O Saviour, who lightest the sun's blessed ray,
 Remit my offences, this day and alway,
 Above my deserving, or all I could pay;
 Then with joy I receive my Redeemer to-day.

MAY THE SWEET NAME OF JESUS

May the sweet name of Jesus
 Be lovingly graven
 In my heart's inmost haven.
O Mary, Blest Mother,
 Be Jesus my Brother,
 And I Jesu's lover.
A binding of love
 That no distance can sever,
 Be between us for ever.
 Yea, O my Saviour,
 For ever and ever.

O BLESSED JESUS

O Blessed Jesus, and O Nurse of the fair white Lamb,
 In the dread hour of death it is under your shelter I am;
 Saints and angels about me in every time, in all places,
 Leading my soul to the home of the King of the Graces.

ANOTHER VERSION

O Jesus, and Mary who fostered the King of Grace,
 Be ye the friends of my soul, in every time and place,
 Cold as a stone lies my soul, unheeding the things above,
 Smooth Thou my path in Thy time, Lord of my love.

MORNING WISH

O Jesu, in the morning, I cry and call on Thee,
 Blessed only Son who hast purchased us dearly;
 Safeguard my soul under the protection of Thy holy cross,
 May sin and loss be kept from me through the course of this day.

ON "COVERING" THE FIRE
FOR THE NIGHT[114]

Let us preserve this fire, as Christ preserves all,
 Christ at the top of this house and Brigit in the midst;
 The twelve apostles of greatest power in the heavens
 Guarding and preserving this house till day.

FOOTNOTES:

[114] It is the custom in the West of Ireland and in the Hebrides to place a piece of peat on the fire before going to bed, to preserve the "seed" of the fire till morning; this act is accompanied with the recital of some fragment of prayer or verse. There are many of these "covering" or "sparing" ranns in existence.

THE MAN WHO STANDS STIFF

The man who stands stiff in a short-lived world
 He knows not how long is the lease of his clod.
 With Death he must reckon, when Death shall beckon
 The soul must knock at the door of God.
Then Christ shall come and shall ask of the soul,
 "O Soul, say how hast thou spent thy day?
 I gave to thee power and self-control,
 Thou fool, hast thou given thyself away?"
(The Sinner answers)
"I thought I had time before me still,
 And space to return beneath Thy shield,
 But Death came first, and against my will,
 Ere I knew it, to Death I was forced to yield."
To the Trinity's presence the soul must mount,
 To the judgment it comes, and its sins it bears,
 And nought that it pleads for itself shall count
 Save fasting, and giving of alms, and prayers.
If you gave but a glass of the water cold
 (The simplest drink on the green earth's sod),
 Your reward is before you, a thousand-fold,
 If the thing has been done for the sake of God.
Three things there be, the reward of man
 For offending God—'tis a risk to run—
 Misfortune's fall, and a shortened span,
 And the pains of hell when all is done.
Douglas Hyde.

CHARM AGAINST ENEMIES

Three things are of the Evil One—
 An evil eye,
 An evil tongue,
 An evil mind;
 Three things are of God, and these three are what Mary
 told to her Son, for she heard them in heaven—
 The merciful word,
 The singing word,
 And the good word.
 May the power of these three holy things be on all the
 men and women of Erin for evermore.
Lady Wilde.

CHARM FOR A PAIN IN THE SIDE

"God save you, my three brothers, God save you! And how far have ye to go, my three brothers?"
 "To the Mount of Olivet, to bring back gold for a cup to hold the tears of Christ."
 "Go then, gather the gold, and may the tears of Christ fall on it, and thou wilt be cured both body and soul."
Lady Wilde.

CHARM AGAINST SORROW

A Charm set by Mary for her Son, before the fair man and the turbulent woman laid Him in the grave.

The charm of Michael with the shield,
 Of the palm-branch of Christ,
 Of Brigit with her veil.

The charm which God set for Himself when the divinity within Him was darkened.

A charm to be said by the cross when the night is black and the soul is heavy with sorrow.

A charm to be said at sunrise, with the hands on the breast, when the eyes are red with weeping, and the madness of grief is strong. A charm that has no words, only the silent prayer.

Lady Wilde.

THE KEENING OF MARY

"O Peter, O Apostle, hast thou seen my bright love?"
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
 "I saw Him even now in the midst of His foemen,"
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"Come hither, two Marys, till ye keen my bright love."
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
 "What have we to keen if we keen not His bones?"
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"Who is that stately man on the tree of the Passion?"
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
 "Dost thou not know thy Son, O Mother?"
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"And is that the little Son I carried nine months?
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
 "And is that the little Son that was born in the stable?
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"And is that the little Son that was nursed at Mary's breast?"
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
 "Hush, O Mother, and be not sorrowful."
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"And is that the hammer that struck home nails through Thee?
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
 "And is that the spear that went through Thy white side?
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"And is that the crown of thorns that crowned Thy beauteous head?"
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
 "Hush, O Mother, be not sorrowful.
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"Hush, O Mother, and be not sorrowful,
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
 "The women of my keening are yet unborn, little Mother."
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"O woman, who weepest by this My death,
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
 "There will be hundreds to-day in the Garden of Paradise!"
 M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
P. H. Pearse.

