AN GAOḊAL
605
THE IRISH MINSTREL.
The Mistrel rose with soul inspiring mood,
And siezed his harp that stood behind the door,
And struck such notes in ecstatic prelude,
As plainly told how copious was the store
Whence these arose, he ran his fingers o'er
The trembling strings, free agents of desire,
And then he paused a moment, to restore
The wonted sweetness of the tuneful lyre,
And begin enchanting tones with soul then all in
fire.
He sang in strains sublimely sad and grand,
Of other days and other race of men,
When Ireland as a nation took her stand,
And stood unrivalled in her Chieftain Fhion,
With a host of warriors all ready then,
To march along in chivalry and pride,
And aid the forces of the king of Morven,
On hill or plain, or on the raging tide,
To chase the foe, or pierce the wild Boar's brist¬
ly hide.
Of Conbau-Carglas, Torcul Torno's daughter,
The pride of Crathlun, and of Loda's hall,
And the thousand times that Torno sought her,
The thousand times that useles was his call,
Until her father's unexpected fall.
Resistance longer could her naught avail,
Her kingdom ravaged to the palace wall,
He siezed her captive, raisd at once his sail,
To Gormal's cave then bore the sad lone Night¬
ingale.
How chance alone on Gormal's dewy vale,
The captive's voice one day by Fhion was heard,
As she poured forth her melancholy tale,
Her heart's strings breaking at every word,
So still th' air that e'en a leaf not stirred,
To her prevent to pour her grief in song,
She seemed the pensive selitary bird,
That tuned her notes among the warbling throng,
That instinct taught to know the princess suffered
wrong.
How Fhoin console a ray of hope inspired,
A balm infused to ease her wounded heart,
How Swaran fought, how soon the boast retired,
His helmet cleft by Fhion's unerring dart,
That sword, that Luno of the magic art
Him never failed in any enterprise,
It shone so bright, that Storno felt the smart,
Thro' all his limbs for Swaran's cowardice,
Because that Fhion had not been that day's sac¬
rifice.
How she arose like early blushing morn,
In hopes to see her joyous beam of light
But when she saw the helmet he had worn,
Then cleft in twain, and gory in her sight.
She screamed aloud like howlings of the night,
And name invoked by river, lake and glen, —
Ah lovely youth, my heart, my sole delight,
Art thou no more among the sons men?
The lonely one to cheer, whose heart is sad with¬
in.
THE BANSHEE.
The plaintive dirge that stuns the ears,
Comes thrilling thro' the vale,
From one whose voice, with sighs and tears,
Forbodes a dismal tale.
'Tis here the genius of the place,
Some kindred spirit gone,
Tho' now not known her lineage race,
Nor when of such was one.
Her feeling still a truth unfolds,
Tho' skeptics may deny,
That Homeward thought still live in souls,
And cares that never die.
The hills and streams respond her wail,
Her plaint of yore is known;
The young and old with terror quail,
And try to shield their own,
Old crones report in boding cant,
The fact themselves long knew,
But silence kept, nor did they want
Themselves to seem untrue.
But now divulged no doubt remains,
For she th' unerring seer,
Reveale her tale in plaintive strains,
A pensive volunteer.
Along the streams, among the trees,
The boding phantom flies,
With seeming step, she treads the leas,
And fills the air with sighs.
Again her wail, mo bhron ma chra,
Is heard along the dale,
No thunder crash could strike such awe,
As hers among the Gael.
The die is cast, the spell entwined,
The victim yet unknown,
Is hers' the fault or fates unkind,
Her note is still O chone.
This mystic dame that's known so long,
Among some clans we see,
Unveils the fate in doleful song.
The wailing, lone Banshee.
ON THE ANTIQUITY, SUBLIMITY AND
DECADENCE OF THE IRISH LAN¬
GUAGE.
Suggested by hearing Darcy M'Gee lecture on
the 16th Oct. 1885, in the Tabernacle, on :"Ireland
as I Found it in 1885."
A time there was in palmy days of yore,
When Bards and Ministrels spoke their native
tongue,
And sung the feats of Heroes on the shore,
Of foes defeated or their traitors hung.
A time when Chieftains, princes of the soil,
Led forth their clans to merriment and play,
Amusing such as came then many a mile,
With all the games they practised in their day.
When all the Fair with modesty their own,
Unrivalled since, except their kindred race,
Showed forth the sex from cottage to the throne,
The seeming portraits of an Angel's face.
Aud lute and lyre with soft inspiring strains,
Awoke the heart to phantacies divine,
Forgot the past, made light of all the pains,
And faced the future like an angry Lion.
