 The Legend of Fergus Ledeson by Sir Samuel Burgesson From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibreVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England From an unknown bard of the 10th century One day King Fergus, lead Luthmar's son, drove by Loc Rury at his journey done, Slept in his chariot, wearied, while he slept a trooper ferris, o'er his cushion crept, And first his sharp dread sword they filched away, Then bore himself feet forward to the bay, He, with a chill touch, woke, and at a snatch, It fortune'd him in either hand To catch a full-grown sprite. Well twixt his breast and arm, he pinned a youngling, They, in dire alarm, writhed hard and squealed, He held tighter, then quarter, and ransom, cried the little man, No quarter he, nor go ye hence alive, Unless ye gift me wit, the art to dive, long as I will, to walk at large, and breathe, The seas, the locks, the river-floods, beneath. We will. He loosed them, herbs of virtue they placed in his earholes, Or, as others say, a hood of fairy texture o'er his head, Much like a cleric's cauchel, drew and said, Why this, and walk the deeps, and well beware, Thou enter no wise in lock Rury there. Clared in his cowl, through many deeps he went, And saw their wonders, but was not content, Unless lock Rury, also to his eyes, Revealed its inner under-mysteries. Thither he came, and plunged therein, And there the muudrists met him. Have ye seen a pair of blacksmith's bellows Open out and close, alternate neath the hand Of him that blows? So swalded, and so shrunk, The hideous sight, hung all his visage sideways with a fright, He fled, he gained the bank. How seen is my tear, O Moina, ill replied the charioteer. At rest thee sleep, thy wildness will compose. He slept, swift Moina, to Amania goes, Whom now, for king, since Fergus's face awry, But law demeans him of the sovereignty, Hush, and his sages and physicians wise, In earnest counsel-sit, and this advice, He knows not of his plight to keep himself So, as he suspects not, that he ought to know, For so the mind be straight, and just awards, Wait on the judgment, write, read, law, regards, No mere distortion of the outward frame, As blemish, barring from the kingly name, And know he all, the baleful fact you tell, An inward wrench might warp the mind as well, Behooves it, therefore, all of idle tongue, Gestures and women, and the witless young, Be from his presence, kept, And when at morn, he takes his bath, Behooves his bond made, Dom, muddy the water, Test perchance he trace, Lost kingships token on his imaged face, Three years they kept him so, till on a day, Gone with his face bath, he were, had made, Delay, And fratted Fergus, petulant and rash, A blow bestowed her off his horse-whiplash, Forth burst the woman's anger, thou a king, Thou sitting counsel, thou a judge a thing, In court of law, thou who know kingship can, Since all may see thou art a blemished man, Thou rhymouth, Fergus thereon slew the maid, And, to lock Rory's brink, in haste conveyed, Went in at verte, for a day and night, Beneath the waves he rested out of sight, But all the Altonians, on the bank who stood, Saw the lock boil and redden with the blood, When, next at sunrise, skies grew also red, He rose, and in his hand, the meodrous's head, Gone was the blemish, on his goodly face, Each trait symmetric had resumed its place, And they who saw him mocked, in all his ne'en, A king's composure ample and serene, He smiled, he cast his trophy to the bank, Cried, I survivor, Ola terian, and sank. End of the Spear of Calta This recording is in the public domain. Dear Tree Dancing by Herbert Trench From the book of Irish poetry, part one, Read for LibreVox.org. Recording by Elaine Conway, England. Naio is, world thou not dance, Daughter of heaven, today free, at last free, For here no moody raindrop Can reach thee, nor betrayer, over peer, And none the self-delightful measure here That thy soul moves to, Quitter of mortal ear, full luth cheaply, Yet cannot him resist, And on the immocid lights begins to dance, Away, away, far floating like a mist, To fade into some leafy brilliance, Then, smiling to the inward melodist, Over the printless turf, with slow advance Of sherry footsteps, She infinite, that crowded clan, But quick, possessed, by strange rapture, Wider than dreams, her motions reigned Till to expand the forest to drink and change, And in her eyes, and glimmering arms, She brings hither all promise, All the unlooketh for boon of rainbowed life, All rare and speechless things That shine and swell under the brimming moon, Who shall pluck timpans? For what need of strings? To waft her blood, who is herself the tune, Has self the warm and breathing melody? Art comes from the land of ever young? Oh, stay, for his heart, after thee rising away, Falls dark, and spirit faint, back to the clay, Griefs like the yellow leaves, by winter curled, Rise after her, long-buried pangs arouse, About that bosom, the grey forest's wallet, And tempests with her beauty might espouse. She rose with the green waters of the world, And the winds heaved with her their depth of boughs, Then vague again as blows the beanfield's odour, On the dark lap of air she chose to sink, As winnowing with plumes to the riverbank, The pigeons from the cliff came down to drink, Sun distraught, shading her eyes she ceased, Listening like bride, whom, cunning, fairy-strain, Forth from the trumpet brooded, spows of feast, Steals, but he beckoned soon, and quick with pain he ran, He craved at those white feet the least, Pardon, nor did he felt her hand again, Descend, flake-soft, dust spy, That she was weeping, or kneel with burning murmurs to atone, For sleep she wept, long-fasting had they gone, Under-ridden from the breaking of the dawn, End of deadry dancing, this recording is in the public domain. The Noble Lay of Ailin by Stopford A. Brooke From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1, Read for LibraVox.org, Recording by Elaine Conway, England After an Irish tale from the Book of Blynciae, Prince Bale of Ulster rode out in the mong, To meet his love at the Ford, and he loved her better than lands or life, And dearer than his sword. And she was Ailin, fair as the sea, The Prince of Lentster's daughter, and she longed for him more than a wounded man, Who sees death longs for water. They sent a message each to each, Oh, meet me near or far, And the Ford divided the kingdoms too, And the kings were bolics at war, And the Prince came first to the water's pass, And, oh, he thought no ill, when he saw with pain a great grey man, Come striding over the hill, his cloak was the ragged thundercloud, and his cap the whirling snow, And his eyes were the lightning in the storm, and his horn he ganned to blow, What news, what news, thou great grey man? I feared his ill with me, Oh, Ailin is dead, and her lips are cold, And he died for loving thee, And he looked and saw no more the man, And a trail of driving rain, Whoa, whoa, he cried, and took his sword, And draped his heart in twain, And out of his blood burst forth his spring, And a utriad of his breast, And it grew so deep, and it grew so high, The doves came near to rest, But Ailin was coming to keep her trist, The hour her lover fell, And she rode as fast as the western wind, Across the heathery hill, Behind her flew her loosened hair, Her happy heart did wheat, When she was aware of a cloud of storm, Came driving down the street, And out of it stepped a great grey man, And his cap was peaked with snow, The fire of death was in his eyes, And he ganned his horn to blow, What news, what news, thou great grey man? And is it ill to me? Oh, bell the prince is dead at the ford, And he died for loving thee, Pale, pale she grew, and two large tears Dropped down like heavy rain, And she fell to earth with a woeful cry, For she broke her heart in twain, And out of her tears two fountains rose, That watered all the ground, And out of her heart an apple tree grew, That hurt the water's sand. Oh, woe were the kings, And woe were the queens, And woe were the people all, And the poets sang their love and their death, In cottage and in hall, And the men of Ulster a tablet made, From the wood of Bailey's tree, And the men of Lentster did the like Of Aileen's apple tree, And on the one the poets wrote, The lover tales of Lentster, And on the other all the deeds That lover wrought in Ulster, Now when a hundred years had gone, The king of all the land kept feast at Torah, And he bade his poets sing astrand, They sang the sweet unhappy tale, The noble Aileen's lay, Gbring the tablets, cried the king, For I have wept today, But when he held in his right hand The wood of Bailey's tree, And in his left the tablet smoothed From Aileen's apple tree, The lovers in the wood who kept Love longing ever true, knew one another, And at once from the hands the king they flew, As ivy to the oak they clung, Their kiss no man could sever, Oh joy for lovers parted long To meet at last for ever! End of the noble lay of Aileen, This recording is in the public domain. The Love Talker by Ethna Carberry From the book of Irish poetry part one, Read for LibriVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England I met the Love Talker one eve in the England, He was handsomer than any of our handsome Young men, his eyes were blacker than the slow, His voice sweeter far than the crooning of old Kevin's pipes beyond in