To ride the outlaw’s bonny mare, for this at last is she!
Down comes her master with a roar, her rider with a groan,
The iron and the hickory are through and through him gone!
He lies a corpse; and where he sat, the outlaw sits again,
And once more to his bonny mare he gives the spur and rein;
Then some with sword, and some with gun, they ride and run amain!
But sword and gun, and whip and spur, that day they plied in vain!
Ah! little thought Willy Gilliland, when he on Skerry side
Drew bridle first, and wiped his brow after that weary ride,
That where he lay like hunted brute, a caverned outlaw lone,
Broad lands and yeoman tenantry should yet be there his own:
Yet so it was; and still from him descendants not a few
Draw birth and lands, and, let me trust, draw love of Freedom too.
AUBREY DE VERE
(1814–1902)
The Little Black Rose
The Little Black Rose shall be red at last;
What made it black but the March wind dry,
And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?
It shall redden the hills when June is nigh!
The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;
What drove her forth but the dragon fly?
In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,
With her mild gold horn and her slow, dark eye.
The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!
The pine long-bleeding, it shall not die!
This song is secret. Mine ear it passed
In a wind o’er the plains at Athenry.
SHERIDAN LE FANU
(1814–73)
from The Legend of the Glaive
Through the woods of Morrua and over its root-knotted flooring,
The hero speeds onward, alone, on his terrible message;
When faint and far-off, like the gathering gallop of battle,
The hoofs of the hurricane louder and louder come leaping,
There’s a gasp and a silence around him, a swooning of nature,
And the forest trees moan, and complain with a presage of evil.
And nearer, like great organ’s wailing, high-piping through thunder,
Subsiding, then lifted again to a thousand-tongued tumult,
And crashing, and deafening and yelling in clangorous uproar.
Soaring onward, down-riding, and rending the wreck of its conquest,
The tempest swoops on: all the branches before it bend, singing
Like cordage in shipwreck; before it sear leaves fly like vapour;
Before it bow down like wide armies, plumed heads of the forest,
In frenzy dark-rolling, up-tossing their scathed arms like Mænads.
Dizzy lightnings split this way and that in the blind void above him;
For a moment long passages reeling and wild with the tempest,
In the blue map and dazzle of lightning, throb vivid and vanish;
And white glare the wrinkles and knots of the oaktrees beside him,
While close overhead clap the quick mocking palms of the Storm-Fiend.
THOMAS DAVIS
(1814–45)
Fontenoy, 1745
Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed,
And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly, through De Barri’s wood, the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try,
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step a-down the slope – steady they climb the hill;
Steady they load – steady they fire, moving right onward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast,
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force:
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks –
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland’s ocean banks.
More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired –
Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired.
‘Push on, my household cavalry!’ King Louis madly cried:
To death they rush, but rude their shock – not unavenged they died.
On through the camp the column trod – King Louis turns his rein:
‘Not yet, my liege,’ Saxe interposed, ‘the Irish troops remain’;
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true.
‘Lord Clare,’ he says, ‘you have your wish; there are your Saxon foes!’
The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes!
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who’re wont to be so gay,
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts today –
The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith ’twas writ could dry,
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women’s parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown –
Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.
O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,
‘Fix bay’nets! – charge!’ Like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands!
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, must’ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind –
Their bayonets the breakers’ foam; like rocks, the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the head-long Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!
‘Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanach!’
Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger’s pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang:
Bright was their steel, ’tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, the trampled flags they tore;
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled –
The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead.
Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes, the Irish stand – the field is fought and won!
O’Connell’s Statue
Chisel the likeness of The Chief,
Not in gaiety, nor grief;
Change not by your art to stone,
Ireland’s laugh, or Ireland’s moan.
Dark her tale, and none can tell<
br />
Its fearful chronicle so well.
Her frame is bent – her wounds are deep –
Who, like him, her woes can weep?
He can be gentle as a bride,
While none can rule with kinglier pride;
Calm to hear, and wise to prove,
Yet gay as lark in soaring love.
Well it were, posterity
Should have some image of his glee;
That easy humour, blossoming
Like the thousand flowers of spring!
Glorious the marble which could show
His bursting sympathy for woe:
Could catch the pathos, flowing wild,
Like mother’s milk to craving child.
And oh! how princely were the art
Could mould his mien, or tell his heart
When sitting sole on Tara’s hill,
While hung a million on his will!
Yet, not in gaiety, nor grief,
Chisel the image of our Chief;
Nor even in that haughty hour
When a nation owned his power.
But would you by your art unroll
His own and Ireland’s secret soul,
And give to other times to scan
The greatest greatness of the man?
Fierce defiance let him be
Hurling at our enemy. –
From a base as fair and sure,
As our love is true and pure,
Let his statue rise as tall
And firm as a castle wall;
On his broad brow let there be
A type of Ireland’s history;
Pious, generous, deep, and warm,
Strong and changeful as a storm;
Let whole centuries of wrong
Upon his recollection throng –
Strongbow’s force, and Henry’s wile,
Tudor’s wrath, and Stuart’s guile,
And iron Strafford’s tiger jaws,
And brutal Brunswick’s penal laws;
Not forgetting Saxon faith,
Not forgetting Norman scath,
Not forgetting William’s word,
Not forgetting Cromwell’s sword.
Let the Union’s fetter vile –
The shame and ruin of our isle –
Let the blood of ’Ninety-Eight
And our present blighting fate –
Let the poor mechanic’s lot,
And the peasant’s ruined cot,
Plundered wealth and glory flown,
Ancient honours overthrown –
Let trampled altar, rifled urn,
Knit his look to purpose stern.
