And a flickering fire of bog-deal Burned on the open hearth, And the night-wind roared in the chimney, And darkness was over the earth.

And Tearlach Ban MacGiolla, The piper of Gort, was there, And he sat and he dreamed apart In the arms of a sugan chair.

And sudden he woke from his dream Like a dream-frightened child, And his lips were pale and trembling, And his eyes were wild.

And he stood straight up, and he cried, With a wave of his withered hand, "The days of the grasping stranger Shall be few in the land!

"The scrip of his doom is written, The thread of his shroud is spun; The net of his strength is broken, The tide of his life is run... ."

Then he sank to his seat like a stone, And the watchers stared aghast, And they crossed themselves for fear As the coffin cart went past.

"At the battle of Gleann-muic-duibh The fate the poets foretold Shall fall on the neck of the stranger, And redden the plashy mould.

"The bagmen carry the story The circuit of Ireland round, And they sing it at fair and hurling From Edair to Acaill Sound.

"And the folk repeat it over About the winter fires, Till the heart of each one listening Is burning with fierce desires.

"In the Glen of the Bristleless Boar They say the battle shall be, Where Breiffne's iron mountains Look on the Western sea.

"In the Glen of the Pig of Diarmad, On Gulban's. .h.i.ther side, The battle shall be broken About the Samhain tide.

"Forth from the ancient hills, With war-cries strident and loud, The people shall march at daybreak, Ma.s.sed in a clamorous crowd.

"War-pipes shall scream and cry, And battle-banners shall wave, And every stone on Gulban Shall mark a hero's grave.

"The horses shall wade to their houghs In rivers of smoking blood, Charging thro' heaps of corpses Scattered in whinny and wood.

"The girths shall rot from their bellies After the battle is done, For lack of a hand to undo them And hide them out of the sun.

"It shall not be the battle Between the folk and the Sidhe At the rape of a bride from her bed Or a babe from its mother's knee.

"It shall not be the battle Between the white hosts flying And the shrieking devils of h.e.l.l For a priest at the point of dying.

"It shall not be the battle Between the sun and the leaves, Between the winter and summer, Between the storm and the sheaves.

"But a battle to doom and death Between the Gael and the Gall, Between the sword of light And the shield of darkness and thrall.

"And the Gael shall have the mastery After a month of days, And the lakes of the west shall cry, And the hills of the north shall blaze.

"And the neck of the fair-haired Gall Shall be as a stool for the feet Of Ciaran, chief of the Gael, Sitting in Emer's seat!"--

At this MacGiolla fainted, Tearing his yellow hair, And the young men cursed the stranger, And the old men mouthed a prayer.

For they knew the day would come, As sure as the piper said, When many loves would be parted, And many graves would be red.

And the wake broke up in tumult, And the women were left alone, Keening over the beggar That died at Gobnat's Stone.

THE BESOM-MAN

Did you see Paidin, Paidin, the besom-man, Last night as you came by Over the mountain?

A barth of new heather He bore on his shoulder, And a bundle of whitlow-gra.s.s Under his oxter.

I spied him as he pa.s.sed Beyond the carn head, But no eye saw him At the hill foot after.

What has come over him?

The women are saying.

What can have crossed Paidin, the besom-man?

The bogholes he knew As the curlews know them, And the rabbits' pads, And the derelict quarries.

He was humming a tune-- The "Enchanted Valley"-- As he pa.s.sed me westward Beyond the carn.

I stood and I listened, For his singing was strange: It rang in my ears The long night after.

What has come over Paidin, the besom-man?

What can have crossed him?

The women keep saying.

They talk of the fairies-- And, G.o.d forgive me, Paidin knew _them_ Like his prayers!

Will you fetch word Up to the cross-roads If you see track of him, Living or dead?

The boys are loafing Without game or caper; And the dark piper Is gone home with the birds.

EVERY SHUILER IS CHRIST

Every shuiler is Christ, Then be not hard or cold: The bit that goes for Christ Will come a hundred-fold.

The ear upon your corn Will burst before its time; Your roots will yield a crop Without manure or lime.

And every sup you give To crutch him on his way Will fill your churn with milk, And choke your barn with hay.

Then when the shuiler begs, Be neither hard nor cold; The share that goes for Christ Will come a hundred-fold.