Taken down from Mary Clancy of Moycullen, who keened it with great horror in her voice, in a low sobbing recitative.

LOVE SONGS AND POPULAR POETRY

CUSHLA MA CHREE

B
 
  
 efore the sun rose at yesterdawn,
 I met a fair maiden adown the lawn;
 The berry and snow
 To her cheek gave its glow,
 And her bosom was fair as the sailing swan;
 Then, Pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine?
Her beautiful voice more hearts hath won
 Than Orpheus' lyre of old hath done;
 Her ripe eyes of blue
 Were crystals of dew
 On the grass of the lawn before the sun;
 And, Pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine?
  
  
Edward Walsh.

THE BLACKTHORN

There is never a merrier lad in the town or a wilder lad on the fells,
 Till I fall to dreaming and thinking of the place where my lost love dwells,
 Winter snow on Slieve na m-Ban, and it evermore drifting above
 The small blossom of the blackthorn who is my own true love.
Were I but down below in a boat I would float out over the sea,
 And many and many a line of love I would waft o'er the wave to thee;
 My lasting sorrow, wound of my heart, that we are not together found
 In the mountain glens at sunrise when the dew lies on the ground.
I myself leave you my thousand farewells in the townland of the trees,
 And in every place I have travelled going up and down from the seas;
 There is many a weary miry road and crooked damp boreen,
 Parting me from the cabin of my own Storeen.
Oh! Paddy, would you think ill of me if you saw that I was crying?
 And oh! Paddy, would you think ill of me if you knew me to be dying?
 Oh! Paddy of the bound black hair, your mouth and your words were sweet,
 But I knew not the hundred twists in your heart, nor the thousand turns on your feet.
Deep down in my pocket is lying the ribbon you wound in my hair,
 The men of Erin together could not tear it away from there;
 All, all is over between us, you and I have said our say,
 And I'll soon be lying quiet in the cold damp clay.
He is the foolish man, indeed, who would spring at the ditch that is steep,
 If close at his hand lay the fence of furze he could take at a single leap;
 Though the rowan-berry swings high, it is bitterest out of the top,
 While thick from the lowliest shrubs the ripe rasps and the blackberries drop.
O Virgin beloved! I am lost if his face should be now turned away;
 What knowledge have I how to reach his house and his kinsfolk this day?
 My mother bent double with age, and my father long laid in the tomb,
 And mad anger on my people towards me, and my love fled home.
Are you going from me for ever, honey mouth, hair of flame?
 If you come not back, avourneen, you leave me blind, dumb, and lame;
 No skiff have I to bring you back, I am broken life and limb;
 The raging ocean rolls between us and I have no strength to swim!

PASTHEEN FINN

A Connaught song.

Oh, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight,
 Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright;
 Like the apple blossom her bosom white,
 And her neck like the swan's, on a March morn bright!
 Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
 Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
 And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
 If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen!
 Her cheeks are red as the rose's sheen,
 But my lips have tasted no more, I ween,
 Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen!
 Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
 Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
 And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
 If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Were I in the town, where's mirth and glee,
 Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree,
 With my Pastheen upon my knee,
 'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly!
 Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
 Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
 And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
 If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Nine nights I lay in longing and pain
 Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain,
 Thinking to see you, love, once again;
 But whistle and call were all in vain!
 Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
 Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
 And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
 If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
I'll leave my people, both friend and foe;
 From all the girls in the world I'll go;
 But from you, sweetheart, oh, never! oh, no!
 Till I lie in the coffin, stretch'd cold and low!
 Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
 Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
 And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
 If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Sir Samuel Ferguson.

SHE

The white bloom of the blackthorn, she,
 The small sweet raspberry-blossom, she;
 More fair the shy, rare glance of her eye,
 Than the wealth of the world to me.
My heart's pulse, my secret, she,
 The flower of the fragrant apple, she;
 A summer glow o'er the winter's snow,
 'Twixt Christmas and Easter, she.

HOPELESS LOVE

S
 
 ince I know
 Hopeless of thy love I go,
 Since from me each dear delight
 takes flight:
Ere we end
 Ways we might together wend,
 Ere the light from out mine eyes
 dies:
Give some sign
 One regretful thought is thine,
 Lest I count my story told,
 overbold.
For I hold,
 Time may yet some joy unfold,
 Joy such as the lifelong blind
 find;
If entwined
 In the fabric of the mind,
 Dwells the memory of thy tear,
 dear!
  

