n*  house-which he ca
Cottage, and after all his weary time and hard toil in convertig
shore to a useful and beautiful garden-he was forced to give up the
disgusted with domestic ingratitude and deceit, cheated by mc e
trickery, and finally made the victim of legal treachery and defraud. This
interesting little place is on the north-western shore of the Shannon,
bordering the ancient church land of St. Leila, surrounded by a pleasing
scenery of mountain, meadow, and woodland, teeming with  sri lore
and legendary tradition, with which the author, since his boyhood, im
been well acquainted by untiring study.
THE BARD.
"YOuR dominions are ample and grand, my lord I
And rm wanting a small bit of land, my lord!
So, between me and you, the least you may do
Is to give me a slice of your strand, my lord!"




436        LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


THE SHANNON.
"You must have a strong purse and strong hand, my bard!
To come at a slice of my strand, my bard
For the dash of my tide, in its glory and pride,
Would level your work with the sand, my bard!"
THE BARD.
"I have no strong purse but a will, my lord I
Strong enough my designs to fulfill, my lord!
If I had a strong purse I'd soon turn your force
To the working of many a mill, my lord!"
THE SHANNON.
"If you're set on invading my shore, my bard!
To embark half an acre or more, my bard!
Some wild night or day, 'twill be all swept away,
When my mad flood, with storms, shall roar, my bard!"
THE BARD.
"In summer-time, while you're asleep, my lord!
I'll build my banks, heap upon heap, my lord!
Then, in winter-time bleak, when in wrath you awake,
I'll laugh at your torrent's wild sweep, my lord!"
THE SHANNON.
" When my mountain-reserves shall come down, my bard!
With thick foam on their bosoms so brown, my bard!
While they leap, in their might, like war-horses in fight,
You'll wish you kept threshing the town, my bard!"
THE BARD.
PU meet them with ramparts like brass, my lord!
on let them roll backward or pass, my lord!
Or leap to and fro, with their war-plumes of snow,
As they leap round your throne at Doonass,* my lord!"
THE SHANNON.
"Do you deem it a shame or a wrong, my bard!
To turn your heart from sweet song, my bard,
And to stop my brave flood with your stone banks and mud?
But, by G--, I'll not leave them there long! my bard!"
* Alluding to the Falls of Doonass, which, when the river is highly
flooded, especially in the winter season, present a grand and terrific appearance. See a poem on this great cascade at page 91.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


437


THE BARD.
"I know you broke up Corconree,* my lord!
On which there were thousands spent free, my lord!
But, faith, if I were an engineer there,
You'd not find such a sea-gull in me, my lord 1"
THE SHANNON.
"Go bask in the Muses' sweet smile, my bard!
And don't mind reclaiming this soil, my bard I
Or you'll find that, by-and-by, some one else will enjoy
The fruit of your honest hard toil, my bard!"
THE BARD.
"For my country I sung, night and day, my lord I
And many a legend and lay, my lord!
Have I moulded and read for a people that's dead,
And misfortune and fraud were my pay, my lord!"
THE SHANNON.
"Still throw your song's seed in their mind, my bard!
And in the greatfuture you'll find, my bard!
That more rich fruit will spring from the verses you sing,
Than yourfight with my wild waves and wind, my bard I"
THE BARD.
"Industry's a noble, fine thing, my lord!
And my Muse shall be still on the wing, my lord!
I'm delighted to toil at reclaiming your soil,
And, while I'm at work, I can sing, my lord!"
THE SHANNON.
"I feel mighty thankful to thee, my bard I
For the songs you have sung about me, my bard!
As you stray'd by the side of my bright sunny tide,
Like the sky-bird, as fond and as free, my bard!"
THE BARD.
"I love your sweet banks and rich bowers, my lord!
For my soul drank the bloom of their flowers, my lord I
Inspiration I drew from your majesty blue,
And was drunk with your glory, for hours, my lord!"
* Corconree embankment, near Limerick, where the work of reclamation
was so repeatedly swept away by the fury of the tides that three able contractors were made bankrupts before the enterprise was sucoessfully conpleted. The active genius of William Corbett, Esq., C.E., brought matters
to a satisfactory issue.




