Poems by Denis Florence MacCarthy (great novels txt) 📕

of the Glynnes (in the county of Antrim); for Con had been informed that MacJohn had in possession the finest woman, steed, and hound, of any other person in his neighbourhood. He sent a messenger for the steed before that time, and was refused, although Con had, at the same time, promised it to one of his own people. Con did not delay, and got over every difficult pass with his small-powerful force, without battle or obstruction, until he arrived in the night at the house of MacJohn, whom he, in the first place, took prisoner, and his wife, steed, and hound, and all his property, were under Con's control, for he found the same steed, with sixteen others, in the town on that occasion. All the Glynnes were plundered on the following day by Con's people, but he afterwards, however, made perfect restitution of all property, to whomsoever it belonged, to MacJohn's wife, and he set her husband free to her after he had passed the Bann westward. He brought with him the steed and great booty and spoils, into Tirhugh, and ordered the cattle-prey to be let out on the pasturage.-"Annals of the Four Masters," translated by Owen Connellan, Esq., p. 331-2. This poem, founded upon the foregoing passage (and in which the hero acts with more generosity than the Annals warrant) was written and published in the Dublin University Magazine before the appearance of Mr. O'Donovan's "Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland,"-the magnificent work published in 1848 by Messrs. Hodges and Smith, of this city. For Mr. O'Donovan's version of this passage, which differs from that of the former translator in two or three important particulars, see the second volume of his work, p. 1219. The principal castle of the O'Donnell's was at Donegal. The building, of which some portions still exist, was erected in the twelfth century. The banqueting-hall, which is the scene of the opening portion of this ballad, is still preserved, and commands some beautiful views.]

The evening shadows sweetly fall Along the hills of Donegal, Sweetly the rising moonbeams play Along the shores of Inver Bay,[77] As smooth and white Lough Eask[78] expands As Rosapenna's[79] silvery sands, And quiet reigns all o'er thy fields, Clan Dalaigh[80] of the golden shields.

The fairy gun[81] is heard no more To boom within the cavern'd shore, With smoother roll the torrents flow Adown the rocks of Assaroe;[82] Securely, till the coming day, The red deer couch in far Glenvay, And all is peace and calm around O'Donnell's castled moat and mound.

But in the hall there feast to-night Full many a kern and many a knight, And gentle dames, and clansmen strong, And wandering bards, with store of song: The board is piled with smoking kine, And smooth bright cups of Spanish wine, And fish and fowl from stream and shaw, And fragrant mead and usquebaugh.

The chief is at the table's head- 'Tis Con, the son of Hugh the Red- The heir of Conal Golban's line;[83] With pleasure flushed, with pride and wine, He cries, "Our dames adjudge it wrong, To end our feast without the song; Have we no bard the strain to raise? No foe to taunt, no maid to praise?

"Where beauty dwells the bard should dwell, What sweet lips speak the bard should tell; 'Tis he should look for starry eyes, And tell love's watchers where they rise: To-night, if lips and eyes could do, Bards were not wanting in Tirhugh; For where have lips a rosier light, And where are eyes more starry bright?"

Then young hearts beat along the board, To praise the maid that each adored, And lips as young would fain disclose The love within; but one arose, Gray as the rocks beside the main,- Gray as the mist upon the plain,- A thoughtful, wandering, minstrel man, And thus the aged bard began:-

"O Con, benevolent hand of peace!
O tower of valour firm and true! Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece,
Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh. Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed,
Where green hills rise and white waves fall, I have not seen so fair a maid
As once I saw by Cushendall.[84]

"O Con, thou hospitable Prince!
Thou, of the open heart and hand, Full oft I've seen the crimson tints
Of evening on the western land. I've wandered north, I've wandered south,
Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall, But never saw so sweet a mouth
As whispered love by Cushendall.

"O Con, munificent gifts!
I've seen the full round harvest moon Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts
Upon thy royal rock of Doune.[85] I've seen the stars that glittering lie
O'er all the night's dark mourning pall, But never saw so bright an eye
As lit the glens of Cushendall.

"I've wandered with a pleasant toil,
And still I wander in my dreams; Even from the white-stoned beach, Loch Foyle,
To Desmond of the flowing streams. I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath,
To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall; But never saw such pearly teeth,
As her's that smiled by Cushendall.

"O Con! thou'rt rich in yellow gold,
Thy fields are filled with lowing kine, Within they castles wealth untold,
Within thy harbours fleets of wine; But yield not, Con, to worldly pride
Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all; Far richer he who for his bride
Has won fair Anne of Cushendall.

"She leans upon a husband's arm,
Surrounded by a valiant clan, In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm,
Beyond the pearly-paven Bann; 'Mid hazel woods no stately tree
Looks up to heaven more graceful-tall, When summer clothes its boughs, than she,
MacDonnell's wife of Cushendall!"

