He had liv’d for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin’d him, –
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the west,
From her own lov’d island of sorrow!
’Tis the Last Rose of Summer
’Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them;
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from love’s shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither’d,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
Dear Harp of My Country
Dear Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long,
When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That ev’n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine;
Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
Till touch’d by some hand less unworthy than mine.
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
Have throbb’d at our lay, ’tis thy glory alone;
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over.
And all the wild sweetness I wak’d was thy own.
Shall the Harp Then be Silent
Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave
To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,
Where the first – where the last of her Patriots lies?
No – faint though the death-song may fall from his lips,
Though his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crossed,
Yet, yet shall it sound, ’mid a nation’s eclipse,
And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost; –
What a union of all the affections and powers
By which life is exalted, embellished, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit – whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind.
Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,
Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime –
Like a pyramid raised in the desert – where he
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;
That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom
And the madness of ages, when filled with his soul,
A Nation o’erleap’d the dark bounds of her doom,
And for one sacred instant, touched Liberty’s goal?
Who, that ever hath heard him – hath drank at the source
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin’s own,
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?
An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave
Wandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone through,
As clear as the brook’s ‘stone of lustre’, and gave,
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.
Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd,
In a home full of love, he delighted to tread
’Mong the trees which a nation had giv’n, and which bowed,
As if each brought a new civic crown for his head –
Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life
But at distance observed him – through glory, through blame,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,
Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same?
Oh no, not a heart, that e’er knew him, but mourns
Deep, deep o’er the grave, where such glory is shrined –
O’er a monument Fame will preserve, ’mong the urns
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!
from National Melodies
Then, Fare Thee Well
Then, fare thee well, my own dear love,
This world has now for us
No greater grief, no pain above
The pain of parting thus,
Dear love!
The pain of parting thus.
Had we but known, since first we met,
Some few short hours of bliss,
We might, in numbering them, forget
The deep, deep pain of this,
Dear love!
The deep, deep pain of this.
But no, alas, we’ve never seen
One glimpse of pleasure’s ray,
But still there came some cloud between,
And chased it all away,
Dear love!
And chased it all away.
Yet, ev’n could those sad moments last,
Far dearer to my heart
Were hours of grief, together passed,
Than years of mirth apart,
Dear love!
Than years of mirth apart.
Farewell! our hope was born in fears,
And nursed ’mid vain regrets;
Like winter suns, it rose in tears,
Like them in tears it sets,
Dear love!
Like them in tears it sets.
Love
ANONYMOUS
I Know My Love
I know my love by his way of walking,
And I know my love by his way of talking,
And I know my love by his coat of blue,
And if my love leaves me, what will I do?
And still she cried, ‘I love him the best,
But a troubled mind, sure, can know no rest,’
And still she cried, ‘Bonny boys are few,
And if my love leaves me, what will I do?’
There is a dance house in Mardyke,
And it’s there that my love goes every night;
To take a strange one upon his knee,
And don’t you think, now, that vexes me?
And still she cried, ‘I love him the best,
But a troubled mind, sure, can know no rest,’
And still she cried, ‘Bonny boys are few,
And if my love leaves me, what will I do?’
If my love knew I could wash and wring,
And if my love knew I could weave and spin,
I would make a dress of the finest kind,
But the want of money, sure, leaves me behind.
And still she cried, ‘I love him the best,
But a troubled mind, sure, can know no rest,’
And still she cried, ‘Bonny boys are few,
And if my love leaves me, what will I do?’
I know my love is an arrant rover,
And I know he’ll roam the wide world over,
In dea
r old Ireland he’ll no longer tarry,
And an English one he is sure to marry.
And still she cried, ‘I love him the best,
And a troubled mind, sure, can know no rest,’
And still she cried, ‘Bonny boys are few,
And if my love leaves me, what will I do?
The Dawning of the Day
One morning early I walked forth
By the margin of Lough Lene;
The sunshine dressed the trees in green,
And summer bloomed again;
I left the town and wandered on
Through fields all green and gay;
And whom should I meet but a Cooleen-dhas,
By the dawning of the day.
No cap or cloak this maiden wore,
Her neck and feet were bare;
Down to the grass in ringlets fell
Her glossy golden hair;
A milking pail was in her hand,
She was lovely young and gay;
She bore the palm from Venus bright,
By the dawning of the day.
On a mossy bank I sat me down,
With the maiden by my side;
With gentle words I courted her,
And asked her for my bride;
She said, ‘Young man, don’t bring me blame,
But let me go away,
For morning’s light is shining bright,
By the dawning of the day.’
Patrick Weston Joyce
The Drinan Dhun
(The Sloe Tree)
My love he is fairer than a soft summer’s day,
His breath it is sweeter than the new-mown hay;
His hair shines like gold when revived by the sun,
The name that they call him is the Drinan Dhun.
My boy he is gone to cross over the main,
May God send him safe to his true love again,
For I wander all day till the night-time comes on,
And I sleep on the leaves of the Drinan Dhun.
If I had a small cot on the ocean to row,
I would follow my true love wherever he’d go;
I’d rather have my darling for to sport and to play
Than all the gold treasures on land and on sea.
My love he is handsome and fair to be seen,
With his red rosy cheeks he is fit for a queen,
His two sparkling eyes are as bright as the sun,
He is fair as the blossom of the Drinan Dhun.
Impatient I wait for my love to return,
And for his long absence I ne’er cease to mourn,
I will join with the small birds when the summer comes on,
For to welcome the blossom of the Drinan Dhun.