438        LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


THE SHANNON.
" While you're toiling and singing your song, my bard I
Take care that your work won't be wrong, my bard!
For it must be right good to resist my brave flood,
Well you know it is desperate and strong, my bard!"
THE BARD.
'I have reason to know it right well, my lord
And 'tis I your wild humours can tell, my lord!
For oft', from your waves, surging up from your caves,
I saw people running pell-mell, my lord!"
THE SHANNON.
'trin make my wild surges give room, my bard!
To the work which you plan or presume, my bard!
And you're skilful and brave, from the weed and the wave,
To raise up a garden of bloom, my bard!"
THE BARD.
" I'll make it a sweet little spot, my lord!
To adorn the rear of my cot, my lord!
But, whate'er way it ends, we'll sure be good friends,
And the devil a fear you'll be shot, my lord!", THE SHANNON.
* Beware of your friends-they are mean, my bard!
And as hungry as vultures for gain, my bard!
This warning, pray take, or some morning you'll wake
To find all your labour in vain, my bard!"
THE BARD.
SI am grateful to Nature and you, my lord!
For all that I think, dare, and do, my lord!
And you'll long think of me when this garden shall be
" A green wreath on your vesture so blue, my lord!"
THE BARD'S FAREWELL TO THE SHANNON.
On the day before the author gave up possession of " Thomond Cottage,"
January 14, 1879, he advanced to the pier, raised by his own labour, during
seven yeads, at the end of his garden, where the following mutual ' Farewell' took place between himself and the Genius of the river Shannon.
BARD.
"',THOu azure lord of mighty floods!
I leave thy vernal scenes to-day;
From thy bright billows, banks, and woods,
By foul injustice driven away.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
No more my singing heart shall hail
Thy autumn charms and wintry glooms;
And spring preparing grove and vale
To nurture summer's coming blooms."
RIVER.
"Why would'st thou go?-My fairy fields
Rich beauty to thy heart supplied,
And all the sweets that Nature yields,
Thy spirit, with a hymn, enjoy'dOr are those scenes which largely gave
Thy life enchantment, grown less fair?
Or dost thou all their treasures leave
For inspiration's feast elsewhere?
BARD.
"Oft on thy misty moonlight shoreThou foam-clad lord of rushing streams,
I lay beside the torrent's roar,
All wrapt in wild romantic dreams;
The golden stories of the Past,
My warbling spirit turned to song,
While mingling with the nightly blast,
Thy raving billows dash'd along."
RIVER.
"I saw thee on the breezy lea,
I saw thee by the lonely grove,
Where sweetheart Nature flung to thee
Her pleasant wreaths of song and love;
And, sure, you will not leave her now?Her glorious, gushing spring is near,
When bank and bower, and bird and bough
Shall pour their spells on eye and ear. "
BARD.
"I never dream'd from thee to part,
Until the warning came too lateAnd then I read, with freezing heart,
The iron edict of niy fate.
Let worldlings hug their sordid stor--
But all I ask'd of God on high,
Is that I'd never leave thy shore,
Till on thy floral banks I'd die 1"
RIVER.
" Strange, stern, and evil is the doomThe deed deserves eternal blameThat tears thee from thy new-made home,
Which looks so stately on my stream;


