25 irische Lieder , opus WoO. 152

Once again, but how chang'd since my wanderings began
I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann,
And the pines of Clanbrasil resound to the roar
That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore.
Alas! My poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn!
With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return?
Can I live the dear life of delusion again,
That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain?

It was then that around me, though poor and unknown,
High  spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown;
The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew,
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new.
I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire
At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of their lyre:
To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the ear,
But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear.

But was she, too, a phantom, the maid who stood by,
And listed my lay, while she turn'd from mine eye?
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,
Then dispers'd in the sunbeam, or melted to dew?
Oh! Would it had been so, - O would that her eye
Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky,
And her voice, that was moulded to melody's thrill
Had been but a zephyr that sigh'd and was still.

Sweet power of Song! That canst impart,
To lowland swain or mountaineers,
A gladness thrilling trough the heart,
A joy so tender and so dear:
Sweet Power! That on a foreign strand
Canst the rough soldier's bosom move,
With feelings of his native land,
As gentle as infant's love.

Sweet Power! That makes youthful heads
With thistle, leek, or shamrock crown'd,
Nod proudly as the carol sheds
Its spirit through the social round.
Sweet Power! That cheer's the daily toil
Of cottage maid, or beldame poor,
The ploughman on the furrow'd soil,
Or herdboy on the lonely moor.

Or he, by bards the shepherd hight,
Who mourns his maiden's broken tye,
'Till the sweet plaint, in woe's despite,
Hath made a bliss of agony.
Sweet power of Song! Thanks flow to thee
From every kind and gentle breast!
Let Erin's Cambria's minstrels be
With Burn's tuneful spirit blest!

Once more I hail thee, thou gloomy December!
Thy visage so dark, and thy tempest's dread roar;
Sad was the parting thou mak'st me remember,
My parting with Nancy, ah! Ne'er to meet more!

Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure,
When hope mildly beams on the soft parting hour;
But the dire feeling, "O farewell for ever",
Is anguish unmingled and agony pure.

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
Until the last leaf of the summer is flown,
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom,
Since hope is departed and comfort is gone.

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
My anguish awakes at thy visage so hoar;
Sad was the parting thou mak'st me remember,
My parting with Nancy, ah! Ne'er to meet more!

The morning air plays on my face,
And through the grey mist peering,
The soften'd silv'ry sun I trace,
Wood wild, and mountain cheering.
Larks aloft are singing,
Hares from covert springing,
And o'er the fen the wild duck's brood
Their early way are winging.

Bright ev'ry dewy hawthorn shines,
Sweet ev'ry herb is growing,
To him whose willing heart inclines
The way that he is going.
Fancy shews to me, now,
What will shortly be now,
I'm patting at her door, poor Tray,
Who fawns and welcomes me now.

How slowly moves the rising latch!
How quick my heart is beating.
That worldly dame is on the watch
To frown upon our meeting.
Fy! Why should I mind her,
See, who stands behind her,
Whose eye doth on her trav'ller look
The sweeter and the kinder.

Oh! Ev'ry bounding step I take,
Each hour the clock is telling,
Bears me o'er mountain, bourne, and brake,
Still nearer to her dwelling.
Day is shining brighter,
Limbs are moving lighter,
While ev'ry thought to Nora's love
But binds my faith to tighter.

Oh! Tell me, Harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe
Far down the desert of Glencoe,
Where non may list their melody?
Say, harp'st thou to the mist that fly,
Or to the dun deer glancing by,
Or to the eagle, that from high
Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?

No, not to these, for they have rest,
The mist-wreath has the mountain crest,
The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
Abode of lone security.
But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wild wood deep, nor mountain grey,
Not this deep dell that shrouds from day
Could screen from treach'rous cruelty.

The hand that mingled in the meal,
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the host's kind breast to feel,
Meed for his hospitality.
The friendly heart which warm'd that hand,
At midnight arm'd it with a brand
That bade destruction's flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry.

Long have my harp's best notes been gone,
Few are its strings, and faint their tone,
They can but sound in desert lone
Their grey-hair'd master's misery.
Were each grey hair a minstrel string,
Each chord should imprecations fling,
'Till startled Scotland loud should ring,
"Revenge for blood and treachery!"

