Songs of the Glens of Antrim |
Songs of
The Glens of Antrim BY MOIRA O'NEILL AUTHOR OF 'THE ELF ERRANT,' ETC., ETC. ELEVENTH IMPRESSION NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
MCMIV All Rights reserved PREFACE. These Songs of the Glens of Antrim were written by a Glenswoman in the dialect of the Glens, and chiefly for the pleasure of other Glens-people. By the courtesy of the Editors of 'Blackwood' and the 'Spectator' they are republished here. MOIRA O'NEILL. CONTENTS. THE SONG OF GLEN DUN
CORRYMEELA
MARRIAGE
SEA WRACK
A BROKEN SONG
THE FAIRY LOUGH
A SONG OF GLENANN
"FORGETTIN'"
DENNY'S DAUGHTER
LOST
"CUTTIN' RUSHES"
"THE OULD LAD"
THE RACHRAY MAN
BIRDS
JOHNEEN
"BEAUTY'S A FLOWER"
THE BOY FROM BALLYTEARIM
I MIND THE DAY
GRACE FOR LIGHT
THE GRAND MATCH
THE SAILOR MAN
AT SEA
"LOOKIN' BACK"
THE NORTH-WEST—CANADA
BACK TO IRELAND THE SONG OF GLEN DUN. Sure this is blessed Erin an' this the same glen, The gold is on the whin-bush, the wather sings again, The Fairy Thorn's in flower,—an' what ails my heart then? Flower o' the May, Flower o' the May, What about the May time, an' he far away! Summer loves the green glen, the white bird loves the sea, An' the wind must kiss the heather top, an' the red bell hides a bee; As the bee is dear to the honey-flower, so one is dear to me. Flower o' the rose, Flower o' the rose, A thorn pricked me one day, but nobody knows. The bracken up the braeside has rusted in the air, Three birches lean together, so silver limbed an' fair, Och! golden leaves are flyin' fast, but the scarlet roan is rare. Berry o' the roan, Berry o' the roan, The wind sighs among the trees, but I sigh alone. I knit beside the turf fire, I spin upon the wheel, Winter nights for thinkin' long, round runs the reel.... But he never knew, he never knew that here for him I'd kneel. Sparkle o' the fire, Sparkle o' the fire, Mother Mary, keep my love, an' send me my desire! CORRYMEELA. Over here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay, An' I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day; Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat! Och! Corrymeela an' the blue sky over it. There' a deep dumb river flowin' by beyont the heavy trees, This livin' air is moithered wi' the bummin' o' the bees; I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go runnin' through the heat Past Corrymeela, wi' the blue sky over it. The people that's in England is richer nor the Jews, There' not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes! I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child, Och! Corrymeela an' the low south wind. Here's hands so full o' money an' hearts so full o' care, By the luck o' love! I'd still go light for all I did go bare. "God save ye, colleen dhas," I said: the girl she thought me wild. Far Corrymeela, an' the low south wind. D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise, The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are ill to plase; When one'st I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis I'll be back again— Ay, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain. The puff o' smoke from one ould roof before an English town! For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I'd give a silver crown, For a curl o' hair like Mollie's ye'll ask the like in vain, Sweet Corrymeela, an' the same soft rain. I med an' ould caillach I knowed right well on the brow "The top o' the mornin'!" I says to her. "God save ye!" "An' och! if it's you, Tell me true, When are ye goin' to marry?" "I'm here," says I, "to be married to-morrow, Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow." "As sure as ye're young an' fair," says she, "one day ye'll If ye haven't a husband, who'll care," says she, "to call ye Left to yerself, Laid on the shelf,— Now is yer time to marry. Musha! don't tell me ye'll be married to-morrow, Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow." "I may be dead ere I'm ould," says I, "for nobody knows their day. I never was fear'd o' the could," says I, "but I'm fear'd Good or bad, Sorry or glad, 'Tis mine no more when I marry. So here stand I, to be married to-morrow, Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow." The poor ould caillach went down the hill shakin' her finger at me. "'Tis on top o' the world ye think yerself still, an' that's But thon was the day Dan MacIlray Had me promise to marry. So here stand I, to be married to-morrow,— The man he is found, but the money's to borrow. SEA WRACK. The wrack was dark an' shiny where it floated in the sea, There was no one in the brown boat but only him an' me; Him to cut the sea wrack, me to mind the boat, An' not a word between us the hours we were afloat. The wet wrack, The sea wrack, The wrack was strong to cut. We laid it on the grey rocks to wither in the sun, An' what should call my lad then, to sail from Cushendun? With a low moon, a full tide, a swell upon the deep, Him to sail the old boat, me to fall asleep. The dry wrack, The sea wrack, The wrack was dead so soon. There' a fire low upon the rocks to burn the wrack to kelp, There' a boat gone down upon the Moyle, an' sorra one to help! Him beneath the salt sea, me upon the shore, By sunlight or moonlight we'll lift the wrack no more. The dark wrack, The sea wrack, The wrack may drift ashore. A BROKEN SONG. 