439




440          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
But who has undermined thee there,
And driven thee from my airy side,
And bloom-bower which thy labouring care
Has fix'd so sweetly in my tide?"
BARD.
"Alas! oh, grief! I blush to tell
It was no stranger did the deed,
But 'twas the friends I trusted well,
That struck my heart and made it bleed!
By life-long pains it was my pride,
For them a beauteous home to win,
But while I fondly toiled outside,
I was betrayed by those within!"
RIVER.
"Yes, many a morning, bright and dark,
I saw thee labouring on my shore,
While roll'd the anthem of the lark
My purple-sheeted bosom o'erAnd now is sorrow thy reward,
For all thy love and labour brave?
The gloomy hearts that wrong'd thee, bard,
Are darker than my deepest cave!"
BARD.
" Ah, 'tis the sad mysterious way
Which those we love oft work us woe;
And one who smiles our friend to-day,
To-morrow frowns, a deadly foe;
We cannot see the future drear,
Where hidden lurks our grief or joy;
The world is but one mighty snare,
And nothing there is worth a sigh."
RIVER.
" Thank Heaven, I'm not of mortal strain
To feel the wrongs, the wounds and woes,
Of which so justly you complain,
Inflicted by your friendly foes.
But could I be of human form,
I would return with rapture free,
The glowing admiration warm
That thrills thy burning soul for me."
BARD.
When on thy shores the floral cup
Of summer's gems is pour'd by spring;
And God calls all his sky-birds up
Around his gates of light to sing;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             441
I'll not be near to join the choir,
I'll not be there to love the flowers;
To hear God's universal lyre,
To kiss the buds and twine the bowers."
RIVER.
"When spring with emerald pencil comes
To touch my glowing landscapes wide;
Amid her myriad gushing blooms
I'll miss thee from my radiant side;
When bursts the bud and hums the bee
In Mona's sunny meadows fair!
I'll miss thee from the vernal lea,
While soulless serfs are wandering there."
BARD.
SNo more thy banks shall gem my feet,
When summer mists along them roll,
While Nature in the rising heat,
Is laughing out her flowery soul.
In the dim city's heart of stone,
'Mid fraud and sin I'm forced to dwell,
Like waif from thy bright waters thrownThou lord of Erin's streams! Farewell!"
THE BATTLE OF DYSERT.
A.D. 1318.
DE CLARE assembled all his troops in wild Bunratty's glade,
And thrice three thousand reckless men for battle stand arSray'd;
For to maintain his sinking power against the dread Clan Tail
The desperate chief again must try the eloquence of steel.
And all the bold adventurers from England'iftfj hores
Who worm'd themselves in Thomond's soil, have   lM2~ t is
martial corps;
And many an Irish traitor in his guilty host is seen,
Wretches who for the foreign Red exchanged their native
Green.
A thousand vigorous war-steeds in refulgent harness shone,
Like evening clotds in golden range around the Day King'
throne;..
And proudly were those steeds bestrode by cavalier and knight,
Witlh spears and plnues, and girded swordse and corselets broad
and bright.
29