What shall I do to shew how much I love her?
Thoughts that oppress me, O how can I tell?
Will my soft passion be able to move her?
Language is wanting, when loving so well.
Can sighs and tears, in the silence, betoken
Half the distress this fond bosom must know?
Or will she melt when a true heart is broken,
Weeping, too late, o'er her lost lover's woe.

Is there a grace comes not playful before her?
Is there a virtue, and not in her train?
Is there a swain but delights to adore her?
Pains she a heart, but it boasts of her chain?
Could I believe she'd prevent my undoing,
Life's gayest fancies the hope should renew;
Or could I think she'd be pleas'd with my ruin,
Death should persuade her my sorrows are true!

His boat comes on the sunny tide,
And brightly gleams the flashing oar;
The boatmen carol by his side,
And blithely near the welcome shore,
How softly Shannon's currents flow!
His shadow in the stream I see;
The very waters seem to know
Dear is the freight they bear to me.

His eager bound, his hasty tread,
His well-known voice I'll shortly hear;
And oh, those arms so kindly spread!
That greetings smile! That manly tear!
In other lands, when far away,
My love with hope did never twain;
It saw him thus, both night and day,
To Shannon's banks return'd again.

Come draw we round a cheerful ring
And broach the foaming ale,
And let the merry maiden sing,
The beldame tell her tale:
And let the sightless harper sit
The blazing faggot by;
And let the jester vent his wit,
His tricks the urchin try.

Who shakes the door with angry din;
And would admitted be?
No, Gossip Winter, snug within,
We have no room for thee.
Go, scud it o'er Killarney's lake,
And shake the willows bare;
The water-elf his sport doth take,
Thou'lt find a comrade there.

Will o' the Wisp skips in the dell,
The owl hoots on the tree,
They hold their nightly vigil well,
And so the while will we.
Then strike we up the rousing glee,
And pass the beaker round,
While ev'ry head right merrily
Is moving to the sound.

Our bugles sung truce, for the night-cloud had low'r'd,
And the Sentinel  stars set their watch in the sky,
And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpow'r'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night om my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battlefield's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track;
'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields travers'd so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain the cornreapers sung.

Then pledg'd we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore.
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of heart.
Stay, stay with us, rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow return'd with the drawing of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

If sadly thinking and spirits sinking
Could more than drinking my cares compose;
A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow,
And hope tomorrow might end my  woes.
But since in wailing there's nought availing,
And Fate unfailing must strike the blow:
Then for that reason and for a season,
We will be merry before we go.

A wayworn ranger to joy a stranger,
Through every danger my course I've run;
Now hope all ending, and death befriending,
His last aid sending, my cares are done,
No more a rover, or hapless lover,
My griefs are over, and my glass runs low.
Then for that reason and for a season,
We will be merry before we go.

Thou emblem of faith, thou sweet pledge of a passion,
That heav'n has ordain'd for an happier than me;
On the hand of the fair go resume thy lov'd station
And bask in the beam that is lavish'd on thee.

Amd when some past scene thy remembrance recalling,
Her bosom shall rise to the tear that is falling,
With the transport of love may no anguish combine,
But the bliss be all hers, and the suff'ring all mine.

But ah! Had the ringlet thou lov'st to surround,
Had it e'er kiss'd the rose on the cheek of my dear,
What ransom to buy thee could ever be found?
Or what force from my heart thy possession could tear?

A mourner, a suff'rer, a wand'rer, a stranger,
In sickness, in sadness, in pain, or in danger,
Next that heart would I wear thee till its last pang was o'er,
Then togheter we'd sink, and I'd part thee no more.

Och! I have you not heard, Pat, of many a joke
That's made by the wits 'gainst your own country folk;
They may talk of our bulls, but it must be confest,
That, of all the bullmakers, John Bull is the best.
I'm just come from London, their capital town,
A fine place it is, faith, I'm sorry to own;
For there you can't shew your sweet face in the street,
But a Bull is the very first man that you meet.