cool naga. I was bound for the milking, With a heart fair and free, My grief that bitter hour drained The life for me. I thought him human lover, Though his lips on mine were cold, And to the breath of death Blew keen on me within his hold. I know not what way he came, No shadow fell behind, But all the sighing rushes Swayed beneath a fairy wind, The thrush ceased it singing. A mist crept about, We two clung together, With the world shut out, Beyond the ghostly mist, I could hear my cattle low, The little cow from Balina, Driven slow, the dun-cow from Kerry, The roam from Ineshear. Oh, pitiful they're calling, And his whispers in my ear. His eyes were a fire, His words were a snare. I cried my mother's name, But no help was there. I made the blessed sign, Then he gave her dreary moan. A whisper of cloud went floating by, And I stood alone. Running ever through my head Is an old time-room, Who meets the love-talker, Must weave her shroud soon. My mother's face is furrowed, With a sort tears that fall, But the kind eyes of my father Are the saddest sightable. I have spun the fleecy lint, And now my wheel is still. The linen length is woven, For my shroud fine and chill. I shall stretch me on the bed, For a happy maid I lay. Pray for the soul of Mayor Ock, At dawning of the day. End of the love-talker, This recording is in the public domain. To the lean and she, By Thomas Boyd. Where is thy lovely perilous abode? In what strange phantom land? Glimmer the fairy turrets, Where to road the ill-starred poet band? Say, in the Isle of Youth, Hast thou thy home? The sweetest singer there, Stealing on winged steed, Across the foam, A through the moonlit air, And by the gloomy peaks of Errigale, Haunted by storm and cloud, Winged past, to thy lover there, Let fall his singing rope untroud? Or where the mists of Bluebell float Beneath the red stems of the pine? And sunbeams strike through shadow, Does thou breathe the word that makes him thine? Or is thy palace entered through, Some cliff when radiant tides are full, And round thy lovers wandering, Starlets give coil in luxurious lull, And would he, entering on the brimming flood, See caverns fast in height, And diamond columns crowned with leaf and bud, Blow in long lanes of light? And there the pearl of that great glittering shell, Trembling, behold thee lone, Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell, Now still upon thy throne, thy beauty, Ah, the eyes that pierce him through, Then melt as in a dream, The voice that sings the mysteries of the blue, And all that be unseen, Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme, That ancient nature sings, That keeps the stars in cadents for all time, And echoes through all things, Whether he sees thee thus or in his dreams, Thy light makes all lights dim, And aching solitude from henceforth seems The world of men to him, Thy luring song above the sensuous rule, He follows with delight, Shutting behind him life's last gloom at all, And fares into the night. End off to the lean and she, This recording is in the public domain. The King's Son by Thomas Boyd From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read PhilippaVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England Who rider through the driving rain At such a head-long speed, Naked and pale he rides, A bane upon a naked steed, Nor hollow nor height his going bars, His wet steed shines like silk, His head is golden to the stars, And his limbs are white as milk, But low he twindles as the light That lifts from a black mirror, And as the fair youth wanes from sight, The steed grows mightier, What wizard by Yon Holy Tree, Much as unto the sky, Where macchus flamed and horses flee, On hoofs of thunder by, Ah, tis not holy so to ban, The youth of kingly seed, Ah, woe the wasting of a man, Who changes to a steed Nightly upon the plain of kings, When macchus day is nigh, He gallops and the dark wind brings His lonely human cry. End of the King's Son This recording is in the public domain Little Sister by Thomas Boyd From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read PhilippaVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England Little Sister, whom the Faye hides away, Within his dune, deep below, Yon tufted a fern, Oh, list and learn my magic tune, Long ago, when snared, like thee, By the she, my harp and I, Oh, them wove the somber spell, Warbling while it's lullaby, Till, with dreamy smiles, They sank, rank on rank, Before the strain, Then I rose from out the rough, And found my path to earth again, Little Sister, to my woe, Hid below, among the she, List and learn my magic tune, That it full soon may secur thee. End of Little Sister, this recording is in the public domain The Fairy Thorn, an Ulster ballad From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read PhilippaVox.org Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning wheel, For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep, Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland reel Around the Fairy Thorn on the steep. At Anna Grace's door, it was thus the maidens cried, Three merry maidens fair, and curdles of the green, And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside, The fairest of the four, Iween. They are glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve, Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare, The heavy sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave, And the crags and the ghostly air, And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go, The maids along the hillside of Tay in their fearless way, Till they come to where the Rowan trees in lonely beauty grow, Beside the Fairy Hawthorn Gray. The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, Like matron with her twin granddaughters at her knee, The Rowanberry's cluster or her low-head gray and dim, In ruddy kisses sweet to see. The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row, Between each lovely couple a stately Rowan stem, And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go, O never cariled bird like them. But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze, That drinks away their voices in echoless repose, And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braze, And dreamier the gloaming grows, And sinking one by one, like lark notes from the sky, When the falcon shadows saileth across the open shaw, Are hushed the maidens' voices, as cowering down they lie, In the flutter of their sudden awe. For from the air above and the grassy ground beneath, And from the mountain ashes and the old white-thorn between, A power of faint enchantment daught through their being's breathe, And they sink down together on the green. They sink together silent, and stealing side by side, They fling their lovely arms or their duping necks so fair, Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, For their shrinking necks again are bare. Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed, Soft or their bosom speeding, the only human sound. They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy-crowd, Like a river in the air gliding round. No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say, But wild, wild the tear of the speechless three, For they feel fair and a grace drawn silently away, By whom they dare not look to see. They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold, And the curl's elastic falling as her head withdraws, They feel her sliding arms from their transit arms unfold, But they may not look to see the cause. For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies, Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze, And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes, Or their limbs from the cold ground raise, Till out of night the earth has rolled her dewy side, With every haunted mountain and streamy veil below, When as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide, The maidens trance dissolve if so, Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain, They pined away and died within the year and day, And there was an a grace seen again. End of the Fairy Thorn. This recording is in the public domain. On All Souls Night From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya On All Souls Night by Dora Sigarsson Oh mother, mother, I swept the hearth, I set his chair and whiteboard spread, I prayed for his coming to our kind lady, When death's sad doors would let out the dead, A strange wind rattled the window-pane, And down the lane a dog howled on. I called his name, and the candle-flame burned dim, Pressed a hand the door letch upon. Dealish, dealish, my woe forever, That I could not sever coward flesh from fear. I called his name, and the pale ghost came, But I was afraid to meet my dear. Oh mother, mother, in tears I checked The sad hours past of the year that's over, Till by God's grace I might see his face, And hear the sound of his voice once more. The chair I set from the cold and wet, He took when he came from unknown skies, Of the land of the dead, On my bent brown head I felt the reproach Of his saddened eyes. I closed my lids on my heart's desire, Crouched by the fire my voice was done. At my clean-slept hearth he had no mirth, And at my table he broke no crumb. Dealish, dealish, my woe forever, That I could not sever coward flesh from fear. His chair put aside when the young cock cried, And I was afraid to