442          LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
And gazing on the mustering troops the Castle-portal near,
Stood bold De Clare's haughty wife, with her imperious air;
While, at her high behest, her vassals went from line!to line,
And served the thirsty soldiers with large bowls of Rhenish
wine.
Then turning to her steel-clad lord and her majestic son,
On whose bright cheek young manhood's down its silken
growth begun;
While knight and squire respectful in her queenly presence
stand,
Each listening, with his helmet doff'd, and broadsword raised
in hand.
"My lord of high Bunratty! this great day's important toil
Must soon extend or end our claim to Thomond's dangerous
soil;
Ye go-may heaven nerve your hearts-a tiger-race to quell,
And God, I trust, will fire each man to fight the battle well!
"This is a land where all our friends in princely state may
live,
If valiant souls and manly arms the conquest would achieve;
Remember then this land shall be, or not be, ours to-day,
And strike ye brave-let not your lives be idly thrown away!"
Then, stretching out her stately arms, she clasp'd her warriorboy,
And tears impearl'd the long dark fringe of her commanding
eye;
She whisper'd gently-" 0 my son! to part thee I regret,
But I do hope I'll one day see thee lord of Thomond yet!
"Now be thy young heart firm to meet the battle's glorious
shock,
Fight near thy sire, he'll prove to thee a guard and sheltering
rock;
I wish with equal care thou would'st preserve thy life and fame,
Be cautious, cool, and wary, without blemishing thy name!"
She press'd him-bless'd him-kiss'd his cheek, and wrung his
sinewy hands,
Then to the topmost tower she went to watch the moving
bands;
Amid the blazing wave of spears she marked her lord and son,
Till, indistinct, their lessening forms beyond the hills were
gone.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.            443
In three divisions march'd the host to distant Inchiquin,
Where couch'd the Dalcas war-wolves in their death-sur.
rounded den;
Impatiently awaiting the Invaders' ranks to hew,The god of war might quail with fear the desperate clans to
view.
Some on the mountain-sandstones their keen war-axes edges
plied,
And on the deeply-wounded trees the sharpen'd weapons
tried;
By turns they roll their burning eyes along the southern plain,
"Are the Norman wild boars coming yet?" they ask, and ask
again.
To Dysert's woody passes the swift scouts of bold O'Dea, *
Return'd with the welcome news-" De Clare is on the way,"
Then Thomond's prince disposed his troops-some on the rising
ground,
And some within the wood's green skirt their order'd stations
found.
Upon a narrow plain that lay two thicket shades between,
The brave O'Dea deploy'd his force of twice three hundred
men;
While posted firm on Scamhal's hill, in glittering hostile show,
Stood, with his yellow-vested clan, the Prince of Corcomroe.t
Behind, within the bordering grove that fringed the open plain,
Clan Cuilen's stern and desperate troops the shaded ground
maintain;
And on O'Dea's extended left Hy Cormiac's squadrons lay,
With gallant Lochlin Roe O'Hehirt commanding their array.
Now o'er the distant misty heights the Norman flags appear'd,
Loud and more loud their hollow drums and martial pipes
were heard:
And high above the van, De Clare's conspicuous form rose tallPowerful and proud as Lucifer an hour before his fall.
Like Fergus in his wintry wrath, the foremost ranks swept on,
And dash'd into the guarded pass upon Hy Fermiac's clan:
While right and left the troops drew back to lure them
farther in"Up," cried O'Dea, "my valiant Kerns I your bloody spor.begin!"
* Chief of Hy Fermiac i.e. 1chiquin.
t Felim O'Connor the Hoepilfee
t The Barony of the Ilands It as the territory oftheO' tfrVa Wlike sept of the Dalcassians.




444         LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.


"Those brigands came to rob us of our patrimonial right!
Our fortune, freedom, home, and all, depend on this day's
fight!
God gave your sires this noble land-they bravely kept it free
From foreign thieves, and so, with God's Almighty aid,
shall we I
"To weaken and divide our strength the basest means they
triedTo disunite our friendship they the vilest arts employ'd:
To root us out, like hated weeds, they toil'd with tireless
nerve,
Now pay them the red wages which their cursed deeds
deserve!
"There are the robbers! teach them well, as robbers should
be taught,
That ere they touch the tempting spoil it must be dearly
bought:
Let every man who scorns to be a wretched Norman serf,
Now cleave them as our fathers clove the Northmen at Clontarf!"
Then, with a cheer that shook the woods the madden'd clan
closed round,
And, like a thousand sledges' din, the rapid blows resound:
'Gainst plated mail the Gaelic shirts their saffron folds oppose,
And grinding thro' the scaly steel each Dalcas war-axe goes.
De Clare's main army onward rush'd to aid the cloven van,
But up O'Hehir's squadrons leapt and met them man to man:
Then shriek'd the thunder-storm of steel round plain and dell
and brake,
Tremendous as a shower of rocks upon a frozen lake.
Up dash'd the iron cavalry led by De Clare's bold son,
And glimmering bright above their crests the lifted broad.
swords shone;
When, with a yell, from Scamhal's height O'Connor's spearmen
leapt,
And, like lions thro' a deer-fence, on the wavering line they
swept.
Now madly plunged the spear-gored steeds and down the
riders roll'dOut dash'd the dread Clan Cuilen from the shadows of the
wold;