Now, I went to Saint Paul's,  'twas just after my landing.
A great house they've built, that has scarce room to stand in;
And there, gramachree! Won't you think it a joke,
The lower I whisper'd, the louder I spoke!
Then I went to the Tower to see the wild beasts,
Thinking out of my wits to be frighten'd at least;
But these wild beasts I found standing tame on a shelf,
Not one of the kit half so wild as myself.

Next I made for the Bank, Sir, for there, I was told,
Were oceans of silver and mountains of gold;
But I soon found this talk was mere bluster and vapour
For the gold and the silver were all made of paper.
A friend took me into the Parliament house,
And there sat the Speaker as mum as a mouse,
For in spite of his name, won't you think this a joke tho',
The speaker he whom they all of them spoke to.

Of all the strange places I ever was in,
Wasn't that now the place for a hubbub and din.
While some made a bother to keep others quiet,
And the rest call'd for "Order" meaning just, make a riot.
Then should you hereafter be told of some joke,
By the Englishmen made  'gainst your own country folk,
Tell this tale, my dear honey, and stoutly protest,
That of all the bullmakers, John Bull is the best.

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
   Which divides my love and me,
 Wearying heaven in warm devotion
   For his weal where'er he be:

 Hope and Fear's alternate billow
   Yielding late to Nature's law,
 Whispering spirits round my pillow,
   Talk of him that 's far awa.

 Ye whom sorrow never wounded,
   Ye who never shed a tear,
 Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,
   Gaudy day to you is dear.

 Gentle night, do thou befriend me!
   Downy sleep, the curtain draw!
 Spirits kind, again attend me,
   Talk of him that 's far awa!

O who sits so sadly, and heaves the fond sigh?
Alas! Cried young Dermot, 'tis only poor I,
All under the willow, the willow so green.
My fair one has left me in sorrow to moan,
So here am I come, just to die alone;
No longer fond love shall my bosom enslave,
I'm wearing a garland to hang o'er my grave,
All under the willow, the willow so green.

The fair one you love is, you tell me, untrue,
And here stands poor Shelah, forsaken, like you,
All under the willow, the willow so green.
O take me in sadness to sit by your side,
Your anguish to share, and your sorrow divide;
I'll answer each sigh, and I'll echo each groan,
And 'tis dismal, you know, to be dying alone,
All under the willow, the willow so green.

Then close to each other they sat down to sigh,
Resolving in anguish together to die,
All under the willow, the willow so green,
But he was so comely, and she was so fair,
They somehow forgot all their sorrow and care;
And, thinking it better a while to delay,
They put off their dying, to toy and to play,
All under the willow, the willow so green.

Let brain-spinning swains, in effusions fantastic,
Sing meetings by moonlight in arbour or grove;
But Patrick O'Donnelly's taste is more plastic,
All times and all seasons are fitted for love:
At Cork or Killarny, Killala or Blarney,
At fair, wake, or wedding, my passion must glow:
Fair maid, will you but trust to me,
Fondly I'll love you wherever I go.

When driving the cows of old father O'Leary,
An angel, yourself, I had still in my eye;
When digging potatoes, mud-spatter'd and weary.
O what did I think on, but you, with a sigh!
At plough, or haymaking, I'm in an odd tucking,
My bosom heaves high, though my spirits be low:
Fair maid, will you but trust to me,
Fondly I'll love you wherever I go.

When first I  'spied your sweet face, I remember,
That hot summer day, how I shiver'd for shame!
You smil'd when I met you again in December,
And then, by the Pow'rs, I was all in a flame!
Come summer, come winter, in you my thoughts center,
I doat on you, Judy, from top to he toe:
Fair maid, will you but trust to me
Fondly I'll love you wherever I go.

Hide not thy anguish
Thou must not deceive me,
Thy fortunes have frown'd,
And the struggle is o'er;
Come then the ruin!
For nothing shall grieve me,
If thou are but left me,
I ask for no more.

Hard is the world,
It will rudely reprove thee;
Thy friends will retire,
When the tempest is near;
Now is my season,
And now will I love thee,
And cheer thee when none
But thy Mary will cheer.

