| |
| A GAUNT-BUILT woman and her son-in-law— | |
| A broad-faced fellow, with such flesh as shows | |
| Nothing but easy nature—and his wife, | |
| The woman’s daughter, who spills all her talk | |
| Out of a wide mouth, but who has eyes as gray | 5 |
| As Connemara, where the mountain-ash | |
| Shows berries red indeed: they enter now— | |
| Our country singers! | |
| |
| “Sing, my good woman, sing us some romance | |
| That has been round your chimney-nooks so long | 10 |
| ’Tis nearly native; something blown here | |
| And since made racy—like yon tree, I might say, | |
| Native by influence if not by species, | |
| Shaped by our winds. You understand, I think?” | |
| |
| “I’ll sing the song, sir.” | 15 |
| |
| To-night you see my face— | |
| Maybe nevermore you’ll gaze | |
| On the one that for you left his friends and kin; | |
| For by the hard commands | |
| Of the lord that rules these lands | 20 |
| On a ship I’ll be borne from Cruckaunfinn! | |
| |
| Oh, you know your beauty bright | |
| Has made him think delight | |
| More than from any fair one he will gain; | |
| Oh, you know that all his will | 25 |
| Strains and strives around you till | |
| As the hawk upon his hand you are as tame! | |
| |
| Then she to him replied: | |
| I’ll no longer you deny, | |
| And I’ll let you have the pleasure of my charms; | 30 |
| For to-night I’ll be your bride, | |
| And whatever may betide | |
| It’s we will lie in one another’s arms! | |
| |
| “You should not sing | |
| With body doubled up and face aside— | 35 |
| There is a climax here—‘It’s we will lie’— | |
| Hem—passionate! And what does your daughter sing?” | |
| |
| “A song I like when I do climb bare hills— | |
| ’Tis all about a hawk.” | |
| |
| No bird that sits on rock or bough | 40 |
| Has such a front as thine; | |
| No king that has made war his trade | |
| Such conquest in his eyne! | |
| I mark thee rock-like on the rock | |
| Where none can see a shape. | 45 |
| I climb, but thou dost climb with wings, | |
| And like a wish escape, | |
| She said— | |
| And like a wish escape! | |
| |
| No maid that kissed his bonny mouth | 50 |
| Of another mouth was glad; | |
| Such pride was in our chieftain’s eyes, | |
| Such countenance he had! | |
| But since they made him fly the rocks, | |
| Thou, creature, art my quest. | 55 |
| Then lift me with thy steady eyes. | |
| If then to tear my breast, | |
| She said— | |
| If then to tear my breast! | |
| |
| “The songs they have | 60 |
| Are the last relics of the feudal world: | |
| Women will keep them—byzants, doubloons, | |
| When men will take up songs that are as new | |
| As dollar bills. What song have you, young man?” | |
| |
| “A song my father had, sir. It was sent him | 65 |
| From across the sea, and there was a letter with it, | |
| Asking my father to put it to a tune | |
| And sing it all roads. He did that, in troth, | |
| And five pounds of tobacco were sent with the song | |
| To fore-reward him. I’ll sing it for you now— | 70 |
| The Baltimore Exile.” | |
| |
| The house I was bred in—ah, does it remain? | |
| Low walls and loose thatch standing lone in the rain, | |
| With the clay of the walls coming through with its stain, | |
| Like the blackbird’s left nest in the briar! | 75 |
| |
| Does a child there give heed to the song of the lark, | |
| As it lifts and it drops till the fall of the dark, | |
| When the heavy-foot kine trudge home from the paurk, | |
| Or do none but the red-shank now listen? | |
| |
| The sloe-bush, I know, grows close to the well, | 80 |
| And its long-lasting blossoms are there, I can tell, | |
| When the kid that was yeaned when the first ones befell | |
| Can jump to the ditch that they grow on! | |
| |
| But there’s silence on all. Then do none ever pass | |
| On the way to the fair or the pattern or mass? | 85 |
| Do the gray-coated lads drive the ball through the grass | |
| And speed to the sweep of the hurl? | |
| |
| O youths of my land! Then will no Bolivar | |
| Ever muster your ranks for delivering war? | |
| Will your hopes become fixed and beam like a star? | 90 |
| Will they pass like the mists from your fields? | |
| |
| The swan and the swallows, the cuckoo and crake, | |
| May visit my land and find hillside and lake. | |
| And I send my song. I’ll not see her awake— | |
| I’m too old a bird to uncage now! | 95 |
| |
| “Silver’s but lead in exchange for songs, | |
| But take it and spend it.” | |
| |
| “We will. And may we meet your honor’s like | |
| Every day’s end.” | |
| |
| “A tune is more lasting than the voice of the birds.” | 100 |
| |
| “A song is more lasting than the riches of the world.”
|