THE GIRL I LOVE

The girl I love is comely, straight, and tall;
 Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall;
 Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free—
 Here's a health to that charming maid, whoe'er she be!
The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek;
 Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek;
 Her lips, like cherries on a summer tree—
 Here's a health to the charming maid, whoe'er she be!
When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound,
 And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round;
 The barrel is full; but its heart we soon shall see—
 Come! here's to that charming maid, whoe'er she be!
Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign,
 Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain,
 I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me—
 Here's a health to the maid I love, whoe'er she be!
Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay,
 And five times five, for my love one hour each day,
 Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree—
 Then, my dear, may I drink a fond, deep health to thee!
Jeremiah Joseph Callanan.

WOULD GOD I WERE

Would God I were the tender apple-blossom
 That floats and falls from off the twisted bough,
 To lie and faint within your silken bosom,
 As that does now.
Or would I were a little burnished apple,
 For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold,
 While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple,
 And your hair's spun gold.
Yea, would to God I were among the roses
 That lean to kiss you as you float between,
 While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses
 To touch you, queen.
Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing,
 A happy daisy, in the garden path,
 That so your silver foot might press me going,
 Even unto death.
Katharine Tynan-Hinkson.

BRANCH OF THE SWEET AND EARLY ROSE

Branch of the sweet and early rose
 That in the purest beauty flows,
 So passing sweet to smell and sight,
 On whom shalt thou bestow delight?
Who in the dewy evening walk
 Shall pluck thee from the tender stalk?
 Whose temples blushing shalt thou twine,
 And who inhale thy breath divine?
Dr. Drennan.

IS TRUAGH GAN MISE I SASANA

'Tis a pity I'm not in England,
 Or with one from Erin thither bound,
 Out in the midst of the ocean,
 Where the thousands of ships are drowned.
From wave to wave of the ocean
 To be guided on with the wind and the rain—
 And, O King! that Thou might'st guide me
 Back to my love again!
Thomas MacDonagh.

THE YELLOW BITTERN

The yellow bittern that never broke out
 In a drinking-bout, might well have drunk;
 His bones are thrown on a naked stone
 Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.
 O yellow bittern! I pity your lot,
 Though they say that a sot like myself is curst—
 I was sober a while, but I'll drink and be wise
 For fear I should die in the end of thirst.
It's not for the common birds that I'd mourn,
 The blackbird, the corncrake or the crane,
 But for the bittern that's shy and apart
 And drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.
 Oh! if I had known you were near your death,
 While my breath held out I'd have run to you,
 Till a splash from the Lake of the Son of the Bird
 Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.
My darling told me to drink no more
 Or my life would be o'er in a little short while;
 But I told her 'tis drink gives me health and strength,
 And will lengthen my road by many a mile.
 You see how the bird of the long smooth neck,
 Could get his death from the thirst at last—
 Come, son of my soul, and drain your cup,
 You'll get no sup when your life is past.
In a wintering island by Constantine's halls,
 A bittern calls from a wineless place,
 And tells me that hither he cannot come
 Till the summer is here and the sunny days.
 When he crosses the stream there and wings o'er the sea,
 Then a fear comes to me he may fail in his flight—
 Well, the milk and the ale are drunk every drop,
 And a dram won't stop our thirst this night.
Thomas MacDonagh.

HAVE YOU BEEN AT CARRACK?

Have you been at Carrack, and saw you my true-love there?
 And saw you her features, all beautiful, bright, and fair?
 Saw you the most fragrant, flowering, sweet apple-tree?
 O! saw you my lov'd one, and pines she in grief like me?
I have been at Carrack, and saw thy own true-love there;
 And saw, too, her features, all beautiful, bright, and fair;
 And saw the most fragrant, flowering, sweet apple-tree—
 I saw thy lov'd one—she pines not in grief, like thee!
Five guineas would price every tress of her golden hair—
 Then think what a treasure her pillow at night to share,
 These tresses thick-clustering and curling around her brow—
 O, Ringlet of Fairness! I'll drink to thy beauty now!
When seeking to slumber, my bosom is rent with sighs—
 I toss on my pillow till morning's blest beams arise;
 No aid, bright Beloved! can reach me save God above,
 For a blood-lake is formed of the light of my eyes with love!

Until yellow Autumn shall usher the Paschal day,
 And Patrick's gay festival come in its train alway—
 Until through my coffin the blossoming boughs shall grow,
 My love on another I'll never in life bestow!
Lo! yonder the maiden illustrious, queen-like, high,
 With long-flowing tresses adown to her sandal-tie—
 Swan, fair as the lily, descended of high degree,
 A myriad of welcomes, dear maid of my heart, to thee!
Edward Walsh.

