Kind her heart is, but her clann's Cold as clay or stone. Would that I had herds and lands To take her for my own!
I have gathered _luss_ At the wane of the moon, And supped its sap With a yewen spoon. I have sat a spell By the carn of Medb, And smelt the mould Of the red queen's grave. I have dreamed a dearth In the darkened sun, And felt the hand Of the Evil One. I have fathomed war In the comet's tail, And heard the crying Of Gall and Gael. I have seen the spume On the dead priest's lips, And the "holy fire" On the spars of ships; And the shooting stars On Barthelmy's Night, Blanching the dark With ghostly light; And the corpse-candle Of the seer's dream, Bigger in girth Than a weaver's beam; And the shy hearth-fairies About the grate, Blowing the turves To a whiter heat. All things on earth To me are known, For I have the gift Of the Murrain Stone!
Who buys land buys many stones, Who buys flesh buys many bones; Who buys eggs buys many shells, Who buys love buys nothing else.
Love is a burr upon the floor, Love is a thief behind the door; Who loves leman for her breath May quench his fire and cry for death!
Love is a bridle, love is a load, Love is a thorn upon the road; Love is the fly that flits its hour, Love is the shining venom-flower.
Love is a net, love is a snare, Love is a bubble blown with air; Love starts hot, and waning cold, Is withered in the grave's mould!
The poet loosed a wingèd song Against the hulk of England's wrong. Were poisoned words at his command, 'Twould not avail for Ireland.
The soldier lifted up a sword, And on the hills in battle poured His life-blood like an ebbing sea-- And still we pine for liberty.
The friar spoke his bitter hope, And danced upon the gallows rope. Were he to dance that dance again A hundred times, 'twould be in vain.
Christ save us! only thou canst save! The nation staggers to the grave. Can genius, valour, faith be given, And win no recompense of heaven?
No, Christ! by Ireland's martyrs, no! 'Twas not for this we suffered so. Die, die again on Calvary tree, If needs be, Christ, to set us free! To set us free!
I lit my tallow An hour ago, And now it is burning Dark and low.
The glimmer lengthens And turns about, Sinks in the sconce-- Then flickers out!