The Mountainy Singer

The Mountainy Singer

This book is made up of a selection from the Author’s early books, with many new poems added.

A LINE’S A SPEECH

A line’s a speech;So here’s a lineTo say this pedlar’s packOf mineIs not a book —But a journey thro’Mountainy places,Ever in viewOf the sea and the fields,With the rough windBlowing over the leaguesBehind!

I AM THE MOUNTAINY SINGER

I am the mountainy singer —The voice of the peasant’s dream,The cry of the wind on the wooded hill,The leap of the fish in the stream.Quiet and love I sing —The carn on the mountain crest,The cailin in her lover’s arms,The child at its mother’s breast.Beauty and peace I sing —The fire on the open hearth,The cailleach spinning at her wheel,The plough in the broken earth.Travail and pain I sing —The bride on the childing bed,The dark man labouring at his rhymes,The ewe in the lambing shed.Sorrow and death I sing —The canker come on the corn,The fisher lost in the mountain loch,The cry at the mouth of morn.No other life I sing,For I am sprung of the stockThat broke the hilly land for bread,And built the nest in the rock!

WHEN ROOKS FLY HOMEWARD

When rooks fly homewardAnd shadows fall,When roses foldOn the hay-yard wall,When blind moths flutterBy door and tree,Then comes the quietOf Christ to me.When stars look outOn the Children’s PathAnd grey mists gatherOn carn and rath,When night is oneWith the brooding sea,Then comes the quietOf Christ to me.

I SPIN MY GOLDEN WEB

I spin my golden web in the sun:The cherries tremble, the light is done.A sudden wind sweeps over the bay,And carries my golden web away!

CHERRY VALLEY

In Cherry Valley the cherries blow:The valley paths are white as snow.And in their time with clusters redThe scented boughs are crimsonèd.Even now the moon is looking thro’The glimmer of the honey dew.A petal trembles to the grass,The feet of fairies pass and pass.By them, I know, all beauty comesTo me, a habitan of slums.I sing no rune, I say no line:The gift of second sight is mine!

DARKNESS

Darkness.I stop to watch a star shine in the boghole —A star no longer, but a silver ribbon of light.I look at it, and pass on.

MY FIDIL IS SINGING

My fidil is singingInto the air;The wind is stirring,The moon is fair.A shadow wandersAlong the road;It stops to listen,And drops its load.Dreams for a spaceUpon the moon,Then passes, hummingMy mountain tune.

THE GOAT-DEALER

Did you see the goat-dealerAll in his jacket green?I met him on the rocky road’Twixt this and Baile-doirin.A hundred nannies ran before,And a she-ass behind,And then the old wanderer himself,Burnt red with sun and wind.He gave me the time-a-dayAnd doitered over the hill,Walloping his gay ashplantAnd shouting his fill.I think I hear him yet,Tho’ it’s a giant’s cryFrom where I hailed him first,Standing up to the sky.Is that Puck Green I see beyond?It is, and the stir is there.By the holy hat, I know then —He’s making for Puck Fair!

WHY CRUSH THE CLARET ROSE

Why crush the claret roseThat blowsSo rarely on the tree?Wherefore the enmity, dear girl,Betwixt the rose and thee?Art thou not fair enoughWith that dark beauty given thee,That thou must crush the roseThat blowsSo rarely on the tree!