'Where am I from?' From the green hills of Erin. 'Have I no song then?' My songs are all sung. 'What o' my love?' 'Tis alone I am farin'. Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young. 'If she was tall?' Like a king's own daughter. 'If she was fair?' Like a mornin' o' May. When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather, When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day. 'Where did she dwell?' Where one'st I had my dwellin'. 'Who loved her best?' There' no one now will know. 'Where is she gone?' Och, why would I be tellin'! Where she is gone there I can never go. THE FAIRY LOUGH. Loughareema! Loughareema Lies so high among the heather; A little lough, a dark lough, The wather's black an' deep. Ould herons go a-fishin' there An' sea-gulls all together Float roun' the one green island On the fairy lough asleep. Loughareema, Loughareema; When the sun goes down at seven, When the hills are dark an' airy, 'Tis a curlew whistles sweet! Then somethin' rustles all the reeds That stand so thick an' even; A little wave runs up the shore An' flees, as if on feet. Loughareema, Loughareema! Stars come out, an' stars are hidin'; The wather whispers on the stones, The flittherin' moths are free One'st before the mornin' light The Horsemen will come ridin' Roun' an' roun' the fairy lough, A SONG OF GLENANN. Och, when we lived in ould Glenann Meself could lift a song! An' ne'er an hour by day or dark Would I be thinkin' long. The weary wind might take the roof, The rain might lay the corn; We'd up an' look for betther luck But since we come away from there I still have wrought, an' still have thought The way I'm doin' the day. An' now we're quarely betther fixed, In troth! there' nothin' wrong: But me an' mine, by rain an' shine "FORGETTIN'." The night when last I saw my lad His eyes were bright an' wet. He took my two hands in his own, "'Tis well," says he, "we're met. Asthore machree! the likes o' me Ah, sure the same's a thriflin' thing, 'Tis more I'd do for him! I mind the night I promised well, An' every little while or so It shouldn't take that long to do, 'Tis quare the way I'll hear his voice, A boy that's out o' call,— An' whiles I'll see him stand as plain Och, never fear, my jewel! I'd forget ye now this minute, If I only had a notion O' the way I should begin it; But first an' last it isn't known The heap o' throuble's in it. Meself began the night ye went I'm nearly fit to give it up, For where's the use to fret?— An' the memory's fairly spoilt on me DENNY'S DAUGHTER. Denny's daughter stood a minute in the field I be to pass, All as quiet as her shadow lyin' by her on the grass; In her hand a switch o' hazel from the nut tree's crooked root, Well I mind the crown o' clover crumpled undher one bare foot. For the look of her, The look of her Comes back on me to-day,— Wi' the eyes of her, The eyes of her That took me on the way. Though I seen poor Denny's daughter white an' stiff upon her bed, Yet I be to think there's sunlight fallin' somewhere on her head: She'll be singin' Ave Mary where the flowers never wilt, She, the girl my own hands covered wi' the narrow daisy-quilt.... For the love of her, The love of her That would not be my wife: An' the loss of her, The loss of her Has left me lone for life. LOST. Listen, oh my jewel, I would say,— Only wait to' I can get the word: Sure I thought I had it sweet an' gay Like the bravest song o' summer bird. Faith! I knew it well an' very well When this hour the rain begun to fall, Now the sorra one o' me can tell What about it was at all, at all. Listen, oh my jewel, I was wrong,— Never, never lived a word so sad; Not the heavy sea that drives along Bears such weighty throuble as it had. Och anee! wi' ne'er a voice to cry, Like the weary cloud or drownin' moon So it sank, or so was carried by: Never told is all forgot so soon. "CUTTIN' RUSHES." Oh maybe it was yesterday, or fifty years ago! Meself was risin' early on a day for cuttin' rushes. Walkin' up the Brabla' burn, still the sun was low. Now I'd hear the burn run an' then I'd hear the thrushes. Young, still young!—an' drenchin' wet the grass, Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin' sweetly down; Here, lad, here! will ye follow where I pass, An' find me cuttin' rushes on the mountain. Then was it only yesterday, or fifty years or so? Rippin' round the bog pools high among the heather, The hook it made me hand sore, I had to leave it go, 'Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to bind together. Come, dear, come!—an' back along the burn See the darlin' honeysuckle hangin' like a crown. Quick, one kiss,—sure, there' some one at the turn! "Oh, we're afther cuttin' rushes on the mountain." Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago.... I waken out o' dreams when I hear the summer thrushes. Oh, that's the Brabla' burn, I can hear it sing an' flow, For all that's fair, I'd sooner see a bunch o' green rushes. Run, burn, run! can ye mind when we were young? The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark an' brown: Sing, burn, sing! can ye mind the song ye sung The day we cut the rushes on the mountain? "THE OULD LAD." I mind meself a wee boy wi' no plain talk, An' standin' not the height o' two peats; There was things meself consated 'or the time that I could walk, An' who's to tell when wit an' childer meets? 'Twas the daisies down in the low grass, The stars high up in the skies, The first I knowed of a mother's face Wi' the kind love in her eyes, The kind love in her eyes. I went the way of other lads that's neither good nor bad, An' still, d'ye see, a lad has far to go; But the things meself consated when I wasn't sick nor sad, They're aisy told, an' little use to know. 'Twas whiles a boat on the say beyont, An' whiles a girl on the shore, An' whiles a scrape o' the fiddle-strings, Or maybe an odd thing more A man, they say, in spite of all, is betther for a wife, In-undher this ould roof I live me lone; I never seen the woman yet I wanted all me life, An' I never made me pillow on a stone. 'Tis "fancy buys the ribbon" an' all, An' fancy sticks to the young; But a man of his years can do wi' a pipe Can smoke an' hould his tongue, Smoke an' hould his tongue. Ye see me now an ould man, his work near done, Sure the hair upon me head's gone white; But the things meself consated 'or the time that I could run, They're the nearest to me heart this night. Just the daisies down in the low grass, The stars high up in the skies, The first I knowed of a mother's face Wi' the kind love in her eyes, The kind love in her eyes. THE RACHRAY MAN. Och, what was it got me at all that time To promise I'd marry a Rachray man? An' now he'll not listen to rason or rhyme, He's strivin' to hurry me all that he can. "Come on, an' ye be to come on!" says he, "Ye're bound for the Island, to live wi' me." See Rachray Island beyont in the bay, An' the dear knows what they be doin' out there But fishin' an' fightin' an' tearin' away, An' who's to hindher, an' what do they care? The goodness can tell what 'ud happen to me When Rachray 'ud have me, anee, anee! I might have took Pether from over the hill, A dacent poacher, the kind poor boy: Could I keep the ould places about me still I'd never set foot out o' sweet Ballyvoy. My sorra on Rachray, the could sea-caves, An' blackneck divers, an' weary ould waves! I'll never win back now, whatever may fall, So give me good luck, for ye'll see me no more; Sure an Island man is the mischief an' all— An' me that never was married before! Oh think o' my fate when ye dance at a fair, In Rachray there' no Christianity there. BIRDS. Sure maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush Whistlin' bould in March, Before there' a primrose peepin' out, Or a wee red cone on the larch; Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, An' the wind to come over the sea, But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud, He's never the bird for me. Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves, An' low wi' love when he's near the nest, An' loud from the top o' the tree, But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast, He's never the bird for me. Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo When one sweet thought is the whole of his life, An' he tells it the one sweet way. But my heart is sore at the cushadoo Filled wid his own soft glee, Over an' over his "me an' you!" He's never the bird for me. Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast Singin' his lone on a thorn, Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost, Brave wid his heart forlorn. The time is in dark November, An' no spring hopes has he: "Remember," he sings, "remember!" Ay, thon's the wee bird for me. JOHNEEN. Sure he's five months old, an' he's two foot long, Watch yerself now, for he's terrible sthrong, An' his fists 'ill be up if ye make any slips, He has finger-ends like the daisy-tips, But he'll have ye attend to the words of his lips, There' nobody can rightly tell the colour of his eyes, For they're partly o' the earth an' still they're partly o' the skies, So far as he's thravelled he's been laughin' all the way, For the little soul is quare an' wise, the little heart is gay; An' he likes the merry daffodils, he thinks they'd do to play He'll sail a boat yet, if he only has his luck, For he takes to the wather like any little duck, Sure them are the hands now to pull on a rope, An' nate feet for walkin' the deck on a slope, But the ship she must wait a wee while yet, I hope, For we couldn't do wantin' him, not just yet, 'Tis you that are the daisy, an' you that are the pet, Here's to your health, an' we'll dhrink it to-night Slainte gal, avic machree! live an' do right, Slainte gal avourneen! may your days be bright, |
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