AN GAOḊAL.
399
THE CLAY OF CREGGAN CHURCH.
The Bard.
As near the site of Creggan church, last night I slept in sorrow,
A maiden came and kissed me at the dawning of the morrow;
Her cheeks were of the hue of flame, her hair like shining gold;
Twas worth a monarch's wealth to me, that lady to behold.
The Fairy.
Free hearted friendly man, no more you wasting sorrow dree!
But rise in haste, and give consent to come along with me,
To fairy land of promise, where no Saxon holdeth sway,
Where sweet music shall surround you in a palace every day.
The Bard.
Art thou that lovely Grecian Queen that wrought the Trojan's woe,
Or nymph from high Parnassus, where eternal fountains flow;
What land on earth did give thee birth, thou star without a stain,
That asked such a one as I, along with thee to reign.
The Fairy.
No question more, — my dwelling place beyond the Boyne doth lie,
In Grainne's fairy palaces a simple maid am I, —
In the true Eden of the Bards, I wake sweet music's tone,
At sunset in high Tara's Halls, at dawn in fair Tyrone.
The Bard.
I would not slight your offer for all the wealth of Spain.
But 'twere unkind to leave my friends who yet at home remain;
And my sweet spouse, whose vows. I won with promise fair,
If I should leave her, soon the grave would close on her dispair.
The Fairy.
Thy kindred may be many, but thy friends I think are few,
Thou art ragged as a scarecrow, and as lean as a cuckoo;
Were it not better dwell with me, a maiden young and fair,
Than with thy doggrel rhymes and rants make all the country stare.
The Bard.
Oh 'tis a death pang to my heart, the Gael have lost Tyrone,
And the heir of Teagh joyless lies below the churchyard stone;
The fair sweet scion of O'Neill was still the minstrel's stay,
And rich his Christmas presents flowed to recompense the lay.
The Fairy.
Since they have fallen on Aughrim's plains, and by the bloody Boyne,
The royal race of Erin's kings — Queen Scotia's princely line;
'Twere better in our forts to dwell, with me thy youthful bride,
Than stand the scorn of Billy's clan or bear their cruel pride.
The Bard.
Sweet princess if it be my fate thy lover true to be,
Before I leave my home and friends, this promise make to me —
Where'er I draw my final breath — at home or far away,
My bones shall rest by Creggan's church, beneath its holy clay.
J. K.
