Sprays of Shamrock Part 2

They slew Tyrconnell On the rock of Doon; "Traitor!" they said, Of that anointed head, The henchmen all Who haled him from the hall; "Base, base Tyrconnell!"

How the scabbards rang!-- Clang! clang!

As the blades out-sprang, Like s.h.i.+mmering lake-water underneath the moon!

THE WAY OF THE CROSS

Where the wild sea-mew flocks and flees, And neither winds nor skies beguile, Foam-set amid the Irish seas Is rugged Skellig Michael isle.

Up its escarpments, rough and grim, To its bleak summit rimmed with moss, The monks of old with prayer and hymn Hewed out the weary "Way of the Cross."

Gone are these holy toilers--gone; They rest now in their long repose, From the red dusk to the red dawn, 'Neath the sea-pinks and tangled rose.

But sorrow bides with us and ill, And stress and sacrifice and loss, And we must strive to meet them still Climbing the weary "Way of the Cross."

THE ISLE OF DOOM

Out of the mist off Galway sh.o.r.e, Out of the morning mist, Rose the island of Hy Brasail With its crags of amethyst;

Crags of purple and amethyst, And meads of gleaming green, Rose the island of Hy Brasail With a s.h.i.+mmer of sea between.

And what shall come to Galway sh.o.r.e, What shadow of doom prevail, With this fading dream of the mists of morn, This island of Hy Brasail?

DESMOND

By the "Church of the Name" lies Desmond, The body of Desmond lies, And the wind of the east cries "Desmond,"

And "Desmond" the west wind cries.

And the wind of the south calls "Desmond,"

And "Desmond" the north wind calls, As it sweeps round the keep Ardnagreagh, The keep of the crumbling walls.

And the dawn wind grieves for Desmond, And "Desmond" the night wind sighs; And where is the head of Desmond, He of the dusk-deep eyes?

They buried the body of Desmond Hard by the "Church of the Name,"

But they hung the head of Desmond High o'er the Gate of Shame.

Yet he was a brave man, Desmond, A man of a hundred score, So all the winds of the upper air, They mourn for him evermore.

THE LITTLE CREEK c.o.o.nANA

Oh, the little creek c.o.o.nana, How clear it runs and cold Where "Conn of the hundred battles"

Fought in the days of old!

Only the long wind dirges, Only the long wind cries, Where the giant Knocknatubber Mounts to the vast gray skies.

Only the wind and the surges Moan and moan and moan, But the little creek c.o.o.nana, It sings in a merry tone.

Only the wind and the surges Have aught to do with fears; Only the wind and the surges Tell the tale of tears.

But the little creek c.o.o.nana, It lilteth cheerily Where the giant Knocknatubber Glooms on the glooming sea.

O'DONNELL ABOO

Out of Ulster came O'Donnell, Black O'Donnell and his crew,-- Kelly, More, Mac Carthy, Connell, Joined the cry--"O'Donnell Aboo!"

Woe once more, red woe for Kerry, Blood-drops were as mountain dew When that cry so mad, yet merry, Rang and rang--"O'Donnell Aboo!"

Gone those sanguine days of slaughter, Sword and matchlock, pike and brand; Peace now o'er the ways of water, Peace o'er all the length of land.

Yet sometimes when night is sealing Cairn and ruined shrine from view, Down the Kerry glens goes pealing That wild cry--"O'Donnell Aboo!"

NIGHTFALL IN SLIGO

I

I heard the bells of Sligo say The tranquil requiem of day.

I saw the fires of sunset burn Dim in the great west's golden urn.

O'er Calvary's sharp spire afar Clear flowered one hyacinthine star.

Then mother Night her children hid Under her purple coverlid.

II