The Butcher Boy
In Moore Street once where I did dwell,
A butcher boy I loved right well;
He courted me my life away,
But alas with me he would not stay.
I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I was a maid again;
But a maid again I ne’er will be
Till apples grow on an ivy tree.
I wish my baby it was born,
And smiling on his daddy’s knee;
And I myself were dead and gone,
And the long green grass growing over me.
She went upstairs to make her bed,
And calling to her mother said:
‘Give me a chair while I sit down,
And a pen and ink to write it down.’
At every line she shed a tear,
At every line cried, ‘Willy, dear,
Oh, what a foolish girl was I,
To fall in love with a butcher boy.’
He went upstairs and the door he broke,
And found her hanging from a rope;
He took his knife and he cut her down,
And in her pocket these words he found:
Oh, dig my grave large, wide and deep,
With a marble slab at my head and feet,
And in the middle a turtle dove,
So the world may know I died for love.
ANTOINE Ó RAIFTEIRÍ
Mary Hynes
Going to Mass by the heavenly mercy,
The day was rainy, the wind was wild;
I met a lady beside Kiltartan
And fell in love with the lovely child;
My conversation was smooth and easy,
And graciously she answered me
‘Raftery dear, ’tis yourself that’s welcome,
So step beside me to Ballylee.’
This invitation there was no denying,
I laughed with joy and my poor heart beat;
We had but to walk across a meadow,
And in her dwelling I took my seat.
There was laid a table with a jug and glasses,
And that sweet maiden sat down by me –
‘Raftery drink and don’t spare the liquor;
There’s a lengthy cellar in Ballylee.’
If I should travel France and England,
And Spain and Greece and return once more
To study Ireland to the northern ocean,
I would find no morsel the like of her.
If I was married to that youthful beauty
I’d follow her through the open sea,
And wander coasts and winding roads
With the shining pearl of Ballylee.
’Tis fine and bright on the mountainside,
Looking down on Ballylee,
You can walk the woods, picking nuts and berries,
And hear the birds sing merrily;
But where’s the good if you got no tidings
Of the flowering branch that resides below –
O summer sky, there’s no denying
It is for you that I ramble so.
My star of beauty, my sun of autumn,
My golden hair, O my share of life!
Will you come with me this coming Sunday
And tell the priest you will be my wife?
I’d not grudge you music, nor a feast at evening,
Nor punch nor wine, if you’d have it be,
And King of Glory, dry up the roadway
Till I find my posy at Ballylee!
Frank O’Connor
Brídín Vesey
I would marry Brídín Vesey
Without a shoe or petticoat,
A comb, a cloak or dowry
Or even one clean shift;
And I would make novena
Or imitate the hermits
Who spend their lives in fasting
All for a Christmas gift.
O cheek like dogwood fruiting.
O cuckoo of the mountain,
I would send darkness packing
If you would rise and go
Against the ban of clergy
And the sour lips of your parents
And take me at an altar-stone
In spite of all Mayo.
That was the sullen morning
They told the cruel story
How scorning word or token
You rose and went away.
’Twas then my hands remembered,
My ears still heard you calling,
I smelt the gorse and heather
Where you first learned to pray.
What could they know, who named you,
Of jug and bed and table,
Hours slipping through our fingers,
Time banished from the room?
Or what of all the secrets
We knew among the rushes
Under the Reek when cuckoos
Brightened against the moon?
You are my first and last song,
The harp that lilts my fingers
Your lips like frozen honey,
Eyes like the mountain pool,
Shaped like the Reek your breast is,
Whiter than milk from Nephin,
And he who never saw you
Has lived and d
ied a fool.
Oh, gone across the mearing
Dividing hope from sadness
What happy townland holds you?
In what country do you reign?
In spite of all the grinning lads
At corner and in haybarn,
I’ll search all Ireland over
And bring you home again.
Donagh MacDonagh
GERALD GRIFFIN
(1803–40)
Eileen Aroon
When, like the early rose,
Eileen aroon!
Beauty in childhood blows,
Eileen aroon!
When, like a diadem,
Buds blush around the stem,
Which is the fairest gem?
Eileen aroon!
Is it the laughing eye?
Eileen aroon!
Is it the timid sigh?
Eileen aroon!
Is it the tender tone,
Soft as the stringed harp’s moan?
Oh! it is Truth alone,
Eileen aroon!
When, like the rising day,
Eileen aroon!
Love sends his early ray,
Eileen aroon!
What makes his dawning glow
Changeless through joy or woe? –
Only the constant know,
Eileen aroon!
I know a valley fair,
Eileen aroon!
I knew a cottage there,
Eileen aroon!
Far in that valley’s shade
I knew a gentle maid,
Flower of a hazel glade,
Eileen aroon!
Who in the song so sweet?
Eileen aroon!
Who in the dance so fleet?
Eileen aroon!
Dear were her charms to me,
Dearer her laughter free,
Dearest her constancy,
Eileen aroon!
Youth must with time decay,
Eileen aroon!
Beauty must fade away,
Eileen aroon!
Castles are sacked in war,
Chieftains are scattered far
Truth is a fixèd star,
Eileen aroon!
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
Lovely Mary Donnelly
Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, my joy, my only best!
If fifty girls were round you, I’d hardly see the rest;
Be what it may the time o’ day, the place be where it will,
Sweet looks o’ Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Her eyes like mountain water that’s flowing on a rock,
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 76