LAMENT OF PADRAIC MOR MAC CRUIMIN OVER HIS SONS

I am Padraic Mor mac Cruimin,Son of Domhnall of the Shroud,Piper, like my kind before me,To the household of MacLeod.Death is in the seed of Cruimin —All my music is a wail;Early graves await the poetsAnd the pipers of the Gael.Samhain gleans the golden harvestsDuly in their tide and time,But my body’s fruit is blastedBarely past the Bealtein prime.Cethlenn claims the fairest fightersFitly for her own, her own,But my seven sons are strickenWhere no battle-pipe is blown.Flowers of the forest fallenOn the sliding summer stream —Light and life and love are with me,Then are vanished into dream.Berried branches of the rowanRifled in the wizard wind —Clan and generation leave me,Lonely on the heath behind.Who will soothe a father’s sorrowWhen his seven sons are gone?Who will watch him in his sleeping?Who will wake him at the dawn?Seven sons are taken from meIn the compass of a year;Every bone is bose within me,All my blood is white with fear.Seven youths of brawn and beautyMoulder in their mountain bed,Up in storied Inis-ScathachWhere their fathers reaped their bread.Nevermore upon the mountain,Nevermore in fair or field,Shall ye see the seven championsOf the silver-mantled shield.I will play the “Cumhadh na Cloinne”Wildest of the rowth of tunesGathered by the love of mortalFrom the olden druid runes.Wail ye! Night is on the water;Wind and wave are roaring loud —Caoine for the fallen childrenOf the piper of MacLeod.

TO A TOWN GIRL

Violet mystery,Ringleted gold,Whiteness of whiteness,Wherefore so cold?Silent you sit there —Spirit and mould —Darkening the dreamThat must never be told!

A MARCH MOON

A March moonOver the mountain crest,Ceanabhan blowing:Her neck and breast.Arbutus berriesOn the tree head:Her mouth of passion,Dewy and red.Cold as coldAnd hot as hot,She loves me..And she loves me not!

A THOUSAND FEET UP

A thousand feet up: twilight.Westwards, a clump of firtrees silhouetted against a bank of blue cumulus cloud;The June afterglow like a sea behind.The mountain trail, white and clear where human feet have worn it, zigzagging higher and higher till it loses itself in the southern skyline.A patch of young corn to my right hand, swaying and swaying continuously, tho’ hardly an air stirs.A falcon wheeling overhead.The moon rising.The damp smell of the night in my nostrils.O hills, O hills,To you I lift mine eyes!I kneel down and kiss the grass under my feet.The sense of the mystery and infinity of things overwhelms me, annihilates me almost.I kneel down, and silently worship.

THE DARK

This is the dark.This is the dream that came of the dark.This is the dreamer who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.This is the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.This is the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.This is the breast that fired the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.This is the song was made to the breast that fired the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.This is the sword that tracked the song was made to the breast that fired the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.This is the rope that swung the sword that tracked the song was made to the breast that fired the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.This is the dark that buried the rope that swung the sword that tracked the song was made to the breast that fired the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.This is the dark, indeed!

REYNARDINE

If by chance you look for mePerhaps you’ll not me find,For I’ll be in my castle —Enquire for Reynardine!Sun and dark he courted me —His eyes were red as wine:He took me for his leman,Did my sweet Reynardine.Sun and dark the gay horn blows,The beagles run like wind:They know not where he harbours,The fairy Reynardine.If by chance you look for mePerhaps you’ll not me find,For I’ll be in my castle —Enquire for Reynardine!

SNOW

Hills that were darkAt sparing-time last nightNow in the dawn-ringGlimmer cold and white.

I AM THE GILLY OF CHRIST

I am the gilly of Christ,The mate of Mary’s Son;I run the roads at seeding time,And when the harvest’s done.I sleep among the hills,The heather is my bed;I dip the termon-well for drink,And pull the sloe for bread.No eye has ever seen me,But shepherds hear me pass,Singing at fall of evenAlong the shadowed grass.The beetle is my bellman,The meadow-fire my guide,The bee and bat my ambling nagsWhen I have need to ride.All know me only the Stranger,Who sits on the Saxon’s height;He burned the bacach’s little houseOn last Saint Brigid’s Night.He sups off silver dishes,And drinks in a golden horn,But he will wake a wiser manUpon the Judgment Morn!I am the gilly of Christ,The mate of Mary’s Son;I run the roads at seeding time,And when the harvest’s done.The seed I sow is lucky,The corn I reap is red,And whoso sings the Gilly’s RannWill never cry for bread.