meet my dear. End of On All Souls Night This recording is in a public domain. The ship from Tirna-nog, From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1, Read for LibriVox.org Recording by Anita Sloma-Martinez. We two were alone by the sea, I and the man I loved with me, Our eyes were glad and our hearts beat high As we sat by the sea, my love and I, We looked afar and saw a ship, Then white-white grew his ruddy lip, And strange-strange grew his eyes That saw into the heart of some deep awe. His hand that held this hand of mine Never a token gave nor sign, But lay as a babes that is just dead, And I sat still and wondered, Near and nearer the white ship drew, Who was her captain, whence her crew, Were men and women bright, With fair eyes full of unknown light. From far off Tirna-nog they came, Where they had heard my true love's name, The name the birds and waves had sung Of one who must bide for ever young. Strong wide arms let down the boat, Song rose up from many a throat, Glad they were who soon had won A lovely new companion. They lowered the boat and they entered her, And rode to meet their passenger, Rode to the tune of a music strange That told of joy at the heart of change. I heard her keel on the pebble's gride, And she waited there till the turn of the tide. While they kept singing, singing clear, A song that was passing sweet to hear, A song that bound me in a chain Away from any thought of pain, They paused at last in their sweet singing, And I saw their hands were beckoning. In a rhythm as sweet as the stilled songs That passed to the air from their silent tongues, He rose and kissed me on the face, And left me sitting in my place. Quiet, quiet life and limb, I who was not called like him, Into the boat he entered grave, And the tide turned and she rode the wave. And I saw him sitting at the prow With a rose-light about his brow. The boat drew nigh the ship again With all its lovely women and men. I saw him enter the ship and stand, His hand held in the captain's hand. The captain, wonderful to see, With eyes a change in depth and blee, A change, a change, forever and day, Blue and purple and black and gray, And hair like the weed that finds a home In the heart of a trail of white sea foam. I wished he was no mortal man, But he whose name is Mananan. They sailed away, they sailed away, Out of the day, into the day. End of the ship from Turner Nogue. This recording is in the public domain. The Fairy's Passage by James Clarence Mangan Tap, tap, tap, rap! Get up, gaffer fairy-man! Hey, who is there? The clock strikes three. Get up, do, gaffer! You are the very man we have been Long, long, longing to see. The fairy-man rises, growling and grumbling, And goes fumbling and stumbling and tumbling Over the wares on his way to the door, But he sees no more than he saw before, Till a voice is heard. Oh, fairy-man, dear! Here we are waiting, all of us here. We are a wee, wee colony, wee, Some two hundred in all, or three. Fairy is over the river Lee, Ead on of day, And we will play the most we may In our own wee way. Who are you? Whence came you? What place are you going to? Oh, we have dwelled over long in this land. The people get cross and are growing, So knowing too. Nothing at all, but they now understand. We are daily vanishing under the thunder Of some huge engine or iron wander. That iron, ah, it has entered our souls. Your souls? Oh, goals! You queer little drolls, do you mean? Good gaffer, do aid us with speed, For our time, like our stature, is short indeed. And a very long way we have to go, Eid or ten thousand miles or so, Hither and thither, and two in fro, With our pots and pans and little gold cans, But our light caravans run swifter than mans. Well, well, you may come, Said the ferryman affably. Patrick, turn out and get ready the barge. Then again to the little folk, Though you seem laughably small, I don't mind if your cupboards be large. Oh, dear, what a rushing, What pushing, what crushing! The watermen making vain efforts At hushing the hub up the while, There followed these words. What clapping of boards, What strapping of quartz, What stowing away of children and wives, And platters and mugs and spoons and knives, Till all had safely got into the boat. And the ferryman, clad in his tip-top coat, And his wee little fairies were safely afloat. Then ding, ding, ding, And cling, cling, cling, How the cupboards did ring In the tin-pitcherling. Often went the boat, At first very pleasantly, Smoothly and so forth. But after a while, It swayed and it swagged, This and that way, And presently chest after chest, And pile after pile, Of the little folk's goods began tossing and rolling, And pitching like fun, Beyond ferry-controlling. Oh, Mab, If the hub up were great before, It was now some two or three million times more. Crash went the wee crocks and the clocks, And the locks of each little wee box Were stowed in by hard knocks. And then there were oaths and prayers and cries, Take care, see there, oh, dear, my eyes, I am killed, I am drowned, With groans and sighs. Till to land they drew, Yee-hoo, pull, too, Till a rope through and through, And all's right anew. Now jump upon shore, Ye queer little oddities. Eh, what is this? Where are they at all? Where are they? And to where are their tiny commodities? Well, as I live. He looks blank as a wall, Poor ferryman, Round him and round him he gazes, But only gets deeply a lost in the mazes Of utter bewilderment. All, all are gone, And he stands alone, Like a statue of stone In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer, And the tinkling laugh salutes his ear With other odd sounds. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Followers, Sizzle, Cooey-cooey, Blah-blah, Physi-gig-iggy-dee, Pshy-shasha! Oh, ye thieves, ye thieves! Ye rascally thieves! The good man cries. He turns to his picture, And there, alas, to his horror perceives That a little folk's mode of making him richer Has been to pay him with withered leaves. Tis I go fiddling, fiddling, By weedy ways forlorn, I make the blackbird's music Ear in his breast is born, The sleeping larks I waken, Twix the midnight and the morn. No man alive has seen me, But women hear me play, Sometimes at the door or window, Fiddling the soul's way, The child's soul and the collins, Out of the covering clay. None of my fairy kinsmen Make music with me now, Alone the wrasse I wander, Or ride the white-thorn bow, But the wild swans they know me, And the horse that draws the plow. End of The Fairy Fiddler. This recording is in a public domain. The fairies from the Book of Irish Poetry, Part I, Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja. The Fairies by William Allingham. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We dare and go hunting For fear of little men. We folk, good folk, Trooping all together, Green jacket, red cap, And white owls feather. Down along the rocky shore, Some make their home. They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow-tide foam, Some in the reeds of the Black mountain lake, Frogs for their watchdogs All night awake. High on the hilltop The old king sits. He is now so old and grey He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Column kill he crosses On his stately journeys From sleeve-league to rosses Or going up with music On cold starry nights To sap with the queen Of the gay northern lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long. When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back Between the night and morrow. They thought that she was fast asleep But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since. Deep within the lake On a bed of flag leaves Watching till she wake. By the craggy hillside Through the mosses bare They have planted thorn trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig them up in spite He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain Down the rushy glen We dare and go hunting For fear of little men. We folk, good folk Trooping all together Green jacket, red cap And white owl. Red cap and white owl's feather. End of the fairies This recording is in the public domain. High Brazil From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org By Sonja High Brazil By Gerald Griffin On the ocean that hollows The rocks way it well A shadowy land has appeared As they tell. In the region of sunshine and rest And they called it High Brazil The Isle of the Blast From year on to year On the ocean's blue rim The beautiful spectre Showed lovely and dim. The golden clouds Curtained the deep way it lay And it looked like an Eden Away, far away. A peasant who heard Of the wonderful tale In the breeze of the Orient From era the holy He turned to the west For though era was holy High Brazil was blessed He heard not the voices That called from the shore He heard not the rising winds Manising roar Home, kindred and safety He left on that day And he sped to High Brazil Away, far away. Mourn rose on the deep And that shadowy Isle Distance reflected its smile Noon burned on the wave And that shadowy shore Seemed lovely distant And faint as before. Lone evening came down On the wondrous track And to era again He looked timidly back Oh, far on the verge Of the ocean it lay Yet the Isle of the Blast Was away, far away. Resh Dreamer return Ends of the main Bear him back to his own Peaceful era again Resh fool For a vision of fanciful bliss To barter thy