A Book of Irish Verse Part 9

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

'But, little your women's needles do I reck; For the night from heaven never fell so black, But Tirawley, and abroad From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod, I could walk it every sod, Path and track, Ford and togher, Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley!

'The night when Dathy O'Dowda broke your camp, What Barrett among you was it held the lamp-- Showed the way to those two feet, When through wintry wind and sleet, I guided your blind retreat In the swamp Of Beal-an-asa?

O ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley!'

So leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard, The Lynott like a red dog hunted hard, With his wife and children seven, 'Mong the beasts and fowls of heaven In the hollows of Glen Nephin, Light-debarred, Made his dwelling, Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.

And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run, On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son, A child of light, with eyes As clear as are the skies In summer, when sunrise Has begun; So the Lynott Nursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.

And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size, Made him perfect in each manly exercise, The salmon in the flood, The dun deer in the wood, The eagle in the cloud To surprise On Ben Nephin, Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.

With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow, With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow, He taught him from year to year And train'd him, without a peer, For a perfect cavalier, Hoping so-- Far his forethought-- For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.

And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed, Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed; Like the ear upon the wheat When winds in Autumn beat On the bending stems, his seat; And the speed Of his courser Was the wind from Barna-na-gee o'er Tirawley!

Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent, (He perfected in all accomplishment)-- The Lynott said, 'My child, We are over long exiled From mankind in this wild-- --Time we went Through the mountain To the countries lying over-against Tirawley.'

So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown, And green steam-gathering vales, they journey'd down: Till, s.h.i.+ning like a star, Through the dusky gleams afar, The bailey of Castlebar, And the town Of MacWilliam Rose bright before the wanderers of Tirawley.

'Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go, What see'st thou by the loch-head below?'

'O, a stone-house strong and great, And a horse-host at the gate, And a captain in armour of plate-- Grand the show!

Great the glancing!

High the heroes of this land below Tirawley.

'And a beautiful Bantierna by his side, Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide; And in her hand a pearl Of a young, little, fair-haired girl.'

Said the Lynott, 'It is the Earl!

Let us ride To his presence.'

And before him came the exiles of Tirawley.

'G.o.d save thee, MacWilliam,' the Lynott thus began; 'G.o.d save all here besides of this clan; For gossips dear to me Are all in company-- For in these four bones ye see A kindly man Of the Britons-- Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley.

'And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows, I come to claim a scion of thy house To foster; for thy race, Since William Conquer's days, Have ever been wont to place, With some spouse Of a Briton, A MacWilliam Oge, to foster in Tirawley.

'And to show thee in what sort our youth are taught I have hither to thy home of valour brought This one son of my age, For a sample and a pledge For the equal tutelage, In right thought, Word, and action, Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley.'

When MacWilliam beheld the brave boy ride and run, Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder spun-- With a sigh, and with a smile, He said,--'I would give the spoil Of a county, that Tibbot Moyle, My own son, Were accomplish'd Like this branch of the kindly Britons of Tirawley.'

When the Lady MacWilliam she heard him speak, And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek, She said, 'I would give a purse Of red gold to the nurse That would rear my Tibbot no worse; But I seek Hitherto vainly-- Heaven grant that I now have found her in Tirawley!'

So they said to the Lynott, 'Here, take our bird!

And as pledge for the keeping of thy word, Let this scion here remain Till thou comest back again: Meanwhile the fitting train Of a lord Shall attend thee With the lordly heir of Connaught into Tirawley.'

So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard, Like a lord of the country with his guard, Came the Lynott, before them all, Once again over Clochan-na-n'all Steady and striding, erect and tall, And his ward On his shoulders To the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Then a diligent foster-father you would deem The Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream, To cast the spear, to ride, To stem the rus.h.i.+ng tide, With what feats of body beside, Might beseem A MacWilliam, Fostered free among the Welshmen of Tirawley.

But the lesson of h.e.l.l he taught him in heart and mind, For to what desire soever he inclined, Of anger, l.u.s.t, or pride, He had it gratified, Till he ranged the circle wide Of a blind Self-indulgence, Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley.

Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound, Lynott loosed him--G.o.d's leashes all unbound-- In the pride of power and station, And the strength of youthful pa.s.sion, On the daughters of thy nation, All around, Wattin Barrett!

O! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley!

Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame, Filled the houses of the Barretts where'er he came; Till the young men of the Back, Drew by night upon his track, And slew him at Corna.s.sack.

Small your blame, Sons of Wattin!

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Said the Lynott, 'The day of my vengeance is drawing near, The day for which, through many a long dark year, I have toiled through grief and sin-- Call ye now the Brehons in, And let the plea begin Over the bier Of MacWilliam, For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley!'

Then the Brehons to MacWilliam Burke decreed An eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed; And the Lynott's share of the fine, As foster-father, was nine Ploughlands and nine score kine; But no need Had the Lynott, Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley.

But rising, while all sat silent on the spot, He said, 'The law says--doth it not?-- If the foster-sire elect His portion to reject, He may then the right exact To applot The short eric.'

''Tis the law,' replied the Brehons of Tirawley.

Said the Lynott, 'I once before had a choice Proposed me, wherein law had little voice; But now I choose, and say, As lawfully I may, I applot the mulct to-day; So rejoice In your ploughlands And your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawley.

'And thus I applot the mulct: I divide The land throughout Clan Barrett on every side Equally, that no place May be without the face Of a foe of Wattin's race-- That the pride Of the Barretts May be humbled hence for ever throughout Tirawley.

'I adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hall To MacWilliam: in every stable I give a stall To MacWilliam: and, beside, Whenever a Burke shall ride Through Tirawley, I provide At his call Needful grooming, Without charge from any Brughaidh of Tirawley.

'Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throes Ye lawlessly caused me and caused those Unhappy shame-faced ones Who, their mothers expected once, Would have been the sires of sons-- O'er whose woes Often weeping, I have groaned in my exile from Tirawley.

'I demand not of you your manhoods; but I take-- For the Burkes will take it--your Freedom! for the sake Of which all manhood's given And all good under heaven, And, without which, better even You should make Yourselves barren, Than see your children slaves throughout Tirawley!

'Neither take I your eyesight from you; as you took Mine and ours: I would have you daily look On one another's eyes When the strangers tyrannize By your hearths, and blushes arise, That ye brook Without vengeance The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley!

'The vengeance I designed, now is done, And the days of me and mine nearly run-- For, for this, I have broken faith, Teaching him who lies beneath This pall, to merit death; And my son To his father Stands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley.'

Said MacWilliam--'Father and son, hang them high!'

And the Lynott they hang'd speedily; But across the salt water, To Scotland, with the daughter Of MacWilliam--well you got her!

Did you fly Edmund Lindsay, The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawley!

'Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tell How, through lewdness and revenge, it befell That the sons of William Conquer Came over the sons of Wattin, Throughout all the bounds and borders Of the lands of Auley Mac Fiachra; Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell, And his valiant, Bible-guided, Free heretics of Clan London Coming in, in their succession, Rooted out both Burke and Barrett, And in their empty places New stems of freedom planted, With many a goodly sapling Of manliness and virtue; Which while their children cherish, Kindly Irish of the Irish, Neither Saxons nor Italians, May the mighty G.o.d of Freedom Speed them well, Never taking Further vengeance on his people of Tirawley.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

AIDEEN'S GRAVE

They heaved the stone; they heap'd the cairn.

Said Ossian, 'In a queenly grave We leave her, 'mong her fields of fern, Between the cliff and wave.

'The cliff behind stands clear and bare, And bare, above, the heathery steep Scales the clear heaven's expanse, to where The Danaan Druids sleep.

'And all the sands that, left and right, The gra.s.sy isthmus-ridge confine, In yellow bars lie bare and bright Among the sparkling brine.

'A clear pure air pervades the scene, In loneliness and awe secure; Meet spot to sepulchre a Queen Who in her life was pure.