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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.