The Counsels of O'Riordan, the Rann

THE

Maker

HE choirs of Heaven are tokened in a harp-string,
A pigeon's egg is as crafty as the stars.

My heart is shaken by the crying of the lap-wing,
And yet the world is full of foolish wars.

There's gold on the whin-bush every summer morning. There's struggling discourse in the grunting of a pig: Yet churls will be scheming, and churls will be scorning, And half the dim world is ruled by thimble-rig.

The luck of God is in two strangers meeting,
But the gates of Hell are in the city street
For him whose soul is not in his own keeping
And love a silver string upon his feet.

My heart is the seed of time, my veins are star-dust, My spirit is the axle of God's dream.

Why should my august soul be worn or care-tost? . . . Lo, God is but a lamp, and I his gleam.

There's little to be known, and that not kindly,
But an ant will burrow through a five-inch wall;
There's nothing rises up or falls down blindly:
That's a poor share of wisdom, but it's all.

T. D. O'BOLGER.

My Love, Oh, She Is My Love

SHE casts a spell, oh, casts a spell!
Which haunts me more than I can tell.
Dearer, because she makes me ill
Than who would will to make me well.

She is my store! oh, she my store!
Whose grey eye wounded me so sore,
Who will not place in mine her palm,
Nor love, nor calm me any more.

She is my pet, oh, she my pet!
Whom I can never more forget;
Who would not lose by me one moan,
Nor stone upon my cairn would set.

She is my roon, oh, she my roon! Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon; Who would not lose by me one sigh, Were death and I within one room.

She is my dear, oh, she my dear!
Who cares not whether I be here.
Who will not weep when I am dead,
But makes me shed the silent tear.

Hard my case, oh, hard my case!
For in her eye no hope I trace,
She will not hear me any more,
But I adore her silent face.

She is my choice, oh, she my choice!
Who never made me to rejoice;
Who caused my heart to ache so oft,
Who put no softness in her voice.

Great my grief, oh, great my grief!
Neglected, scorned beyond belief,
By her who looks at me askance,
By her who grants me no relief.

She's my desire, oh, my desire!

More glorious than the bright sun's fire; Who were than wild-blown ice more cold Were I so bold as to sit by her.

She it is who stole my heart,
And left a void and aching smart;
But if she soften not her eye,
I know that life and I must part.
Translated by DOUGLAS HYDE.

At the Yellow Bohereen

AT THE Yellow Bohereen
Is my heart's secret queen,

Alone on her soft bed a-sleeping;
Each tress of her hair,

Than the King's gold more fair,
The dew from the grass might be sweeping.

I'm a man of Teig's race,

Who has watched her fair face; And away from her ever I'm sighing, And, oh, my heart's store,

Be not grieved ever more,

That for you a young man should be dying!

Should my love with me come

I would build her a home,
The finest e'er told of in Eirinn;
And 'tis then she would shine,
And her fame ne'er decline,
For beauty o'er all the palm bearing.

For in your bosom bright
Shines the pure, sunny light,

As on your smooth brow graceful ever;
And, oh, could I say

You're my own from this day,

Death's contest would frighten me never!
Translated by GEORGE PETRIE.

The Woman of Beare

EBBING, the wave of the sea

Leaves, where it wantoned before

Wan and naked the shore,
Heavy the clotted weed.
And my heart, woe is me!
Ebbs a wave of the sea.

I am the woman of Beare.
Foul am I that was fair,
Gold-embroidered smocks I had,
Now in rags am hardly clad.

Arms, now so poor and thin,
Staring bone and shrunken skin,
Once were lustrous, once caressed
Chiefs and warriors to their rest.

Not the sage's power, nor lone
Splendour of an aged throne,
Wealth I envy not, nor state.
Only women folk I hate.

On your heads, while I am cold,

Shines the sun of living gold

Flowers shall wreathe your necks in May: For me, every month is grey.