The bard retires amid the throng, No sweet applause rewards his song, No friendly lip that guerdon breathes, To bard more sweet than golden wreaths. It might have been the minstrel's art Had lost the power to move the heart, It might have been his harp had grown Too old to yield its wonted tone.

But no, if hearts were cold and hard, 'Twas not the fault of harp or bard; It was no false or broken sound That failed to move the clansmen round. Not these the men, nor these the times, To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes; 'Twas what he said that made them chill, And not his singing well or ill.

Already had the stranger band Of Saxons swept the weakened land, Already on the neighbouring hills They named anew a thousand rills, "Our fairest castles," pondered Con, "Already to the foe are gone, Our noblest forests feed the flame, And now we lose our fairest dame."

But though his cheek was white with rage, He seemed to smile, and cried-"O Sage! O honey-spoken bard of truth! MacDonnell is a valiant youth. We long have been the Saxon's prey- Why not the Scot as well as they? He's of as good a robber line As any a Burke or Geraldine.

"From Insi Gall,[86] so speaketh fame, From Insi Gall his people came; From Insi Gall, where storm winds roar Beyond the gray Albin's icy shore. His grandsire and his grandsire's son, Full soon fat herds and pastures won; But, by Columba! were we men, We'd send the whole brood back again!

"Oh! had we iron hands to dare, As we have waxen hearts to bear, Oh! had we manly blood to shed, Or even to tinge our cheeks with red, No bard could say as you have said, One of the race of Somerled- A base intruder from the Isles- Basks in our island's sunniest smiles!

"But, not to mar our feast to-night With what to-morrow's sword may right, O Bard of many songs! again Awake thy sweet harp's silvery strain. If beauty decks with peerless charm MacDonnell's wife in fair Glenarm, Say does there bound in Antrim's meads A steed to match O'Donnell's steeds?"

Submissive doth the bard incline
His reverend head, and cries, "O Con, Thou heir of Conal Golban's line,
I've sang the fair wife of MacJohn; You'll frown again as late you frowned,
But truth will out when lips are freed; There's not a steed on Irish ground
To stand beside MacDonnell's steed!

"Thy horses o'er Eargals' plains,
Like meteors stars their red eyes gleam; With silver hoofs and broidered reins,
They mount the hill and swim the stream; But like the wind through Barnesmore,
Or white-maned wave through Carrig-Rede,[87] Or like a sea-bird to the shore,
Thus swiftly sweeps MacDonnell's steed!

"A thousand graceful steeds had Fin,
Within lost Almhaim's fairy hall, A thousand steeds as sleek of skin
As ever graced a chieftain's stall. With gilded bridles oft they flew,
Young eagles in their lightning speed, Strong as the cataract of Hugh,[88]
So swift and strong MacDonnell's steed!"

Without the hearty word of praise, Without the kindly smiling gaze, Without the friendly hand to greet, The daring bard resumes his seat. Even in the hospitable face Of Con, the anger you could trace. But generous Con his wrath suppressed, For Owen was Clan Dalaigh's guest.

"Now, by Columba!" Con exclaimed, "Methinks this Scot should be ashamed To snatch at once, in sateless greed, The fairest maid and finest steed; My realm is dwindled in mine eyes, I know not what to praise or prize, And even my noble dog, O Bard, Now seems unworthy my regard!"

"When comes the raven of the sea
To nestle on an alien strand, Oh! ever, ever will he be
The master of the subject land. The fairest dame, he holdeth her-
For him the noblest steed doth bound-; Your dog is but a household cur,
Compared to John MacDonnell's hound!

"As fly the shadows o'er the grass,
He flies with step as light and sure, He hunts the wolf through Trosstan pass,
And starts the deer by Lisanoure! The music of the Sabbath bells,
O Con, has not a sweeter sound Than when along the valley swells
The cry of John MacDonnell's hound.

"His stature tall, his body long,
His back like night, his breast like snow, His fore-leg pillar-like and strong,
His hind-leg like a bended bow; Rough, curling hair, head long and thin,
His ear a leaf so small and round: Not Bran, the favourite hound of Fin,
Could rival John MacDonnell's hound.

"O Con! thy bard will sing no more,
There is a fearful time at hand; The Scot is on the northern shore,
The Saxon in the eastern land; The hour comes on with quicker flight,
When all who live on Irish ground Must render to the stranger's might
Both maid and wife, and steed and hound!"

The trembling bard again retires, But now he lights a thousand fires; The pent-up flame bursts out at length, In all its burning, tameless strength. You'd think each clansman's foe was by, So sternly flashed each angry eye; You'd think 'twas in the battle's clang O'Donnell's thundering accents rang!

"No! by my sainted kinsman,[89] no! This foul disgrace must not be so; No, by the Shrines of Hy, I've sworn, This foulest wrong must not be borne. A better steed!-a fairer