Kitabı oku: «The Mountainy Singer», sayfa 3

I GATHER THREE EARS OF CORN

 
I gather three ears of corn,
And the Black Earl from over the sea
Sails across in his silver ships,
And takes two out of the three.
 
 
I might build a house on the hill
And a barn of the speckly stone,
And tell my little stocking of gold,
If the Earl would let me alone.
 
 
But he has no thought for me —
Only the thought of his share,
And the softness of the linsey shifts
His lazy daughters wear.
 
 
There is a God in heaven,
And angels, score on score,
Who will not see my hearthstone cold
Because I’m crazed and poor.
 
 
My childer have my blood,
And when they get their beards
They will not be content to run
As gillies to their herds!
 
 
The day will come, maybe,
When we can have our own,
And the Black Earl will come to us
Begging the bacach’s bone!
 

THE TINKERS

 
“One ciarog knows another ciarog,
And why shouldn’t I know you, you rogue?”
“They say a stroller will never pair
Except with one of his kind and care.”
So talked two tinkers prone in the shough —
And then, as the fun got a trifle rough,
They flitted: he with his corn-straw bass,
She with her load of tin and brass:
As mad a match as you would see
In a twelvemonth’s ride thro’ Christendie.
He roared – they both were drunk as hell:
She danced, and danced it mighty well!
I could have eyed them longer, but
They staggered for the Quarry Cut:
That half-perch seemed to trouble them more
Than all the leagues they’d tramped before.
Some’ll drink at the fair the morrow,
And some’ll sup with the spoon of sorrow;
But whether they’ll get as far as Droichid
The night – well, who knows that but God?
 

AS I CAME OVER THE GREY, GREY HILLS

 
As I came over the grey, grey hills
And over the grey, grey water,
I saw the gilly leading on,
And the white Christ following after.
 
 
Where and where does the gilly lead?
And where is the white Christ faring?
They’ve travelled the four grey sounds of Orc,
And the four grey seas of Eirinn.
 
 
The moon it set and the wind’s away,
And the song in the grass is dying,
And a silver cloud on the silent sea
Like a shrouding sheet is lying.
 
 
But Christ and the gilly will follow on
Till the ring in the east is showing,
And the awny corn is red on the hills,
And the golden light is glowing!
 

A NORTHERN LOVE-SONG

 
Brigidin Ban of the lint-white locks,
What was it gave you that flaxen hair,
Long as the summer heath in the rocks?
What was it gave you those eyes of fire,
Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?
Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,
Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
 
 
Was it the Good People stole you away,
Little white changeling, Brigidin Ban?
Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,
Laid like a queen on her purple car,
Carried you back ’twixt the night and the day;
Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,
Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,
Lit at the wheel of the southern star;
Gave you that look so far away,
Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?
Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,
Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
 

TO THE GOLDEN EAGLE

 
Wanderer of the mountain,
Winger of the blue,
From this stormy rock
I send my love to you.
 
 
Take me for your lover,
Dark and fierce and true —
Wanderer of the mountain,
Winger of the blue!
 

A PROPHECY

 
“The loins of the Galldacht
Shall wither like grass” —
Strange words I heard said
At the Fair of Dun-eas.
 
 
“A bard shall be born
Of the seed of the folk,
To break with his singing
The bond and the yoke.
 
 
“A sword, white as ashes,
Shall fall from the sky,
To rise, red as blood,
On the charge and the cry.
 
 
“Stark pipers shall blow,
Stout drummers shall beat,
And the shout of the north
Shall be heard in the street.
 
 
“The strong shall go down,
And the weak shall prevail,
And a glory shall sit
On the sign of the Gaodhal.
 
 
“Then Emer shall come
In good time by her own,
And a man of the people
Shall speak from the throne.”
 
 
Strange words I heard said
At the Fair of Dun-eas —
“The Gaodhaldacht shall live,
The Galldacht shall pass!”
 

I MET A WALKING-MAN

 
I met a walking-man;
His head was old and grey.
I gave him what I had
To crutch him on his way.
The man was Mary’s Son, I’ll swear;
A glory trembled in his hair!
 
 
And since that blessed day
I’ve never known the pinch:
I plough a broad townland,
And dig a river-inch;
And on my hearth the fire is bright
For all that walk by day or night.
 

THE NINEPENNY FIDIL

 
My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too;
I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,
And it is Irish, too.
I’m up in the morning early
To meet the dawn of day,
And to the lintwhite’s piping
The many’s the tune I play.
 
 
One pleasant eve in June time
I met a lochrie-man:
His face and hands were weazen,
His height was not a span.
He boor’d me for my fidil —
“You know,” says he, “like you,
My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too!”
 
 
He took my wee red fidil,
And such a tune he turned —
The Glaise in it whispered,
The Lionan in it m’urned.
Says he, “My lad, you’re lucky —
I wish t’ I was like you:
You’re lucky in your birth-star,
And in your fidil, too!”
 
 
He gave me back my fidil,
My fidil-stick, also,
And stepping like a mayboy,
He jumped the Leargaidh Knowe.
I never saw him after,
Nor met his gentle kind;
But, whiles, I think I hear him
A-wheening in the wind!
 
 
My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too:
I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,
And it is Irish, too.
I’m up in the morning early
To meet the dawn of day,
And to the lintwhite’s piping
The many’s the tune I play.
 

GRASSLANDS ARE FAIR

 
Grasslands are fair,
Ploughlands are rare.
Grasslands are lonely,
Ploughlands are comely.
Grasslands breed cattle,
Ploughlands feed people.
Grasslands are not wrought,
Ploughlands swell with thought.
 

WINTER SONG

 
’Twould skin a fairy
It is so airy,
And the snow it nips so cold:
Shepherd and squire
Sit by the fire,
The sheep are in the fold.
 
 
You have your wish —
A reeking dish,
And rubble walls about;
So pity the poor
That have no door
To keep the winter out!
 

I FOLLOW A STAR

 
I follow a star
Burning deep in the blue,
A sign on the hills
Lit for me and for you!
 
 
Moon-red is the star,
Halo-ringed like a rood,
Christ’s heart in its heart set,
Streaming with blood.
 
 
Follow the gilly
Beyond to the west:
He leads where the Christ lies
On Mary’s white breast.
 
 
King, priest and prophet —
A child, and no more —
Adonai the Maker!
Come, let us adore.
 

THE SILENCE OF UNLABOURED FIELDS

 
The silence of unlaboured fields
Lies like a judgment on the air:
A human voice is never heard:
The sighing grass is everywhere —
The sighing grass, the shadowed sky,
The cattle crying wearily!
 
 
Where are the lowland people gone?
Where are the sun-dark faces now?
The love that kept the quiet hearth,
The strength that held the speeding plough?
Grasslands and lowing herds are good,
But better human flesh and blood!