Was it not a miracle?
Built of lard, a coracle
Swam a sweet milk sea.
With high hearts heroical,
We stepped in it, stoical,
Braving billow-bounds;
Then we rode so dashingly,
Smote the sea so splashingly,
That the surge sent, washingly,
Honey up for grounds.
Ramparts rose of custard all
Where a castle mustered all
Forces o'er the lake;
Butter was the bridge of it,
Wheaten meal the ridge of it,
Bacon every stake.
Strong it stood, and pleasantly
There I entered presently
Hying to the hosts;
Dry beef was the door of it,
Bare bread was the floor of it,
Whey-curds were the posts.
Old cheese-columns happily,
Pork that pillared sappily,
Raised their heads aloof;
While curd-rafters mellowly
Crossing cream-beams yellowly,
Held aloft the roof.
All of pasties beth the walls,
Of flesh, of fish, and a rich meat
The likefullest that man may eat,
Flouren cakes beth the shingles all
Of church, cloister, bowrs and hall,
The pinnes beth fat puddings
Rich meat to princes and kings."
The Irish original was at least partly rimed into Lowland Scotch, judging by an old verse I heard in Ulster, concerning a house:
"Weel I mind the biggin' o't,
Bread and cheese were the door cheek
And pancakes the riggin' o't."
This forms part of the Jacobite song, 'This is no my ain house, but may come from an older song.-Author.
Wine in well rose sparklingly,
Beer was rolling darklingly,
Bragget brimmed the pond.
Lard was oozing heavily,
Merry malt moved wavily,
Through the floor beyond.
Lake of broth lay spicily,
Fat froze o'er it icily,
"Tween the wall and shore; Butter rose in hedges high, Cloaking all its edges high
White lard blossomed o'er.
Apple alleys bowering,
Pinked-topped orchards flowering,
Fenced off hill and wind;
Leek tree forests loftily,
Carrots branching tuftily,
Guarded it behind.
Ruddy waters rosily
Welcomed us right cosily
To the fire and rest;
Seven coils of sausages,
Twined in twisted passages,
Round each brawny breast.
Their chief I discover him,
Suet mantle over him,
By his lady bland;
Where the caldron boiled away,
The Dispenser toiled away,
With his fork in hand.
Good King Cathal, royally,
Surely will enjoy a lay,
Fair and fine as silk;
From his heart his woe I call,
When I sing, heroical,
How we rode, so stoical,
O'er the Sea of Milk.
From the Irish of Diarmad O'Curnain.
I am desolate,
Bereft by bitter fate;
No cure beneath the skies can save me,
No cure on sea or strand,
Nor in any human hand
But hers, this paining wound who gave me.
I know not night from day,
Nor thrush from cuckoo gray,
Nor cloud from the sun that shines above theeNor freezing cold from heat,
Nor friend-if friend I meet
I but know-heart's love! I love thee.
Love that my Life began,
Love, that will close life's span, Love that grows ever by love-giving: Love, from the first to last,
Love, till all life be passed,
Love that loves on after living!
This love I gave to thee,
For pain love has given me,
Love that can fail or falter never-
But, spite of earth above,
Guards thee, my Flower of love,
Thou Marvel-maid of life for ever.
Bear all things evidence,
Thou art my very sense,
My past, my present, and my morrow!
All else on earth is crossed,
All in the world is lost
Lost all-but the great love-gift of sorrow.
My life not life, but death;
My voice not voice-a breath;
No sleep, no quiet-thinking ever
On thy fair phantom face,
Queen eyes and royal grace,
Lost loveliness that leaves me never.
I pray thee grant but this,—
From thy dear mouth one kiss.
That the pang of death-despair pass over:
Or bid make ready nigh
The place where I shall lie,
For aye, thy leal and silent lover.
O Sigh of the Sea, O soft lone-wandering sound,
Why callest thou me, with voice of all waters profound,
With sob and with smile, with lingering pain and delight,
With mornings of blue, with flash of thy billows at night?
The shell from the shore, though borne far away from thy side,
Recalls evermore the flowing and fall of thy tide,
And so, through my heart thy murmurs gather and grow-
Thy tides, as of old, awake in its darkness, and flow.
O Sigh of the Sea, from luminous isles far away,
Why callest thou me to sail the impassable way?
Why callest thou me to share the unrest of thy soul-
Desires that avail not, yearnings from pole unto pole?
Still call, till I hear no voice but the voice of thy love,
Till stars shall appear the night of my darkness above,
Till night to the dawn gives way, and death to new life-
Heart-full of thy might, astir with thy tumult and strife.
As chimes that flow o'er shining seas
When Morn alights on meads of May,
Faint voices fill the western breeze
With whisp'ring songs from Far-Away.
Oh, dear the dells of Dunanore,
A home is odorous Ossory;
But sweet as honey, running o'er,
The Golden Shore of Far-Away!
There grows the Tree whose summer breath
Perfumes with joy the azure air;
And he who feels it fears not Death,
Nor longer heeds the hounds of Care.
Oh, soft the skies of Seskinore,
And mild is meadowy Mellaray;
But sweet as honey, running o'er,
The Golden Shore of Far-Away!
There sings the Voice whose wondrous tune
Falls, like diamond-showers above
That in the radiant dawn of June
Renew a world of Youth and Love.
Oh, fair the founts of Farranfore,
And bright is billowy Ballintrae;
But sweet as honey, running o'er,
The Golden Shore of Far-Away!
Come, Fragrance of the Flowering Tree,
Oh, sing, sweet Bird, thy magic lay,
Till all the world be young with me,
And Love shall lead us far away.
Oh, dear the dells of Dunanore,
A home is odorous Ossory;
But swet as honey, running o'er,
The Golden Shore of Far-Away!
Long, this night, the clouds delay,
And long to me was yesternight,
Long was the dreary day, this day,
Long, yesterday, the light.
Each day that comes to me is long-
Not thus our wont to be of old,
With never music, harp, nor song,
Nor clang of battles bold.
No wooing soft, nor feats of might,
Nor cheer of chase, nor ancient lore,
Nor banquet gay, nor gallant fight-
All things beloved of yore.
1 Dean of Lismore's Book.
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