Mould all this into one thought,
Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught;
Still let our glories through it gleam,
Like fair flowers through a flooded stream,
Or like a flashing wave at night,
Bright, – ’mid the solemn darkness, bright.
Let the memory of old days
Shine through the statesman’s anxious face –
Dathi’s power, and Brian’s fame,
And headlong Sarsfield’s sword of flame;
And the spirit of Red Hugh,
And the pride of ’Eighty-Two,
And the victories he won,
And the hope that leads him on!
Let whole armies seem to fly
From his threatening hand and eye;
Be the strength of all the land
Like a falchion in his hand,
And be his gesture sternly grand.
A braggart tyrant swore to smite
A people struggling for their right;
O’Connell dared him to the field,
Content to die, but never yield.
Fancy such a soul as his,
In a moment such as this,
Like cataract, or foaming tide,
Or army charging in its pride.
Thus he spoke, and thus he stood,
Proffering in our cause his blood.
Thus his country loves him best –
To image this is your behest.
Chisel thus, and thus alone,
If to man you’d change the stone.
JAMES MCCARROLL
(1814–91)
The Irish Wolf
The Times once used this term to designate the Irish people.
Seek music in the wolf’s fierce howl
Or pity in his blood-shot eye,
When hunger drives him out to prowl
Beneath a rayless northern sky:
But seek not that we should forgive
The hand that strikes us to the heart,
And yet in mockery bids us live
To count our stars as they depart.
We’ve fed the tyrant with our blood;
Won all his battles – built his throne –
Established him on land and flood,
And sought his glory next our own.
We raised him from his low estate;
We plucked his pagan soul from hell,
And led him pure to heaven’s gate,
Till he, for gold, like Judas fell.
And when in one long, soulless night
He lay unknown to wealth or fame,
We gave him empire – riches – light,
And taught him how to spell his name.
But now, ungenerous and unjust,
Forgetful of our old renown,
He bows us to the very dust;
But wears our jewels in his crown.
MOTHER OF DIARMAID MAC CÁRTHAIGH
(fl. 1850)
A Lament for Diarmaid Mac Cárthaigh of Ráth Dubháin, Who Was a Butter-Merchant in Cork
Dear friend and darling,
If you were at home,
Neither worsted or spinning,
Nor the socks they were knitting
Would be their concern,
But the roads too narrow
For the roaring men
And the screaming women
Coming to see you,
Dear grey-eyed horseman.
Dear love and sweetheart,
Your downfall was there,
At the Knight’s Paling,
Where the men used to gather
When they hunted the deer –
May God not protect them;
They hadn’t half your energy,
Dear iron-stirruped horseman.
Dear love and treasure,
The young women wonder
That the likes of me reared you:
If they’d walked over Mushera
And the short-cut through the Curraghs,
And all the paths I’ve taken,
I’d be very surprised if
They didn’t look as rough.
My love and my dear one,
I had great hopes for you:
That roads would be cleared for you,
That walls would be whitewashed,
Swards spread before you,
As you brought a woman home;
Not like this, surrounded
By boors from England
And the children of merchants,
Carried by four men
Out of the city –
But my thanks to all of you,
Since I’ve come among you
For I needed help –
Dear King of Bounty.
Dear love and dear treasure,
If I had a messenger,
Or a spirited runner
To go west along the Maine
Many a fine sturdy woman,
Many a proud stately horseman,
With their saddles all crimson
And their horse-bits of silver,
Would be galloping towards you,
Knocking sparks from the rocks,
As they left the city.
Dear love and dear treasure,
If you’re going to bed,
Take the quickest way home,
And don’t forget Tig na Croise:
>
Call the two lovely girls,
And Diarmaid, son of Eoghan na Toinne.
Their messenger told me
Their new clothes weren’t ready;
That their bridles were broken,
And their saddles lacked girths;
That their horses had run away
Wild in the hills, and
No blacksmith was there
Who could get them all ready
For the hunt or the chase.
Dear love and precious one,
Sweet Máire, daughter of Eoghan,
Who was neither small nor big,
But perfectly shaped;
Who would halt the men from work,
Or the children from their play,
Or the horses in the field,
Listening to your song,
On a lovely autumn morning,
As you milked the cows outdoors.
Dear love and beloved,
Dear little calf’s calf,
Dear delicious crumbs of bacon,
Dear juice of the butter,
Whom I never criticized
(Or if I did, didn’t realize),
Till you left me, and settled
Below in Cloghboley,
With Maití Sín na Circe,
Who would curb your heart’s blood,
With his fussing and organizing,
And harnessing his plough-team;
All you got for your trouble
Was the baby’s leftovers.
He’d take the butter from the churn
While you sat at the fire;
He’d shut the hens in at night.
My friend and my dear one,
He beat you with the bridle,
With the nine-thonged whip,
And then with a stick;
But you never told me,
Till I found the marks on you
In bed a year later.
Dear love and dear treasure,
I gave you twenty milking cows
Along with a bull, and
A trough to knead bread in –
But now instead I curse you,
Not your livestock or harvest;
Not the fire on your hearth,
But your heart and your veins,
To leave you maimed,
You bilious lout!
My love and my precious,
You wrote to the King’s parliament,
And to Cork of the sailing ships.
Where they wined and dined your messenger,
And enjoyed your conversation,
Dearest child and precious one.
Dear love and precious,
I could name your townlands
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 46