calm life Of labour and peace The warning of reason Was spoken in vain He never revisited era again Night fell on the deep Amidst tempest and spray And he died on the waters Away, far away. End of High Brazil This recording is in the public domain. The Heather Glenn From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya The Heather Glenn by George Sigerson There blooms the bunny flower Upon the Heather Glenn Though bright in sun, in shower This just as bright again I never can pass by it I never dare go night My heart it won't be quiet Up the Heather Glenn Sing, O the blooming Heather O the Heather Glenn We're fairest fairies gather To lure immortal men I never can pass by it I never dare go night My heart it won't be quiet Up the Heather Glenn There sings a bunny linnet Up the Heather Glenn The voice has magic in it Too sweet for mortal men It brings joy dune before us With winsome mellow chorus But flies far too far over us Up the Heather Glenn Sing, O the blooming Heather O the Heather Glenn We're fairest fairies gather To lure immortal men I never can pass by it I never dare go night My heart it won't be quiet Up the Heather Glenn O might I pull the flower That's blooming in that Glenn May sorrows that could lower Would make me sad again And might I catch that linnet My heart, my hope are in it O heaven itself I'd win it Up the Heather Glenn Sing, O the blooming Heather O the Heather Glenn We're fairest fairies gather To lure immortal men I never can pass by it I never dare go night My heart it won't be quiet Up the Heather Glenn End of the Heather Glenn This recording is in the public domain The Wind Among the Reeds From the book of Irish poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja The Wind Among the Reeds by Nora Hopper Mavrone, Mavrone The Wind Among the Reeds It calls and cries And will not let me be And all its cries are forgotten deeds When men were loved Of all the deans she O she that have forgotten how to love And she that have forgotten how to hate Asleep, neath quicken boughs That no winds move Come back to us, ere yet it be too late Pipe to us once again lest we forget What piping means Till all the silver spears Be wild with gusty music Such as met Caroline once Amid the dusty years Dance in your rings again The yellow weeds you use to ride So far mount as of old Play hide and seek with wind Among the reeds And pay your scores again With fairy gold End of the Wind Among the Reeds This recording is in the public domain The Changeling from the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org He stood alone outside the fairy hill Beneath the hornet moon And heard below the grasses Gay and shrill and elfin tune There came to him a memory Faint and far of things he once had known A square of window and a twinkling star A warm hearthstone He set soft feet upon the turfy path Crushing the scented time He turned his back upon the fairy wrath The hidden chime He passed the swaying fox-gloves By the wall and left the stream behind A startled rabbit through the bracken's tall Fled like the wind Drawn by a baby thought of mother eyes He pattered down the lane to the low house And standing tiptoe-wise Peeped through the pain A woman hushed a wakeful child to sleep Beside a dying fire Hush oh, hush oh, she crooned And do not weep o' heart's desire Lie still in sleep Nor fear the fairy's while No harm shall come to thee Outside her baby saw the changeling Smile upon her knee With dimpled hand he beat upon the glass The woman drew the blind Hush oh, my child Dost hear the fairies pass upon the wind End of the changeling This recording is in the public domain The fairy lover from the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org It was by yonder thorn I saw the fairy host Oh, low night wind Oh, wind of the west My love rode by There was gold upon his brow And since that hour I can neither eat nor rest I dare not pray Lest I should forget his face Oh, black north wind Blowing cold beneath the sky His face and his eyes shine between me and the sun If I may not be with him I would rather die They tell me I am cursed I will lose my soul Oh, red wind shrieking Or the thorn-grown dune But he is my love And I go to him tonight He will ride when the thorn glistens White beneath the moon He will call my name And lift me to his breast Oh, soft o' wind The stars of the south I care not for heaven And I fear not hell If I have but the kisses Of his proud red mouth End of the fairy lover This recording is in the public domain The leprechaun or fairy shoemaker From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org Recording by Anita Sloma Martinez Little cowboy, what have you heard Up on the lonely wrath's green mound? Only the plaintive yellow bird Zying in sultry fields around Cherry, cherry, cherry, cherry Only the grasshopper and the bee Tip, tap, rip, wrap, tick-attack, too Scarlet leather sewn together This will make a shoe Left, right, pull it tight Summer days are warm Drowned in winter, laughing at the storm Lay your ear close to the hill Do you not catch the tiny clamor? Busy click of an elfin hammer Voice of the leprechaun singing shrill As he merrily plies his trade He's a span and a quarter in height Get him in sight, hold him tight And you're a made man You watch your cattle the summer day Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay How would you like to roll in your carriage? Look for a duchess's daughter in marriage Seize the shoemaker, then you may Big boots of hunting, sandals in the hall White for a wedding feast, pink for a ball This way, that way, so we make a shoe Getting rich every stitch, tick-attack, too Ninety-ninety treasure-crocks this keen miser fairy hath Hidden mountains, woods and rocks Ruin and rantire, cave and wrath And where the cormorants build From time of old guarded by him Each of them filled, full to the brim With gold I caught him at work one day myself In the castle-ditch where fox-clove grows A wrinkled, wisened and bearded elf Spectacle stuck on his pointed nose Silver buckles to his hose Leather apron, shoe in his lap Rip, wrap, tip, tap, tick-attack, too A grass-hopper on my cap, away the moth flew Buskins for a fairy-prince, brogues for his son Pay me well, pay me well, when the job is done The rogue was mined beyond a doubt I stared at him, he stared at me Servant sir, huff, says he, And pulled a snuff-box out He took a long-pinch, looked better pleased The queer little leprechaun Offered the box with the whimsical grace Poof, he flung the dust in my face And while I sneezed, was gone End of the leprechaun or fairy shoemaker This recording is in the public domain Fairy song from the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya Fairy song by Eleanor Sweetman When daisies close and poppies nod And meadow grass to earth is laid And fairy stands on moonlit sod Or croff of dew-drops in the shade Come, gentle dreams, in velvet shod And foot it round, each sleeping maid Come softly hither, dove-winged flock And on their pillows make your nest And light as down from puff-ball-clock Let kisses on their eyes repressed Then sit upon the couch and rock And stand their little heart to rest End of fairy song This recording is in the public domain The others from the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya The others by James O'Sullivan From our hidden places by a secret path We come in the moonlight to the side of the green wrath Where the night through we take our pleasure Dancing to such a measure as earth never knew To song and dance and lilt without a name So sweetly breathed to put a bird to shame And many a young maiden is there of mortal birth Her young eyes laden with dreams of earth And many a youth entranced Moves slowly in the wilderness round His brave lost feet enchanted With the rhythm of fairy sound Music so forest-wild and piercing sweet Would bring silence on blackbirds singing Their best in the ear of spring And now they pause in their dancing And look with troubled eyes Earth-strain children with sudden memory wise They pause and their eyes in the moonlight With fairy wisdom cold grow dim And the thought goes fluttering in the hearts No longer old And then the dream forsakes them And sighing they turn anew As the whispering music takes them To the dance of the elfin crew Oh, many a thrush and a blackbird Would fall to the dewy ground And pine away in silence For envy of such a sound So the night through in our sad pleasure We dance to many a measure that earth never knew End of The Others Recording is in the public domain What is Love? From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for Nipplefox.org Recording by Chad Horner from Ballycler In County Antrim, Northern Ireland Situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland What is Love? From the Early Irish A love all commanded All withstanding through a year is my love A grief darkly hiding Starkly biding without let or remove Of strength a sharp straining Past sustaining Wheresoever I row A force still extending without ending Before and around and above Of heaven tis the brightest amazement The blackest abasement of hell A struggle for breath with the scepter In nectar a choking to death Tis a race with heaven's lightning and thunder Then champion feats under moils and water Tis pursuing the cuckoo The wooing of echo The rock's airy daughter Till my red lips turn ashen My light limbs grow laden