GO, PLOUGHMAN, PLOUGH

Go, ploughman, ploughThe mearing lands,The meadow lands,The mountain lands:All life is bareBeneath your share,All love is in your lusty hands.Up, horses, now!And straight and trueLet every broken furrow run:The strength you sweatShall blossom yetIn golden glory to the sun.

GO, REAPER

Go, reaper,Speed and reap,Go take the harvestOf the plough:The wheat is standingBroad and deep,The barley glumesAre golden now.Labour is hard,But it enduresLike love:The land is yours:Go reap the lifeIt gives you now,O sunbrowned masterOf the plough!

THE GOOD PEOPLE

The millway path looks like a wraith,The lock is black as ink,And silently in stream and skyThe stars begin to blink.I see them pass along the grassWith slow and solemn tread:Aoibheall, their queen, is in between —A corpse is at their head!They wander on with faces wan,And dirges sad as wind.I know not, but it may be thatThe dead’s of human kind.

THE STORM IS STILL, THE RAIN HATH CEASED

The storm is still, the rain hath ceasedTo vex the beauty of the east:A linnet singeth in the woodHis hermit song of gratitude.So shall I sing when life is doneTo greet the glory of the sun;And cloud and star and stream and seaShall dance for very ecstasy!

SCARE-THE-CROWS

Twopence a day for scaring crows —Tho’ the rain beats and the wind blows!The scholars think I’ve little wit,But, God! I’ve got my share of it.Why does the gorbing land-sharkLeave ploughed rigs for the green park?Where little’s to find, and nothing’s to eatBut rabbits’ droppings and pheasants’ meat.He knows better than come my wayBetween the mouth and the tail of day.For one lick of my hurding wattleWould lay him out like a showman’s bottle!And the thoughts that rise in my crazed headWhen the cloud is low and the wind’s dead.Where you see only clay and stonesI see swords and blanching bones..But I’ll leave you now – it’s gone six,And the smoke is curling over the ricks.And it’s hardly like that the land-sharkWill trouble the furrows after dark.

A CRADLE-SONG

Sleep, white love, sleep,A cedarn cradle holds thee,And twilight, like a silver-woven coverlid,Enfolds thee.Moon and star keep charmèd watchUpon thy lying;Water plovers thro’ the duskAre tremulously crying.Sleep, white love mine,Till day doth shine.Sleep, white love, sleep,The daylight wanes, and deeperGathers the blue darknessO’er the cradle of the sleeper.Cliodhna’s curachs, carmine-oared,On Loch-da-linn are gleaming;Blind bats flutter thro’ the night,And carrion birds are screaming.Sleep, white love mine,Till day doth shine.Sleep, white love, sleep,The holy mothers, Anne and Mary,Sit high in heaven, dreamingOn the seven ends of Eire.Brigid sits beside them,Spinning lamb-white wool on whorls,Singing fragrant songs of loveTo little naked boys and girls.Sleep, white love mine,Till day doth shine.

TWINE THE MAZES THRO’ AND THRO’

Twine the mazes thro’ and thro’Over beach and margent pale;Not a bawn appears in view,Not a sail!Round about!In and out!Thro’ the stones and sandy barsTo the music of the stars!The asteroidal fire that dancesNightly in the northern blue,The brightest of the boreal lances,Dances not so light as you,Cliodhna!Dances not so light as you.

THE FIGHTING-MAN

A fighting-man he was,Guts and soul;His blood as hot and redAs that on Cain’s hand-towel.A copper-skinned six-footer,Hewn out of the rock.Who would stand up againstHis hammer-knock?Not a sinner —No, and not one dared!Giants showed clean heelsWhen his arm was bared.I’ve seen him swing an anvilFifty feet,Break a bough in two,And tear a twisted sheet.And the music of his roar —Like oaks in thunder cleaving;Lips foaming red froth,And flanks heaving.God! a goodly man,A Gael, the lastOf those that stood with DanOn Mullach-Maist!