Come to my arms,
Thou art dearer than ever!
But breathe not a whisper
Of sorrow for me:
Fear shall not reach me,
Nor misery sever,
Thy Mary is worthy
Of love and of thee.

In vain to this desert my fate I deplore,
For dark is the wildwood, and bleak is the shore;
The rude blasts I hear, and the white waves I see,
But nought that  gives shelter or confort to me.

O love! Thou hast pleasures, and deep have I lov'd,
I love! Thou hast sorrows, and sore Have I prov'd:
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast,
I can feel, by its throbbing, will soon be at rest.

When clos'd are those eyes, that but open to weep,
With my woes and my wrongs I shall peacefully sleep;
But the thorn my inkindness first plac'd in my heart,
Transplanted to thine, shall new anguish impart.

They bid me slight my Dermot dear,
For he's of low degree,
While I my lady's maid am here,
And of the quality.
But if my mother would not grieve,
And if the truth were known,
Well-pleas'd would I this castle leave,
And live for him alone.

My lady, who is very kind,
To me will sometimes call,
And talk of love with scoffing mind,
And say 'tis folly all.
Ah! Words like these are finely said,
And may my lady please,
For she her own true love has wed,
And has her heart at ease.

Oh, never slight thy Dermot dear,
Tho' he's of low degree,
For thou thy lady's maid art here,
And of the quality.
For tho' thy mother haply grieve
When first the truth were known,
She'll bid thee not thy Dermot leave,
But live fro him alone.

I sit, my love, to think on thee,
Look o'er the Shannon wide,
And fancy I thy cabin see
The lofty elms beside.
The Shannon waves run very high,
The little boat I fear;
No more at night the passage try,
For winter now is here.

There's none like thee, - the king of all,
At funeral, and at fair;
My lord's fine man, hat's in the hall,
Can ne'er with thee compare.
Thy heart is true, thy heart is warm;
And so is mine to thee;
And would my Lord but give the farm,
How happy should we be!

When the black-lettr'd list to the gods was presented,
The list of what Fate to each mortal intends,
At the long string of ills a kind Goddess relented
And slipt in three blessing: wife, children and friends.
In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated;
For justice divine could not compass its ends:
The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated
For earth becomes heaven with wife, children and friends.

Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover,
Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance ascends,
The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover
The bow where he sat with wife, children and friends.
The day-spring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow,
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends:
But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow
No warmth from the smiles of wife, children and friends.

When the soldier whose deeds live immortal in story,
Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends,
With transport would barter whole ages of glory,
For one happy day with wife, children and friends.
Though  vallour still glows in his life's waning embers,
The death wounded tar who his  colours defends,
Drops a tear of regret, as he, dying remembers,
How blest was his home with wife, children and friends.

Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish
The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends;
O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish,
Bedew'd with the tears of wife, children and friends.
Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver,
To subjects too solemn insensibly tends;
Let us drink, pledge me high, Love and Virtue shall flavour
The glass which I fill to wife, children and friends.

Farewell bliss and farewell Nancy,
Farewell fleeting joys of fancy;
Hopes and fears and sighs that languish
Now give place to careless anguish.
Why did I so fondly love thee?
Why to mutual passion move thee?
Why to wearing sorrow bring thee?
Why let causeless slander sting thee?
 
Gazing on my precious treasure,
Lost in reckless dreams of pleasure,
Thy unspotted heart possessing,
Grasping at the promis'd blessing,
Pouring out my soul before thee,
Living only to adore thee,
Could I see the tempest brewing?
Could I dread the blast of ruin?
 
Had we never lov'd so kindly;
Had we never lov'd so blindly,
Never met, or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken hearted.
Fare thee well, thou first and fairest,
Fare thee well, thou best and dearest;
One fond kiss, and then we sever,
One farewell, alas! For ever.

Morning a cruel turmoiler is,
Banishing ease and repose;
Noonday a roaster and broiler is
How we pant under  'is nose!
Ev'ning for lover's soft measures,
Sighing and begging a boon;
But the blithe season for pleasures,
Laughing lies under the moon.

Refrain:
Och! Then you rogue Pat O' Flannaghan,
Kegs of the whiskey we'll tilt,
Murtoch, replenish our can again,
Up with your heart cheering lilt!

