O Christ! and to see the man up on the back Of a thoroughbred stallion, a bay or a black!
There's not a horsebreeder from Banna to Laoi Can handle the snaffle so pretty as he!
And Ciaran, for all, has the wit of a child, A heart just as soft, and an eye just as mild.
No maker of ballads puts curse at his door: He handsels the singer, and harbours the poor.
For Ciaran, the master of horses and lands, Once had no more than the horn on his hands.
Deep ways and dripping boughs, The fog falling drearily; Cowherds calling on their cows, And I crying wearily, Wearily, wearily, out-a-door, Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless, Poorest of the wandering poor.
I am the beggar Christ-- Christ that calmed the castling flood! Cross and thorn have not sufficed To punish me as you would; But out-a-door in wind and rain, Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless, You keep me wandering in pain.
Night, and I travelling. An open door by the wayside, Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light. A whiff of peat-smoke; A gleam of delf on the dresser within; A woman's voice crooning, as if to a child. I pass on into the darkness.
Fill me, O stars, As with an olden tune. Look thro' your cloudy bars, O summer moon; Look thro', and drench in silver light My soul this night.
O brief, enchanted dream Of sea and sky, Of ploughland, meadow, stream, And twilight loth to die, Of fire and dew-- My soul is one with you!
At morning tide, Upon the hill of Sliabh-na-mBan, I saw the dead Christ glorified! His body, like the risen sun, Was all too bright to look upon: The blue air burned About him: in his side And hands and feet there shone (Thro' stabs and gashes gaping wide) The golden glory of his blood: The gilly stood Upon his right hand: at his feet The fishers, Peter, James and John, Knelt worshipping With outstretched arms, and eyes To heaven turned: And Maria, his mother sweet, (The partner of his mysteries), And Magdalen and Salome Came thro' the doorway of the day Behind him, weeping. . . . . Then a cloud came o'er My senses, and I saw and heard no more!
Come away, O Maire Ban, Come away, come away Where the heads of _ceanabhan_ Tremble in the twilight air, And the rushes nod and sway, And no other sound is heard But the swaying of the rushes, And the shouts from Croc-an-air, And the singing of the fidils, And the laughing of the dancers Round about the yellow fire, And the scream of the water-bird.