MY MOTHER HAS A WEE RED SHOE

My mother has a wee red shoe —She bought it off a bacach-man;And all the neighbours say it’s trueHe stole it off a Leath-brogan.Bacach-man, bacach-man,Where did you get it?Faith now, says he,In my leather wallet!My father has an arrow-head —He begged it off poor Peig na Blath;And Mor, the talking-woman, saidShe found it in a fairy rath.Peig na Blath, Peig na Blath,Where did you get it?Faith now, says she,In my wincey jacket!My brother has a copper pot —He tryst’ it wi’ a shuiler-man;And gossip says it’s like as notHe truff’d it from a Clobhair-ceann.Shuiler-man, shuiler-man,Where did you get it?Faith now, says he,In my breeches’ pocket!

BY A WONDROUS MYSTERY

By a wondrous mysteryChrist of Mary’s fair bodyUpon a middle winter’s morn,Between the tides of night and day,In Ara’s holy isle was born.Mary went upon her kneeTravailing in ecstasy,And Brigid, mistress of the birth,Full reverently and tenderlyLaid the child upon the earth.Then the dark-eyed rose did blow,And rivers leaped from out the snow.Earth grew lyrical: the grass,As the light winds chanced to pass —Than magian music more profound —Murmured in a maze of sound.White incense rose upon the hillsAs from a thousand thuribles,And in the east a seven-rayed starProclaimed the news to near and far.The shepherd danced, the gilly ran,The boatman left his curachan;The king came riding on the windTo offer gifts of coin and kind;The druid dropped his ogham wand,And said, “Another day’s at hand,A newer dawn is in the sky:I put my withered sapling by.The druid Christ has taken breathTo sing the runes of life and death.”

I GATHER THREE EARS OF CORN

I gather three ears of corn,And the Black Earl from over the seaSails across in his silver ships,And takes two out of the three.I might build a house on the hillAnd 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 shiftsHis lazy daughters wear.There is a God in heaven,And angels, score on score,Who will not see my hearthstone coldBecause I’m crazed and poor.My childer have my blood,And when they get their beardsThey will not be content to runAs gillies to their herds!The day will come, maybe,When we can have our own,And the Black Earl will come to usBegging 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 pairExcept 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 seeIn 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, butThey staggered for the Quarry Cut:That half-perch seemed to trouble them moreThan 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 DroichidThe night – well, who knows that but God?

AS I CAME OVER THE GREY, GREY HILLS

As I came over the grey, grey hillsAnd 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 seaLike a shrouding sheet is lying.But Christ and the gilly will follow onTill 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 rockI 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 GalldachtShall wither like grass” —Strange words I heard saidAt the Fair of Dun-eas.“A bard shall be bornOf the seed of the folk,To break with his singingThe 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 northShall be heard in the street.“The strong shall go down,And the weak shall prevail,And a glory shall sitOn the sign of the Gaodhal.“Then Emer shall comeIn good time by her own,And a man of the peopleShall speak from the throne.”Strange words I heard saidAt 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 hadTo crutch him on his way.The man was Mary’s Son, I’ll swear;A glory trembled in his hair!And since that blessed dayI’ve never known the pinch:I plough a broad townland,And dig a river-inch;And on my hearth the fire is brightFor 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 earlyTo meet the dawn of day,And to the lintwhite’s pipingThe many’s the tune I play.One pleasant eve in June timeI 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 himA-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 earlyTo meet the dawn of day,And to the lintwhite’s pipingThe 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 fairyIt is so airy,And the snow it nips so cold:Shepherd and squireSit by the fire,The sheep are in the fold.You have your wish —A reeking dish,And rubble walls about;So pity the poorThat have no doorTo keep the winter out!

I FOLLOW A STAR

I follow a starBurning deep in the blue,A sign on the hillsLit 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 gillyBeyond to the west:He leads where the Christ liesOn 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 fieldsLies 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!