My heart loses motion In death my eyes deaden So is my love and my passion So is my ceaseless devotion To her to whom I gave them To her who will not have them End of What Is Love This recording is in the public domain Recording by Chad Horner from Ballycler In County Antrim, Northern Ireland Situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland The Song of Creed, Daughter of Guire From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonia The Song of Creed, Daughter of Guire Translated from a 10th century poem In the Battle of Ednir, Creed, the Daughter of King Guire of Ednir Beheld Dinatach of the High Fidgenty Who had come to the help of Guire With 17 wounds upon his breast Then she fell in love with him He died and was buried in the cemetery of Coleman's church These are the arrows that murder sleep At every hour in the night's black deep Pangs of love through the long day ache All for the dead Dinatach's sake Great love of a hero from Royney's Plain Has pierced me through with immortal pain Blasted my beauty and left me to blanche A riven bloom on a restless branch Never was Song like Dinatach's speech But holy strains that to heaven's gate reach A front of flame without boast or pride Yet a firm font made for a fair maid's side A growing girl I was timid of tongue And never twisted with gallant's young But since I have worn into passionate age Fears love longings my heart engage I have every bounty that life could hold With Guire arch monarch of Ednir cold But fallen away from my haughty folk In ill of his field my heart lies broke There is chanting in glorious Ednir's meadow Under St. Coleman's church's shadow A hero flame sings into the tomb Dinatach alas my love and my doom Chased Christ that now at my life's last breath I should trist with sorrow and mate with death At every hour of the night's black deep These are the arrows that murder sleep End of The Song of Creed Daughter of Guire This recording is in the public domain She by Eleanor Hull From the Book of Irish Poetry Part One Read for LibriVox.org The White Bloom of the Black Thorn She the small sweet raspberry blossom She more fair the shy rare glance of her eye Then the wealth of the world to me My heart's pulse my secret she The flower of the fragrant apple she A summer glow or the winter snow Twixed Christmas and Easter she End of She This recording is in the public domain Creed's Lament for Kale From the Book of Irish Poetry Part One Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja Creed's Lament for Kale From the Colloquy of the Ancients Over thy chief, thy rushing chief loch the con Loud the haven is roaring All too late her deadly hate for a crimthus Sun yonder deep is deploring Small comfort I draw to Creed is her wail Slender solace now, oh my Kale Oh own, oh will us through Can she who slew bid thee back spirit soaring Hark, the thrush from our drum queen Lifts his keen through the choir of the thrushes With his mate, his screaming made over the green See, the red weasel rushes Crushed on the craig lies Glen Seelan's dough Over her young stag tells his woe Thus Kale, oh, oh, hony, for thee, for thee My soul sorrow gushes Oh the thrush, the morning thrush Mating shall sing when the first bloom is yellow Oh the stag, the grieving stag in the spring With a fresh dough shall fallow But love for me neath the evermoving mount Of the scowling sea liest drowned While oh, oh, all agone The sea foul moan and the sea-beast's bellow End of Creed's lament for Kale This recording is in a public domain The lament of fun departing from Kochullan From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part I Read for LibriVox.org by Sonya The lament of fun departing from Kochullan From the sick bed of Kochullan This I, who must renounce my love and go Lest conflict grow between thyself and me Yet had I shared with thee Kochullan's love My joy had been above all jealousy Nay, happier were it here for me to dwell Submitting well to thy supremacy Than thus depart unto my royal seat Of Art-Abrat, strange though the thought to be The man is thine, Amor, in this love's drive O noble wife, from me he breaks away Yet nonetheless I hunger for the bliss I now shall miss and miss and miss all away Proud Prince on Prince has supplicated me In secrecy his passions joy to share With none of these have I a love-trist kept But still have stepped stern-minded past the snare Joyless is she who gives a heart's whole mead To him who know full heed thereto returns Better for her indeed in death to pass Than not be yearned for, as for him she yearns With fifty women dost thou hither fare Thou of the lustrous hair and lofty will For fans overthrow, with all their tongues of scorn Is't well thy rival love forlorn to kill Three times of fifty women such as these Attend my ease, wise, marriageable fare They wait me now within my royal bro, With pity's due to calm my cruel care End of the lamenda fund at parting from Cajun This recording is in the public domain Were you on the mountain, from the book of Irish poetry part one Read for LibriVots.org Were you on the mountain by Dudlis Hyde Oh, were you on the mountain, or saw you my love Or saw you my own one, my queen and my dove Or saw you the maiden with the step firm and free And say, is she pining in sorrow like me I was upon the mountain, and I saw there your love I saw there your own one, you queen and your dove I saw there the maiden with the step firm and free And she was not pining in sorrow like thee End of, were you on the mountain This recording is in the public domain Recording by Stefan de Souza Pulse of my heart from the book of Irish poetry part one Read for LibriVots.org Pulse of my heart As the sweet blackberry's modest bloom Fair flowering greets the sight Or strawberries in their rich perfume Fragrance and bloom unite So this fair plant of tender youth In outward charms can vie And from within the soul of truth Soft-being fills her eye Pulse of my heart, dear source of care Stolen sighs and love-breathe vows Sweeter than when through scented air Gay bloom the apple boughs With thee no day can winter seem Nor frost nor blast can chill Thou the soft breeze The cheering beam that keeps its summer still Charlotte Brooke End of Pulse of my heart This recording is in the public domain Two songs from the Irish from the book of Irish poetry part one Read for LibriVots.org Two songs from the Irish one The stars stand up in the air The sun and the moon are gone The strand of its waters is bare And her sway is swept from the swan The cacao was calling all day Hidden the branches above How my story needs fled far away Tis my grief that I gave her my love Three things through love I see Sorrows and sin and death And my mind reminding me That these do my breath with my breath But sweeter than violin or lute Is my love and she left me behind I wished that all music were mute All beauty were blind She's more shapely than swan by this strand She's more radiant than grass after dew She's more fair than the stars with a stand Tis my grief that her ever I knew End of two songs from the Irish one This recording is in the public domain Two songs from the Irish two From the book of Irish poetry part one Read for LibriVots.org Two songs from the Irish two Tis a pity I'm not in England Or with one from Iran they're bound Or out in the midst of the ocean Or the thousands of ships are drowned From wave to wave of the ocean To be guided on with the wind and the rain And oh king that thou mightst guide me Back to my love again End of two songs from the Irish two This recording is in the public domain Pearl of the White Breast From the book of Irish poetry part one Read for LibriVots.org by Sonya Pearl of the White Breast By George Petrie From the Irish There's a calling, fair as may For a year and for a day I've sought by every way her heart to gain There's no art of tongue or eye Fund youth with maiden's try That I've tried with ceaseless sigh Yet tried in vain If to friends or far off Spain She'd cross the watery main To see her face again the sea I'd brave And if this heaven's decree That mine she may not be May the son of Mary, me in mercy save Oh, thou blooming milk-white dove To whom I've given true love Do not ever thus reprove my constancy There are maidens would be mine With wealth in hand and kind If my heart would but incline To turn from thee But the kiss with welcome bland And the touch of thy dear hand Are all that I demand Would stow not spurn For if not mine, dear girl, O snowy-breasted pearl May I never from the fair With life return End of Pearl of the White Breast This recording is in the public domain The Outlaw of Loch Linn From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja The Outlaw of Loch Linn By Jeremiah Joseph Kalanen From the Irish O many a day have I made good ale in the glen That came not of stream or malt Like the brewing of men My bed was the ground My roof, the green wood above And the wealth that I sought One far kind glance from my love Alas! on that night When the horses I drove from the field That I was not near From terror my angel to shield She stretched forth her arms Her mantle she flung to the wind And swam over Loch Linn Her Outlaw'd lover to find Oh! would that a freezing Sleet-wing tempest did sweep And I and my love were lone Far off on the deep I'd ask not a ship Or a bark or pinnace to save With her hand round my waist I'd fear not the wind