GOUGANE BARRA.

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GOUGANE BARRA.

THERE is a green island in lone Gougane Barra,
Whence Allu of songs rushes forth like an arrow;
In deep-valleyed Desmond a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake, from their home in the moun-
tains.

There grows the wild ash; and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow,
As, like some gay child that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.

And its zone of dark hills-oh! to see them all bright'ning,

When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning,
And the waters come down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle,
Like clans from their hill at the voice of the battle;
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Mallow the eagles are screaming;
Oh, where is the dwelling, in valley or high land,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island?

How oft, when the summer sun rested on Clara
And lit the blue headland of sullen Ivara,

Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the

ocean,

And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion,
And thought on the bards who, oft gathering together
In the cleft of thy rocks and the depth of thy heather,
Dwelt far from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,
As they raised their last song by the rush of thy water!

High sons of the lyre! oh, how proud was the feeling To dream while alone through that solitude stealing; Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,

I alone waked the strain of her harp from its slumber, And glean'd the grey legend that long had been sleeping, Where oblivion's dull mist o'er its beauty was creeping, From the love which I felt for my country's sad story, When to love her was shame, to revile her was glory!

Last bard of the free! were it mine to inherit

The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit,

With the wrongs which, like thee, to my own land have bound me,

Did
your mantle of song throw its radiance around me ;
Yet, yet on those bold cliffs might Liberty rally,
And abroad send her cry o'er the sleep of each valley.
But rouse thee, vain dreamer! no fond fancy cherish;
Thy vision of Freedom in bloodshed must perish.

I soon shall be gone—though my name may be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken—
Some minstrel will come in the summer eve's gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
To bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avonbuee seeks the kisses of ocean,
And a wild wreath to plant from the banks of that river
O'er the heart and the harp that are silent for ever.
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN.

THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK.

THE evening-star rose beauteous above the fading day,
As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray;

THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK.

193

And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight's mellow fall,

But the bank of green where Mary knelt was brightest of them all.

Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appear'd, And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to the land she near'd;

To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like a swan, And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in pride and beauty shone.

The master saw our Lady as he stood upon the prow, And mark'd the whiteness of her robe and the radiance

of her brow;

Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless breast, And her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him her soul lov'd best.

He show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a

cheer;

And on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with laugh and

jeer,

And madly swore a form so fair they never saw before; And they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the shore.

The ocean from its bosom shook off the moonlight sheen, And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their queen ; And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness o'er the land,

And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady on the

strand.

Out burst the pealing thunder, and the lightning leap'd

about,

And rushing with his watery war, the tempest gave a

shout;

And that vessel from a mountain wave came down with

thund'ring shock,

And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on Inchidony's rock.

Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild and high:

But the angry surge swept over them and hush'd their gurgling cry;

And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest pass'd away, And down, still chafing from their strife, the indignant waters lay.

When the calm and purple morning shone out on high Dunmore,

Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchidony's shore ;

And to this day the fisherman shows where the scoffers

sank;

And still he calls that hillock green the 'Virgin Mary's Bank.'

JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN.

O SAY, MY BROWN DRIMIN.*

O SAY, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine,
Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line?
Too deep and too long is the slumber they take,
At the loud call of Freedom why don't they awake?
* A pet cow: allegorical for Ireland.

O SAY, MY BROWN DRIMIN.

195

My strong ones have fallen-from the bright eye of day
All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay;
The cold turf is o'er them ;-they hear not my cries,
And since Louis no aid gives I cannot arise.

Oh! where art thou, Louis,-our eyes are on thee?
Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the sea?
In Freedom's last strife if you linger or quail,
No morn e'er shall break on the night of the Gael.

But should the king's son,* now bereft of his right,
Come, proud in his strength, for his country to fight,
Like leaves on the trees will new people arise,
And deep from their mountains shout back to my cries.

When the prince, now an exile, shall come for his own,
The isles of his father, his rights and his throne,
My people in battle the Saxon will meet,

And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet.

O'er mountains and valleys they'll press on their rout,
The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout;
My sons all united shall bless the glad day

When the flint-hearted Saxons they've chased far away.
Translated by JAMES JOSEPH Callanan.

LAMENT FOR IRELAND.

How dimm'd is the glory that circled the Gael,
And fall'n the high people of green Innisfail!
The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore,
And the mighty of nations is mighty no more!

*The Pretender.