THE BEGGAR’S WAKE

I watched at a beggar’s wakeIn the hills of Bearna-barr,And the old men were telling storiesOf Troy and the Trojan war.And a flickering fire of bog-dealBurned on the open hearth,And the night-wind roared in the chimney,And darkness was over the earth.And Tearlach Ban MacGiolla,The piper of Gort, was there,And he sat and he dreamed apartIn the arms of a sugan chair.And sudden he woke from his dreamLike a dream-frightened child,And his lips were pale and trembling,And his eyes were wild.And he stood straight up, and he cried,With a wave of his withered hand,“The days of the grasping strangerShall be few in the land!“The scrip of his doom is written,The thread of his shroud is spun;The net of his strength is broken,The tide of his life is run..”Then he sank to his seat like a stone,And the watchers stared aghast,And they crossed themselves for fearAs the coffin cart went past.…“At the battle of Gleann-muic-duibhThe fate the poets foretoldShall fall on the neck of the stranger,And redden the plashy mould.“The bagmen carry the storyThe circuit of Ireland round,And they sing it at fair and hurlingFrom Edair to Acaill Sound.“And the folk repeat it overAbout the winter fires,Till the heart of each one listeningIs burning with fierce desires.“In the Glen of the Bristleless BoarThey say the battle shall be,Where Breiffne’s iron mountainsLook on the Western sea.“In the Glen of the Pig of Diarmad,On Gulban’s hither side,The battle shall be brokenAbout the Samhain tide.“Forth from the ancient hills,With war-cries strident and loud,The people shall march at daybreak,Massed in a clamorous crowd.“War-pipes shall scream and cry,And battle-banners shall wave,And every stone on GulbanShall mark a hero’s grave.“The horses shall wade to their houghsIn rivers of smoking blood,Charging thro’ heaps of corpsesScattered in whinny and wood.“The girths shall rot from their belliesAfter the battle is done,For lack of a hand to undo themAnd hide them out of the sun.“It shall not be the battleBetween the folk and the SidheAt the rape of a bride from her bedOr a babe from its mother’s knee.“It shall not be the battleBetween the white hosts flyingAnd the shrieking devils of hellFor a priest at the point of dying.“It shall not be the battleBetween the sun and the leaves,Between the winter and summer,Between the storm and the sheaves.“But a battle to doom and deathBetween the Gael and the Gall,Between the sword of lightAnd the shield of darkness and thrall.“And the Gael shall have the masteryAfter a month of days,And the lakes of the west shall cry,And the hills of the north shall blaze.“And the neck of the fair-haired GallShall be as a stool for the feetOf Ciaran, chief of the Gael,Sitting in Emer’s seat!” —…At this MacGiolla fainted,Tearing his yellow hair,And the young men cursed the stranger,And the old men mouthed a prayer.For they knew the day would come,As sure as the piper said,When many loves would be parted,And many graves would be red.And the wake broke up in tumult,And the women were left alone,Keening over the beggarThat died at Gobnat’s Stone.

THE BESOM-MAN

Did you see Paidin,Paidin, the besom-man,Last night as you came byOver the mountain?A barth of new heatherHe bore on his shoulder,And a bundle of whitlow-grassUnder his oxter.I spied him as he passedBeyond the carn head,But no eye saw himAt the hill foot after.What has come over him?The women are saying.What can have crossedPaidin, the besom-man?The bogholes he knewAs the curlews know them,And the rabbits’ pads,And the derelict quarries.He was humming a tune —The “Enchanted Valley” —As he passed me westwardBeyond the carn.I stood and I listened,For his singing was strange:It rang in my earsThe long night after.What has come overPaidin, the besom-man?What can have crossed him?The women keep saying.They talk of the fairies —And, God forgive me,Paidin knew themLike his prayers!Will you fetch wordUp to the cross-roadsIf you see track of him,Living or dead?The boys are loafingWithout game or caper;And the dark piperIs gone home with the birds.