or the wave This down by the lake Where the wild tree fringes its sides The maid of my heart My fair one of heaven resides I think as at eve She wanders its mazes along The birds go to sleep By the sweet wild twist Of her song End of the Outlaw of Loch Linn This recording is in the public domain Jean-Dieu Dielish From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja Jean-Dieu Dielish By Sir Samuel Ferguson From the Irish Put your head, darling, darling, darling Your darling black head my heart above O mouth of honey with the time for fragrance Who with heart in breast could deny you love O many and many a young girl for me is pining Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows But I'd leave a hundred pure love for thee Then put your head, darling, darling, darling Your darling black head my heart above O mouth of honey with the time for fragrance Who with heart in breast could deny you love End of Jean-Dieu Dielish This recording is in the public domain The Flower of Nut Brown Mates by Eleanor Hull From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway England From the 17th Century Irish If thou wilt come with me To the Candy of Leetrim Flower of Nut Brown Mates Honey of Bees And me to the beaker's brim I'll offer thee Nut Brown Mates Where the pure air floats Are the swinging boats of the Strand And the white-topped wave That delays the edge of the sand There without fear we will wander together Hand clasped in hand Flower of Nut Brown Mates My heart never gave you liking all of Said the Flower of Nut Brown Mates Though sweet are your words There's black famine above Said the Flower of Nut Brown Mates With gentle words, feed me When need and grin Hunger come by, better be free Than with thee to the woodlands to fly What gain to us both If together we famished and died Whept the Flower of Nut Brown Mates I saw her coming towards me Over the face of the mountain Like a star glimmering through the mist In the field of furs Where the slow cows were browsing In pledge of our love we kissed In the bend of the hedge Where the tall trees play with the sun I wrote her the lines That should bind us forever in one Had you a right to deny me The dews I had won A Flower of Nut Brown Mates My grief unto my torment That thou art not here with me now Flower of Nut Brown Mates Alone, all alone It matters not where or how The Flower of Nut Brown Mates On a slender bed, o little black head Strained close to thee Or a heap of hay until break of day It were one to me, laughing in gladness And glee together with none to see My Flower of Nut Brown Mates End of the Nut Brown Mates This recording is in the public domain PASTIN FIN by Sir Samuel Ferguson From the book of Irish poetry Part 1 Read for LibreVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England From the Irish Oh, my fair pastine Is my heart's delight Her gay heart loves in her blue eye bright Like the apple blossom her bosom white And her neck like the swans on a march Morn bright, chorus Then Oro, come with me Come with me, come with me Oro, come with me Brown girl, sweet And oh, I would go through snow And sleep if you would come with me Brown girl, sweet Love of my heart My fair pastine Her cheeks are red as the roses shean But my lips have tasted no more Iween Then the glass I drink to the health of my queen Were I in the town where's Merth and Glee Or twixt two barrels of barley-brie With my fair pastine upon my knee Does I would drink to her pleasantly Nine nights I lay in longing and pain But twixt two bushes beneath the rain Thinking to see you love again But whistle and call were all in vain I'll leave my people both friend and foe From all the girls in the world I'll go But from you, sweetheart, oh, never Oh, no, till I die in the coffin Stretched cold and low End of pastine fin This recording is in the public domain She is my love by Douglas Hyde From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LiborVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England From the Irish She is my love beyond all thought Though she has wrought my deepest dull Yet dearer for the cruel pain Than one who feign would make me whole She is my glittering gem of gems Who yet contems my fortune bright Whose cheek but glows with redder scorn Since mine has worn a stricken white She is my sun and moon and star Who yet so far and cold doth keep She would not even owe my beer One tender tear of pity weep Into my heart and sword she came A wasting flame A haunting care into my heart of hearts Ah, why, and left to sigh forever there End of She is my love This recording is in the public domain Happy tears are blind for thee By Douglas Hyde From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LiborVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England Happy tears are blind for thee That thou seized not our star Couldst thou see as we see her Thou wouldst be but as we are Once I pitted sightless men I was then unscathed by sight Now I envy those who see not They can be not hurt by light Woe who wants to see her please And then sees her not each hour Woe for him her love mesh binding Whose unwinding passes by End of Happy tears are blind for thee This recording is in the public domain The Coulon by Samuel Ferguson From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LiborVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England From the Irish Oh, had you seen the Coulon Walking down by the Cuckoo Street With the dew of the meadow shining On her milk-white twinkling feet Oh, my love, she is And my Colleen, old And she dwells in Balnagar She bears the palm of beauty bright The fairest that in Erin are In Balnagar is the Coulon Like the berry on the bow Her cheek-bright beauty dwells forever On her neck and ringlets sleep Oh, sweeter is her math soft music Than the lark or thrash at dawn Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing Farewell to the setting sun Rise up, my boy, bake ready To horse for eye forth would ride To follow the modest damsel Where she walks on the green hillside Forever since our youth were We plighted in faith, truth And wedlock, true Oh, sweeter her voice is nine times over Than organ or cuckoo And ever since my childhood I've loved the fair and darling child But our people came between us And with lucra, our pure love defiled Oh, my woe it is under my bitter pain And I weep it night and day That the Colleen born of my early love Is torn from my heart away End of the Coulon This recording is in the public domain Irish Love Swamp by Catherine Tynan Hinkson From the book of Irish poetry, Part 1 Read for LiborVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway England, from the Irish Would God I were that tender apple blossom Floating and falling from the twisted bow To lie and faint within your silken bosom As that does now Or would I were a little burnished apple For you to pluck me gliding by so cold While sun and shade, your robe of lawn Will dapple your hair spun gold Yea, would God I were among the roses That lean to kiss you as you float between While on the lowest branch A burden closes to touch you, Queen Nay, since you will not love Would I were growing a happy daisy In the garden path That so your silver foot might press me going Even unto death End of Irish Love Song This recording is in the public domain Cachele of Munster by Edward Walsh From the book of Irish poetry, Part 1 Read for LiborVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway England, from the Irish I would work you, dear, without gold or gear Or counted kind My wealth you'll be with fair friends agree And you be mine, my grief, my gloom That you do not come My hearts, dear, poured to cachele fair Though our couch were there But a hard deal bored Oh, come, my bride, oh, the wild hillside To the valley low, a downy bed for my love I'll spray it where waters flow And we shall stray where streamlets play The groves among were echoed howls To the listening dowels, the blackbird song Love tender, true, I gave to you Hand-secret sighs in hope to see upon you As me, one hour, arise Where the priest's blessed voice Would bind my choice into the ring's strict tie If wife you be, love, to one but me Love in grief I'll die A neck of white has my heart's delight And breast like snow And flowing hair is wringlet's fare To the green grass flow Alas, that I did not early die Before the day that saw me here From my bosoms, dear, far, far away End of cachele of Munster This recording is in the public domain Molly, I saw, by George Ogle From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1 Read for LibreVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England As done by Banner's Banks I strayed One evening in May The little birds with blithest notes Made vocal every spray They sung their little notes of love They sang them o'er and o'er Ah, Grammar Cream, Marcolin, Ogle Mar Molly, I saw The daze is pied and all the sweets The dawn of nature yields The primrose pale, the violet blue They scattered o'er the fields Such fragrance in the bosom lies Of her whom I adore Ah, Grammar Cream, Marcolin, Ogle Mar Molly, I saw I laid me down upon the bank Bewailing my sad fate That doomed me thus The slave of love and cool Molly's hate How can she break the honest heart That wears her in its core? Oh, Grammar Cream, Marcolin, Ogle Mar Molly, I saw He said you loved me, Molly, dear Ah, why did I believe Yet who