My brother has a copper pot-- He tryst' it wi' a shuiler-man; And gossip says it's like as not He truff'd it from a Clobhair-ceann.

Shuiler-man, shuiler-man, Where did you get it?

Faith now, says he, In my breeches' pocket!

BY A WONDROUS MYSTERY

By a wondrous mystery Christ of Mary's fair body Upon a middle winter's morn, Between the tides of night and day, In Ara's holy isle was born.

Mary went upon her knee Travailing in ecstasy, And Brigid, mistress of the birth, Full reverently and tenderly Laid the child upon the earth.

Then the dark-eyed rose did blow, And rivers leaped from out the snow.

Earth grew lyrical: the gra.s.s, As the light winds chanced to pa.s.s-- Than magian music more profound-- Murmured in a maze of sound.

White incense rose upon the hills As from a thousand thuribles, And in the east a seven-rayed star Proclaimed the news to near and far.

The shepherd danced, the gilly ran, The boatman left his curachan; The king came riding on the wind To offer gifts of coin and kind; The druid dropped his ogham wand, And said, "Another day's at hand, A newer dawn is in the sky: I put my withered sapling by.

The druid Christ has taken breath To sing the runes of life and death."

I GATHER THREE EARS OF CORN

I gather three ears of corn, And the Black Earl from over the sea Sails across in his silver ships, And takes two out of the three.

I might build a house on the hill And a barn of the speckly stone, And tell my little stocking of gold, If the Earl would let me alone.

But he has no thought for me-- Only the thought of his share, And the softness of the linsey shifts His lazy daughters wear.

There is a G.o.d in heaven, And angels, score on score, Who will not see my hearthstone cold Because I'm crazed and poor.

My childer have my blood, And when they get their beards They will not be content to run As gillies to their herds!

The day will come, maybe, When we can have our own, And the Black Earl will come to us Begging the bacach's bone!

THE TINKERS

"One _ciarog_ knows another _ciarog_, And why shouldn't I know you, you rogue?"

"They say a stroller will never pair Except with one of his kind and care ..."

So talked two tinkers p.r.o.ne in the shough-- And then, as the fun got a trifle rough, They flitted: he with his corn-straw ba.s.s, She with her load of tin and bra.s.s: As mad a match as you would see In a twelvemonth's ride thro' Christendie.

He roared--they both were drunk as h.e.l.l: She danced, and danced it mighty well!

I could have eyed them longer, but They staggered for the Quarry Cut: That half-perch seemed to trouble them more Than all the leagues they'd tramped before.

Some'll drink at the fair the morrow, And some'll sup with the spoon of sorrow; But whether _they_'ll get as far as Droichid The night--well, who knows that but G.o.d?

AS I CAME OVER THE GREY, GREY HILLS

As I came over the grey, grey hills And over the grey, grey water, I saw the gilly leading on, And the white Christ following after.

Where and where does the gilly lead?

And where is the white Christ faring?

They've travelled the four grey sounds of Orc, And the four grey seas of Eirinn.

The moon it set and the wind's away, And the song in the gra.s.s is dying, And a silver cloud on the silent sea Like a shrouding sheet is lying.

But Christ and the gilly will follow on Till the ring in the east is showing, And the awny corn is red on the hills, And the golden light is glowing!

A NORTHERN LOVE-SONG

Brigidin Ban of the lint-white locks, What was it gave you that flaxen hair, Long as the summer heath in the rocks?

What was it gave you those eyes of fire, Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?

Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban, Little white bride of my heart's desire.

Was it the Good People stole you away, Little white changeling, Brigidin Ban?

Carried you off in the ring of the dawn, Laid like a queen on her purple car, Carried you back 'twixt the night and the day; Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair, Gave you those eyes of wandering fire, Lit at the wheel of the southern star; Gave you that look so far away, Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?

Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban, Little white bride of my heart's desire.

TO THE GOLDEN EAGLE

Wanderer of the mountain, Winger of the blue, From this stormy rock I send my love to you.

Take me for your lover, Dark and fierce and true-- Wanderer of the mountain, Winger of the blue!

A PROPHECY

"The loins of the Galldacht Shall wither like gra.s.s"-- Strange words I heard said At the Fair of Dun-eas.

"A bard shall be born Of the seed of the folk, To break with his singing The bond and the yoke.