CASHEL OF MUNSTER

(Air: "Clár bog déil")

I'd wed you without herds, without money, or rich array,
 And I'd wed you on a dewy morning at day-dawn grey;
 My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away
 In Cashel town, though the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day.
Oh, fair maid, remember the green hill side,
 Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide;
 Time now has worn me; my locks are turned to grey,
 The year is scarce and I am poor, but send me not, love, away!
Oh, deem not my birth is of base strain, my girl,
 Oh, deem not my birth was as the birth of a churl;
 Marry me, and prove me, and say soon you will,
 That noble blood is written on my right side still!
My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white,
 No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight!
 But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare though I be and lone,
 Oh, I'd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone.
Oh, my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are,
 And, oh, my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear;
 "I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly,
 And, oh, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!"
Sir Samuel Ferguson.

THE SNOWY-BREASTED PEARL

T
 
 here's a colleen fair as May,
 For a year and for a day
 I've sought by every way her heart to gain.
 There's no art of tongue or eye
 Fond youths with maidens try
 But I've tried with ceaseless sigh, yet tried in vain.
 If to France or far-off Spain
 She'd cross the watery main,
 To see her face again the sea I'd brave.
 And if 'tis heaven's decree
 That mine she may not be
 May the son of Mary me in mercy save!
O thou blooming milk-white dove,
 To whom I've given true love,
 Do not ever thus reprove my constancy.
 There are maidens would be mine,
 With wealth in hand and kine,
 If my heart would but incline to turn from thee.

But a kiss with welcome bland,
 And a touch of thy dear hand,
 Are all that I demand, would'st thou not spurn;
 For if not mine, dear girl,
 O Snowy-Breasted Pearl!
 May I never from the fair with life return!
George Petrie.

THE DARK MAID OF THE VALLEY

(Bean dubh an Gleanna)

Oh, have you seen or have you heard, my treasure of bright faces,
 Some dark glen roving, while in gloom I pine here day and night?
 Far from her voice, far from her eyes, my cloud of woe increases—
 My blessing on that glen and her, for aye and aye alight.
'Tis many's the time they've put in print, to beauty doing homage,
 Her figure tall, her eyebrows small, her thin-lipped mouth of truth,
 Her snowy hands, as fair and fine as silk on wild bird's plumage—
 My bitter sigh to think that I am here, a lonely youth!
One little glance, once at her face, a flame lit in my bosom,
 Oh, snowy-hearted, white-toothed one, whose ringlets are of gold,
 More dear art thou than Deirdre, leaving lovers mourning woesome,
 Or Blanaid, meshing thousands with her winning eyes of old!

Oh, bloom of women! spurn me not for this rich suitor hoary—
 This boorish, noisy, songless man, who comes between us twain;
 It's I would sweetly sing beneath the harvest moon's gold glory,
 For thee full many a Fenian lay and bold Milesian strain!
P. J. McCall.

THE COOLUN

Oh, had you seen the Coolun, walking down by the cuckoo's street,
 With the dew of the meadow shining on her milk-white twinkling feet,
 My love she is, and my coleen oge, and she dwells in Bal'nagar;
 And she bears the palm of beauty bright, from the fairest that in Erin are.
In Bal'nagar is the Coolun, like the berry on the bough her cheek;
 Bright beauty dwells for ever on her fair neck and ringlets sleek;
 Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft music, than the lark or thrush at dawn,
 Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing farewell to the setting sun.
Rise up, my boy! make ready my horse, for I forth would ride,
 To follow the modest damsel, where she walks on the green hill side;
 For, ever since our youth were we plighted, in faith, troth, and wedlock true—
 She is sweeter to me nine times over than organ or cuckoo!

For, ever since my childhood I loved the fair and darling child;
 But our people came between us, and with lucre our pure love defiled;
 Oh, my woe it is, and my bitter pain, and I weep it night and day,
 That the coleen bawn of my early love is torn from my heart away.
Sweetheart and faithful treasure, be constant still, and true;
 Nor for want of herds and houses leave one who would ne'er leave you:
 I'll pledge you the blessed Bible, without and eke within,
 That the faithful God will provide for us, without thanks to kith and kin.
Oh, love, do you remember when we lay all night alone,
 Beneath the ash in the winter-storm, when the oak wood round did groan?
 No shelter then from the blast had we, the bitter blast and sleet,
 But your gown to wrap about our heads, and my coat around our feet.
Sir Samuel Ferguson.

CEANN DUBH DHILEAS[115]