could think such tender words Were meant but to deceive That love was all I asked on earth Nay heaven could give no more Ah, Grammar Cream, Marcolin, Ogle Mar Molly, I saw Oh, had I all the flocks That graze on yonder yellow hill All loathe for me the numerous herds That young green pastures fill With her I'd gladly share my kind With her my fleecy stall Ah, Grammar Cream, Marcolin, Ogle Mar Molly, I saw Two turtledoves above my head Sat courting on a bow I envied them their happiness To see them bill and coo Such fondness once for me She showed, but now alas Tis ear Ah, Grammar Cream, Marcolin, Ogle Mar Molly, I saw Then fare thee well, my Molly dear Thy loss I air shall moan While life remains in Strefon's heart It beats for thee alone Though thou art false may heaven on thee Its choices to blessings pull Ah, Grammar Cream, Marcolin, Ogle Me, Molly, I saw End of Molly, I saw This recording is in the public domain Remembrance by Emily Bronte From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part One Read for LibriVox.org Recording by Nima Cold in the earth and the deep snow above thee Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave Have I forgot my only love to love thee Severed at last by time's all-severing wave Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains on that northern shore Resting their wings where heath and fern leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more Cold in the earth and fifteen wild December's From these brown hills have melted into spring Faithful indeed is this spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering Sweet love of youth, forgive if I forget thee While the world's tide is bearing me along Other desires and other hopes beset me Hopes which obscure but cannot do thee wrong No later light has lighted up my heaven No second morn has ever shown for me All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee But when the days of golden dreams had perished And even despair was powerless to destroy Then did I learn how existence could be cherished Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy Then did I check the tears of useless passion Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine And even yet I dare not let it languish Dare not indulge in memories rapturous pain Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish How could I seek the empty world again? End of Remembrance This recording is in the public domain Lament of the Irish Maiden From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org by Sonja Lament of the Irish Maiden by Denny Lane On Carrick Dune the heath is brown The clouds are dark over Ardenalee And many a stream comes rushing down To swell the angry owner-bree The moaning blast is sweeping fast Through many a leafless tree And I'm alone, for he is gone My hawk has flown, oh-ho, Macree The heath was green on Carrick Dune Bright shone the sun on Ardenalee The dark green trees spent trembling down To kiss the slumbering owner-bree That happy day twas but last May Tis like a dream to me When Donald's war I over and o'er We'd part no more a store Macree Soft April showers and bright May flowers Will bring the summer back again But will they bring me back the hours I spent with my brave Donald then? Tis but a chance, for he's gone to France Where the flood elies But I'll follow you, my Donald do For still I'm true to you, Macree End of Lament of the Irish Maiden This recording is in the public domain The Desmond from the book of Irish poetry Part 1, read for LibriVox.org Recording by Kudrna By the fields where you've been-eyed it No star in the skies To die door by a love-lighted I first saw those eyes Some voice whispered unto me As the threshold I crossed There was wind before me If I left, I was lost Love came and brought sorrow Too soon in his train It so sweet that tomorrow Were welcome again Do misers full measure, my portion should be I would drain it with pleasure If put out by thee You who call it dishonour To bow to this flame If you, for eyes, look upon her And blush while you blame Had the perilous whiteness Because of its birth Had the violent-loss brightness For a growing near-earth No, men for his glory But woman's bright story Is still in her eyes While the monarch but traces Do mortals his line Beauty, born of the graces Ranks next to divine End of the Desmond This recording is in the public domain Love song from the book of Irish poetry Part 1, read for LibriVox.org Recording by Chad Horner From Ballycler, County Antrim, Northern Ireland Set she at it in the northeast Of the province of Ulster Sweet in her green dale The flower of beauty slumbers Lulled by the faint breezes Sighing through her hair Sleep she, and here's not The melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad-lit, mid-the-lonely air Down from the high cliffs The refulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks That lure him from above Oh, that in tears from my rocky presence streaming I too could glide to the fire of my love My wood binds with sleepy arms Have wind her Hope she her eyelids in the dream of my lay Listening like the dove While the fountains echo round her To her lost mate's call in the forests far away Come, then, my bird, For the peace thou ever bearest Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me Come, this fawn bosom, oh, faithfulest and fairest Bleeds with its deathwind Its winds of love for thee George Darley, and of love song This recording is in the public domain If I had thought thou couldst have died By Charles Wolfe, from The Book of Irish Poetry, Part One Read for LibriVox.org If I had thought thou couldst have died I might not weep for thee But I forgot, when by thy side Thou couldst mortal be It never through my mind had passed The time would ever be over And I on thee should look my last And thou shalt smile no more And still upon that face I look And think it will smile again And still the thought I will not brook That I must look in vain But when I speak thou dost not say What thou never left unsaid And now I feel as well I may Sweet Mary, though are dead If thou wouldst stay even as though art All cold and all serene If I might press thy silent heart And where thy smiles have been While even thy chill bleak course I have Thou seemest still mine own But there I lay thee in thy grave And I am now alone I do not think where error though art Thou hast forgotten me And I perhaps may sooth this heart By thinking too of thee Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light never seen before As fancy never could have drawn And never can restore And the white rose breathes of love O the red rose is a falcon And the white rose is a dove But I send you a cream white rose bud With a flush on its petal tips For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips Ah, sweet Kitty Neal, rise up from that wheel Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning The sun has gone down but the full harvest moon Shine sweetly and cool in the dew-witened valley While all the air rings with the soft loving things Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley With a blush and a smile Kitty rose up the while The eyes in the glass as she found her hair glancing Tis hard to refuse when a young lover soothes So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing And now on the green the glad groups are seen Each gay-hearted lad with the laughs of his choosing And Pat without fail leads out sweet Kitty Neal Somehow when he asked she never thought of refusing Now Felix McGee puts his pipes to his knee And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground The maids move around just like swans on the ocean Cheeks bright as the rose Feet light as the doze Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing Search the world all round from the sky to the ground No such sight can be found as an Irish last dancing Sweet Kate, who could view your bright eyes of deep blue Beaming humanely through their dark lashes so mildly Your fair-turned arm heaving breast-rounded form Nor feel his warm heart and his pulses throb wildly Young Pat feels his heart as he gazes depart Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love The sight leaves his eyes as he says with a sigh Dance light for my heart, it lies under your feet, love End of Kitty Neal This recording is in the public domain Kathleen Omor from the book of Irish poetry part 1 Read for LibriVox.org My love still I think that I see her once more But alas she has left me her loss to deplore My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen My Kathleen Omor Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue Her color still changing, her smiles ever new So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen My Kathleen Omor She milked the done cow that Nair offered to stir Though wicked to all it was gentle to her So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen My Kathleen Omor She sat at the door one cold afternoon To hear the wind blow into gaze on the moon It was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen My Kathleen Omor Cold was the night breeze that sighed round her bower It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen My Kathleen Omor The bird of all birds that I love the best Is the robin that in the churchyard builds his nest For he seems to watch Kathleen Hop slightly or Kathleen My Kathleen Omor End of Kathleen