Sprays of Shamrock.
by Clinton Scollard.
_Just a few songs of her, Not of the wrongs of her Many and bitter and long though they be,-- Songs of the hills of her, Songs of the rills of her, Ireland, set like a gem in the sea!_
_Just a few songs of her, Not of the thongs of her, She that is bound, and yet fain would be free,-- Songs of the gleams of her, Glamours and dreams of her, Ireland, girt by the arms of the sea!_
MUCKROSS
At night there came unto MacCarthy More A hooded vision with a voice that said, "Go thou straightway and raise a house to G.o.d Upon the spot where stands the Rock of Song!"
So with the golden lifting of the dawn Upsprang the chieftain and loud called his kerns, And bade them seek the Rock. For many a day They roved the sweeping meads and fens and fells In fruitless search, and ever forth again Relentlessly he drove them from his hold Beside the dimpling waters of Lough Leane.
"The Rock!" he cried, "find ye the Rock of Song!"
And still they found it not. Then the gaunt chief, His long locks h.o.a.ry with the frost of years, Girded himself, and turned his tottering steps Abroad in the soft lengthening of the dusk Athwart a woodland close, and saw and heard A little maid, her pitcher held at poise, Singing an old lament in minors clear And plaintive as the twilight, words that voiced The poignant, pa.s.sionate yearning of the soul.
"A sign!" the spent man whispered low, "a sign!"
And on the spot he raised a house to G.o.d.
THE HILL OF MAEVE
I
This is the hill of Maeve, the queen, A mighty bulwark of gray-green
Whereon was set, by hands unknown, A rugged monument of stone.
The great winds mourn, and sobs the wave Beneath the lichened cairn of Maeve.
II
From many a rocky Leitrim height O"er Lough Gill"s waters, blue and bright,
From where Benbulbin fronts the foam, And sees the Sligo ships put home,
Maeve"s hill is like a pharos flame, As is eternally her name!
III
"Neath azure tides of morning air Ripple the waves of Ballysadare
Under where frowning Knocknarea Looks o"er the Rosses far to sea,--
Looks far to sea, remembering Maeve"s loveliness, a vanished thing.
IV
The cromlechs, gray with eld, below, Recall the dreams of long ago,--
The dreams of kern and king, both slave To beauty, and the white Queen Maeve;
And though she slumbers, deep, so deep, Her golden memory may not sleep!
AT KILLYBEGS
At Killybegs above the crags The gray gulls pipe with voices thinned, And all the green trees are like flags That wave and waver in the wind.
At Killybegs about the dunes Rustle the crispy gra.s.s and whin, And low the long tide croons and croons As it creeps out, as it creeps in.
At Killybegs the white sails race When the blue sea is like a floor; Like doubt night falls with haggard face; Sometimes the ships return no more.
The brown bee drains the cottage flowers Of honey to their crimson dregs, And love hath many happy hours "Twixt birth and death at Killybegs!
THE CRIPPLE
I have dreams of the outer islands, Firths and forths of the Far-Away; I have dreams of the heathery highlands Under the golden day.
I have dreams of a sliding river-- Shannon--under the stars and sun; I have dreams how the oar-blades quiver, And the silvery salmon run.
I have dreams of a blithe lad striding Out through the streets of Limerick-town; I have dreams of a sweet maid biding Under a thatch of brown.
But here I lie all huddled and hidden, (Oh, the eternity it seems!) Brooding desolate and bed-ridden, Living only in dreams!
AN EXILE
I can remember the plaint of the wind on the moor, Crying at dawning, and crying at shut of the day, And the call of the gulls that is eerie and dreary and dour, And the sound of the surge as it breaks on the beach of the bay.