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.              445
And on the second phalanx of the Norman army fell,
With glaring eyes and gnashing teeth, like panthers round
a well.
Now clang'd the sharp resounding axe and reek'd the driving
pike,
Unnumber'd swords together clash, and whirl, and gleam,
and strike;
The grassy hollows of the field the showering death-rain fills,
Like red waves rolling to the plain adown a hundred hills.
As when the kingly Shannon, on some stormy winter's night,
O'erwhelms the bulwark of his bounds, in his stupendous
might;
In scatter'd fragments o'er the meads his broken banks are
tost,So rush'd the charging Dalgais thro' the mighty Norman host.
Wild rose the planet-shaking cheers, and all the roaring plain
Seem'd to confine within its ring a boiling iron main;
While 'mid the lightning-whirl of steel that upwart danced
and fell,
The raging combatants appear'd like fiends begirt with hell.
Like cloudy garments of the storm-king o'er a rock-ridged sea,
The banners swung their blood-wet folds above the burning
fray:
Like fire-tongues in a furnace-bed, steel splinters hiss'd and
flew,
And o'er the ground, in mingled piles, the carnage-havoc grew.
With lion-ourage nerve and might, the Normans brave the
charge,
Like firm-based cliffs, they stand the shock-each bulwark'd
by his targe,
But vainly do those iron orbs the Dalcas axes meet,
At every stroke the bursting plates fall shiver'd at their feet.
With mutual wounds and dying grasps, foe grappling, falls
with foe,
The boiling toil-drops turning cold upon each death-struck
brow;
And quick as sightless vapours rise in summer's flaming heat
Souls left their tenements, and flew before the Judgment
Seat.




446            LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
As two tall ships by veering blasts against each other driven
When midnight's cloud-flags darkly shake their pitchy folds
in heaven;
The huge masts and the crashing planks groan o'er the howlinmg sea,
Thus, mid the frantic tumult, met De Clare and fierce
O'Dea.
The Irish chief round his left arm wound his martial cloak,
And with his swift destructive axe, that gave no second
stroke,
Assail'd his powerful Norman foe, from head to foot in mail,
Whose ponderous plate was of the best and purest Milan
steet.
As smites the lightning-sword of heaven the granite of the
hill,
Their weapons 'gainst each other clash'd, with clangor sharp
and shrill;
Red flame-sparks leapt at every stroke from blade and sounding plate,
While round them tugg'd the reeling hosts, like quivering
fields of wheat.
As two mad hungry wild beasts rush each other to devour,
They roar and roll, and tear the earth with rampant savage
power;
Thus furious in their fiery might the vigorous warriors meet,
With vengeful yells of demon-rage, flushed brows, and gnashing teeth.
But yet so well the Norman used his shield and dexterous
blade,
To strike a sure decisive blow O'Dea in vain essay'd;
At last against a larchen tree he forced the warrior back,
And then, with strength of soul and frame, renew'd the stern
attack.
De Clare's sharp sword-point stung O'Dea, and drew the boiling gore,
But yet the shallow wound provoked the raging chieftain
more:
He hurl'd his vengeance-driven axe against the Norman
mail,
And sunder'd, like a brittle board, the solid mass of steel.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             447
Shoulder and breast, down to the heart, the grinding weapon
ploughed,
As summer-thunder, in its fury, tears a flimsy-cloud:
The armour fell in riven halves-the gsping chief sunk down,
Like an expiring storm when it gives its last death-groan.
And now the wrathful victor, with ferocious enmity,
Hew'd the fallen lord to pieces, as a woodman hews a tree:*
Inch by inch he fiercely cut the body, flesh and bone,
And round the sward to feed the crows the reeking bits were
strown.
Then thro' the yielding Norman host a panic-terror grew,
And, like a swift electric shock, from rank to rank it flew:
While in among the shatter'd lines, with mad impetuous
force,
The desperate clan of Corcomroe impell'd the troop of horse.
Entangled, mixed and terrified the masses roll around,
And drive amain, in headlong rout, along the shaken
ground;
Man tramples man, in reckless haste they fling their arms
away,
And on the hideous tumult whirls, as wind sweeps matted
hay.
*
De Clare's proud son was stricken down by stern O'Connor's
spear,
The stately branch lies withering in the May-time of its
year;
His mother, in Bunratty's hall, expects, from hour to hour,
To hear good tidings of her boy-her heart's beloved flower.
He was the only blossom of her life's green summer-bough,
The flower has fallen to the dust-the tree is barren now;
The sunny garden of her hope shall soon be plunged in
gloom,
And never shall another spring reanimate its bloom.
With folded arms and heaving breast.from hall to tower she
flies,
And o'er the intervening heights she strained her falcon
eyes;
No sign-no news-they come not yet-the evening sun is
lowThey have delay'd to take-she thinks-the trophies of the
foe.
* This is a horrid historical fact.




