Clinton Scollard

“ Is the luring laugh of Moira when day ’s at evenfall.
I dream of the ancient wonders, of the Cross caught up in air,
Of the swan of sweet Feale Water that was a maiden fair;
I dream of the ancient wonders, but each fades in eclipse
At the lifted arms of Moira, and Moira’s lifted lips!
[p 37]
AT MONAREE
When springtime comes to Monaree I know
How the blue hyacinths blow,
And how the daffodil lights its golden glow.
These blossoms are remembrancers of those
Who lie in long repose,
Lost to our earthly scenes of joys and woes,—
The saints of other days. ”

“ A KERRY DAY
Under the sweep of a fell the smoke-reek curls and drifts
Where a white-walled cottage stands nestling amid the green;
Kerry skies above arched with their azure rifts
Where a glint of sun peeps through to brighten the peaceful scene.
Cattle stand at graze, and there are the piles of peat,
And there is the swift Feale Water rimpling, dimpling away ”

“ Of the floss of the moon in the dusk watches won,
And the lake is a-shimmer below.
There ’s a garden that ’s fair, be it day, be it night,
A garden in Kerry I know,
And never an orient dream of delight
Can match with this garden so sweet to my sight,
For here is heart’s home to a wandering wight,—
It calls me wherever I go!
[p 55]
DOWN IN KERRY
Down in Kerry maids are merry,
Down in Kerry maids are fair;
Laughin’ eyes an’ lips o’ cherry
From Feale Water to Kenmare!
Sunny weather in the heather,
Sunny weather everywhere,
Be but man an’ maid together
From Feale Water to Kenmare! ”

“ That I was King in Kerry, and you were Galway’s Queen!
[p 51]
A KERRY LAD
There ’s a Kerry lad a-wandering across the dipping sea,
A Kerry lad a-wandering the foam,
And oh, the swelling joy of it, the joy that there will be
When that wandering Kerry lad comes home!
There ’ll be glad voices calling him, glad voices in the street,
And hands to clasp the hands of the gossoon;
There ’ll be soft winds a-whispering above the fields of peat,
And little birds a-carolling in tune! ”

“ The monks of old with prayer and hymn
Hewed out the weary “Way of the Cross.”
Gone are these holy toilers—gone;
They rest now in their long repose,
From the red dusk to the red dawn,
’Neath the sea-pinks and tangled rose.
But sorrow bides with us and ill,
And stress and sacrifice and loss,
And we must strive to meet them still
Climbing the weary “Way of the Cross.”
[p 20]
THE ISLE OF DOOM
Out of the mist off Galway shore,
Out of the morning mist,
Rose the island of Hy Brasail
With its crags of amethyst ”

“ I seek my sweet where the roses stir,
And the stars overhead are a marching throng,
And this is the tale that I tell to her,—
“Though life is brief, yet love is long!”
[p 30]
MAN AND MAID
“I know a lad in Leitrim, I know a lad,” said she,
“I know a lad in Leitrim would give his heart for me!”
“I know a maid in Mayo, I know a maid,” said he,
“I know a maid in Mayo would give her heart to me!”
“Go to your maid in Mayo, go to your maid,” cried she;
“Go to your maid in Mayo, for all—for all of me!” ”

“ O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the graves of the mightiest men
That ever had birth in Erin! Will their like e’er come again?
Men of the thews of titans, of the strong, unwavering hand,
Who wrested a meagre guerdon from the breast of this lean land!
[p 13]
O a song for Joyce’s Country, since it haunts one like a dream
That comes in the dusk ere dawning, ere the first bright sunrise beam;
A dream of dolor and vastness, of clouds that are swept and swirled
O’er the desolate wastes and waters of a joy-forsaken world! ”

“ For there ’s little gold in Ireland save that upon the whin!
Like weary feet the days drag by; the heart o’ me is sad;
The keenin’ o’ the wind at night, it nearly drives me mad;
The cries o’ children in the street, they quaver lorn an’ thin,
For there ’s little gold in Ireland save that upon the whin!
But when my own lad comes again, ah, colleen, ’t will be sweet;
There ’ll be the peal o’ weddin’ bells across the fields o’ peat;
Faith, I can hear him sayin’ it, with his shy sort o’ grin,
“There ’s more gold now in Ireland than that upon the whin!”
[p 62]
THE BRIDGE OF LUCKEEN ”

“ Away from the warm peat fire;
I must be up and faring,
For this is the hour of tryst,
And Sheilah will be waiting
At the glen amid the mist.
Oh, what ’s gray rain to lovers,
And what though white rains fall,
When blue skies shine in Sheilah’s eyes
For a lad of Donegal!
[p 34]
A ROVER
Oh, I am just a rover
Among the roving men
Who loves to watch the sunlight
Upon the flowering fen;
Who fain would feel the heather
Dew-soft beneath his tread
When morning parts the cloud-wrack
Above Benbulbin’s head ”

“ There strayed down the path from the top of the pass
Such a slim little, prim little, trim little lass.
“Oho!” then quoth I, and “aha!” murmured she,
With as pretty a curtsy as ever you ’d see;
“Won’t you pause?” I inquired; “I don’t mind,” said her mien,
So we looked, side by side, from the Bridge of Luckeen.
How the minutes flew by, an’ the stream how it flowed,
While never a soul came along by the road;
An’ I thought her eyes sweeter than Maeve ever knew,
An’ she deemed me far bolder than Brian Boru! ”

“ In the kingdom they call “Kerry” there ’s a “bohareen” goes climbin’
Above the thatch o’ cots at Ballymore—
A little rovin’ footway—an’ the goat bells keep a-chimin’
In the heather slopin’ upward from the shore
For the slopes are clad with heather, noddin’ heather, purple heather,
Where the bees make honey-music in the noon;
An’ if you should chance to stray there in a scrap o’ sunny weather
A warbler will be tossin’ you a tune. ”

“ It ’s here I ’d rather be!”
[p 31]
“And yet—and yet—” he echoed, “and yet—and yet—” smiled he,
“That maid may stay in Mayo. It ’s there I ’d have her be!”
’T is merry down in Kerry beside the laughing sea;
’T is merry down in Kerry when man and maid agree!
[p 32]
THE HUNTER
I crept up Benbulbin a-hunting the boar;
Mist swooped on the heather, mist swept down the shore,
And all of the tongues of the mountain, they murmured behind and before.
Then out of a cleft rose a terrible cry,
And a form like a demon went ravening by,
And I fell in a quake on the moss, and I thought I should die. ”

“ Nor the bracken with the mosses soft between,
Nor the droopin’ bells o’ heather, nay, it ’s not for these I love it,
That wanderin’, that windin’ “bohareen!”
But a thought that keeps a-chimin’ in my heart like tender rhymin’
Of one who clambered upward from the shore—
Whose feet with mine kept timin’ as the pair o’ us went climbin’
Long ago that “bohareen” at Ballymore!
1 “Bohareen,” bypath.
[p 60]
AN IRISH IDYL
As I stood amid the bracken, as I stood amid the fern,
I could hear the merry bicker, the blithe bicker of the burn.
Bees were hummin’, softly hummin’;
“She ’s a comin’! ”