Myrtles and vines some may prate about,
Bawling in heathenish glee,
Stuff I won't bother my pate about,
Shamrock and whiskey for me!
Faith, but I own I feel tender;
Judy, you jill, how I burn!
If she won't smile, devil mend her!
Both sides of chops have their turn.

(Refrain)

Fill all your cups till they foam again,
Bubbles must float on the brim;
He that steals first sneaking home again,
Daylight is too good for him!
While we have goblets to handle,
While we have liquor to fill,
Mirth, and one spare inch of candle,
Planets may wink as they will.

(Refrain)

From Garyone, my happy home,
Full many a weary mile I've come,
To sound of fife and beat of drum,
And more shall see it never.
'Twas there I turn'd my wheel so gay,
Could laugh, and dance, and sing, and play,
And wear the circling hours away
In mirth or peace for ever.

But Harry came, a blithesome boy,
He told me I was all his joy,
That love was sweet, and ne'er could cloy,
And he would leave me never:
His coat was scarlet tipp'd with blue,
With gay cockade and feather too,
A comely lad he was to view;
And won my heart for ever.

My mother cried, dear Rosa, stay,
Ah! Do not from your parents stray;
My father sigh'd, and nought would say,
For he could chide me never:
Yet cruel, I farewell could take,
I left them for my sweetheart's sake,
And came, 'twas near my heart to break
From Garyone for ever.

Buit poverty is hard to bear,
And love is but a summer's wear,
And men deceive us when they swear
They'll love and leave us never:
Now sad I wander through the day,
No more I laugh, or dance, or play,
But mourn the hour I came away
From Garyone for ever.

A wand'ring gypsey, Sirs, am I,
From Norwood, where we oft complain,
With many a tear and many a sigh,
Of blust'ring winds and rushing rain.
No costly rooms nor gay attire
Within our humble shed appear;
No beds of down or blazing fire,
At night our shivering limbs to cheer. 

Alas! No friend comes near our cot;
The redbreasts only find the way.
Who give there all, a simple note,
At peep of morn and parting day.
But fortunes here I come to tell,
They yield me, gentle Sir, your hand:
Within these lines what thousands dwell!
And, bless me, what a heap of land!

It surely, Sir, must pleasing be
To hold such wealth in every line!
Try, pray now try, if you can see
A little treasure lodg'd in mine.
Yon sun that pours the lightsome day,
And gilds the palace and the farm,
Can never miss the kindly ray
That makes the hapless vagrant warm.

Shall a son of O'Donnel be cheerless and cold,
While Mackenna's wide heart has a faggot to spare;
While O'Donnel is poor shall Mackenna have gold,
Or be cloth'd, while a limb of O'Donnel is bare?
While sickness and hunger the sinews assail,
Shall Mackenna, unmov'd, quaff his madder of mead;
On the haunch of a deer shall Mackenna regale,
While a chief of Tyrconnell is fainting for bread?

No, enter my dwelling, my feast thou shalt share,
On my pillow of rushes thy head shall recline:
And bold is the heart and the hand that will dare
To harm but one hair of a ringlet of thine.
Then come to my home, 'tis the house of a friend,
In the green woods of Traugh thou art safe from thy foes;
Six sons of Mackenna thy steps shall attend,
And their six sheathless skeans shall protect thy repose.

O harp of Erin thou art now laid low,
For he the last of all his race is gone:
And now no more the minstrel's verse shall flow,
That sweetly mingled with thy dulcet tone:
The hand is cold that with a poet's fire
Could sweep in magic change thy sounding wire.

How lonely were the minstrel's latter days,
How of thy string with strains indignant rung;
To desert wilds he pour'd his ancient lays,
Or to a shepherd boy his legend sung:
The purple heath of ev'ning was his bed,
His shelter from the storm a peasant's shed!

The gale that round his urn its odour flings,
And waves the flow's that o'er it wildly wreathe,
Shall thrill along thy few remaining strings,
And with a mournful chord his requiem breathe.
The shepherd boy that paus'd his song to hear,
Shall chant it o'er his grave, and drop a tear.