448             LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.
Ah I little does her proud heart know the awful work that's
done,
On that dread havoc-plain where lie her mangled spouse and
son;
The sword of fate has cleft in twain her golden chain of life,
She's now a childless mother and a lonely widow'd wife.
Still the fiend of slaughter rages, as the torrent of the rout
Rolls on before the.victors, with commingled groan and
shout.
No quarter or no mercy, to the fugitives is shown,
But the mercy which a deer-herd finds 'mong hungry lions
thrown.
The valorous knights and captains of the Norman host are
slain,
De Naas and De Capel, and the bold De Condons twain;
Stout Apilgard and other chiefs, of martial feats the pride,
There bravely met the shock of war, and fiercely fighting
died.
Back to Bunratty's blood-curst towers the scattered remnant
runs,
And grim, as wolf-hounds, on their track rush Thomond wrath-, ful sons;
As blasts drive on a rapid flame thro' withered brambles
brown,
They spring upon the flying groups and sternly hew them
down.
The news have reached Bunratty's hall-what fearful shrieks
are there?
Grief, rage and consternation fill the mansion of De Clare;.The lady tore her silken robe, and in distraction wild,
Flei thro' the rooms, loud screaming for her slaughter'd lord
' aichild.
"The Dalcas wolves are coming fast!" the frightened guardsmen cry,
'tet all who wish to keep their heads, desert the towers and
fly i"
The frantfc lady, with a brand, the rooms and rafters fired,
Then quickly, in a well-mann'd barge, down Raite's flood
retired.*
* After settig the woodwork of the castle on fire, Lady De Clare flew to, ngland; and never more did any member of her race or name return to
laim rightor title to Bunratty. Thus ended the long wars of the De Clares
a        is.




LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THOMOND.             449
Thenceforth in golden Thomond no De Clare returned to
claim
The lordly power, the hostile state, and honours of the
name;
Bunratty's awful towers still frown upon those blood-dew'd
plains
Where many a hard fought battle raged and left its reeking
stains.
Like the ghost of desolation, the grim Castle-pile is seen,
In the gray age of its glory, a dark wonder 'mid the scene,
As if the souls of those who bled for fame, around its halls,
Had written, at their parting, a romance upon the walls.
o0 U N
O(A. MD.D,,FINIS. 1 -

Printed by MI H. Gill & Son, 60 Upper Sackville-street, Dublin




"SW
r
4)
-
Cr
91








THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
GRADUATE LIBRARY
DATE DUE




UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
11I1iill 1 1IIIlJll i  lllll ili H H ll l
3 9015 03264 1956
DO NOT REMOVE
OR
MUTILATE CARD