Omor This recording is in the public domain The Boatman of Kinsale From the book of Irish poetry part one Read for LibriVox.org His kiss is sweet, his word is kind, his love is rich to me I could not in a palace find a truer love than he The eagle shelters not his nest from hurricane and hail More bravely than he guards my breast The Boatman of Kinsale The wind that round the fast net sweeps Is not a whit more pure The goat that knocked down Shea he leaps Has not a foot more sure No firmer hand, no freer eye, or face an autumn gale Decorsi's heart is not so high The Boatman of Kinsale The brawling squires may heed him not The dainty stranger sneer To hurt our cot when Miles O'hay is here His hookers in the skilly van When sains are in the foam But money never made the man Nor wealth a happy home So blessed with love and liberty While he can trim a sail He'll trust in God and cling to me The Boatman of Kinsale End of The Boatman of Kinsale This recording is in the public domain Many from the book of Irish poetry part one Read for LibriVox.org Recording by Kudrna Oh, crystal well Play dainty on golden sands When she comes at morning lowly Followed by her shadow only To bat those little slender hands All a weary gathering Sees to make her bluebird sing Oh, crystal well Oh, forest brown Redirection's twilight balm As she wanders, pulling willow Leafless for her fragrant pillow Which with snow which she can comb She shall press with half-closed eyes While the great star's O.D. rise Oh, forest brown Oh, Lady Moon Light her as she mouses the stair To her little sacred chamber Like a mother, and remember While she slumbers full of prayer Sweetly then to fill her heart The dreams of heaven, where do art Oh, Lady Moon End of many This recording is in the public domain Saund one from the Book of Irish Poetry Part One Read for LibriVox.org Saund one by Aubrey Devere Slanting both hands against her forehead On me she leveled her bright eyes My whole heart brightened as the sea When midnight clouds part suddenly Through all my spirit went the luster Late starlight poured through purple skies And then she sang aloud Sweet music, yet louder as aloft it cloned Soft when her curving lips it left Then rising till the heavens were cleft As though each strain on high it's banding Were echoes in a silver dome But ah, she sings she does not love me She loves to say she nare can love To me her beauty she denies Bending the while on me those eyes Whose beams might charm the mountain leopard Or lure Joe's herald from above End of Saund one This recording is in the public domain Recording by Stefan D'Souza Saund two from the Book of Irish Poetry Part One Read for LibriVox.org Saund two by Aubrey Devere She says, poor friend, you waste your treasure Which you can nare regain Time, health and glory For the pleasure of toying with a chain But then her voice so tender grows So kind and so caressing Each murmur from her lips that flows Comes to me like a blessing Sometimes she says, sweet friend, I grieve you Alas, it gives me pain What can I, ah, might I relieve you You nare had mourned in vain And then her little hand she presses Upon her heart and size While tears, whose source not yet she guesses Grow larger in her eyes End of Saund two This recording is in the public domain Recording by Stefan D'Souza An ancient tale from the Book of Irish Poetry Part One Read for LibriVox.org An ancient tale by John O'Hagan He leaned upon the garden gate He looked and scarce he breathed Within the little porch she safe With woodbine overread Her eyes upon her work were bent Unconscious who was nigh But oft the needle slowly went And oft did idle lie And ever to her lips arose Sweet fragments, sweetly sung But ever ere the notes could close She hushed them on her tongue Long, long the sun had sunken down And all his golden trail Had died away to lines of brown Industrial hues that fail The grasshopper was chirping still No other living sound Accompanied the tiny rill That gurgled underground No other living sound Unless some spirit bent to hear Low words of human tenderness And mingling whispers near The stars, like pallid gems at first Deep in the liquid sky Now forth upon the darkness burst Soul canes and lights on high For splendor, myriad fold, supreme No rival more light strove Nor lovelier air was Hesper's beam Not more majestic jove But what if hearts there beat that night That ret not at the skies Or only felt their image light In one another's eyes? And if two worlds of hidden thought And fostered passion met Which, passing human language, Saw and found an utterance yet And if they trembled as the stars That droop across the stream The wildest silent starry hours Wait o'er them like a dream And if, when came the parting time They faltered still and clung What is it all, an ancient rhyme Ten thousand times, resun? That part of paradise which man Without the portal knows Which hath been since the world began And shall be till its close And doth an ancient tale This recording is in the public domain Recording by Stefan de Sousa Donald Kenny by John Keegan Casey From the Book of Irish Poetry, Part 1 Read for LibraVox.org Recording by Elaine Conway, England Come, Piper, play the Shask and Reel Rouse the lassies on the heather At Mary lay aside your wheel Until we dance once more together At a fair and pattern oft before Of reels and jigs with tripped full money But near again this loved old floor Will feel the foot of Donald Kenny Softly she rose and took his hand And softly glided through the measure While clustering round the village band Looked half in sorrow, half in pleasure Warm blessings flowed from every lip As ceased the dancer's airy motion Oh, blessed Virgin, guide the ship Which bears bold Donald, oh, the ocean God be with you all, he sighed And down his face the bright tears flowing God guard you well, Avic, they cried Upon the strange path you are going So full his breast his scarce could speak With burning grasp the stretched hands taking He pressed a kiss on every cheek And sobbed as if his heart was breaking Boys, don't forget me when I'm gone For sake of all that day's passed over The days you spent on heathen's borne With Donald, Ruda, their rattling rover Mary, Agra, your soft brown eye Has willed my fate, he whispered lowly Another holds thy heart goodbye Heaven grant you both its blessings Holy, a kiss upon her brow of snow A rush across the moonlit meadow His broom-clad hazels trembling slow The mossy borne wrapped in shadow Away are tellies bound in grill And far beyond the Inney River One cheer on Carrick's Rocky Hill And Donald Kenny's Gone Forever End of Donald Kenny This recording is in the public domain The Dry Nandoon by Robert Dwyer Joyce By road and by river The wild birds sing O'er mountain and valley The dewy leaves spring The gay flowers are shining Guilt o'er by the sun At a fairest of all shines the Dry Nandoon The wrath of the fairy The ruined whore With white silver splendour It decks them all o'er And down in the valleys Where merry streams run Her sweet smile the blossoms Of the Dry Nandoon Ah, well I remember The soft spring day I sat by my love Neath its sweet scented spray The day that she told me Her heart I had won Beneath the white blossoms Of the Dry Nandoon The streams they were singing They glad some song The soft winds were blowing The world woods among The mountain shone bright As we sat beneath the blossoms Of the Dry Nandoon It is my prayer in the morning My dream at night To sit thus again By my heart's dear delight With her blue eyes of gladness Her hair like the sun And her bright pleasant smile Neath the Dry Nandoon End of the Dry Nandoon This recording Is in the public domain Wild Geese I had to sail across the sea A brave white bird Went forth from me My heart was hid beneath his wing A strong white bird Come back in spring I watched the wild geese Rise and cry Across the flaming western sky I watched the wild geese Rise and cry I watched the wild geese Rise and cry I watched the wild geese Across the flaming western sky Their winnowing pinions Clove the light Then vanished And came down the night I laid me low My day was done I longed not for the morrow sun But closely swathed In swoon of sleep Forgot to hope Forgot to weep The moon through veils of gloomy red A warm yet dusky radiance Down our valley's golden stream And flushed my slumber With a dream Her mystic torch lit up my brain My spirit rose And lived again And followed through the windy spray That bird Upon its watery way A wild white bird A whale for me My soul had wings to fly with thee On foam waves Lengthening out afar We'll ride toward the western star Our glimmering planes Through forest glow To track a wanderer's feet I can Mid lonely swamp By haunted break I'll pass and frighten'd for his sake Alone afar his footsteps roam The stars his roof The tent his home Sores'd thou what way The wild geese flew To sunward through the thick night Do you carry my soul Where he abides And pierce the mystery that hides His presence And through time and space Look with mine eyes upon his face Beside his prairie fire He rests All feathered things Are in their nests What strained world bird Is this, he said Still fragrant with the ocean's breath Perch on my hand Thou briny thing And let me stroke thy shy wet wing What message in thy soft eye thrills I see again my native hills And fail at river's silver streak The mist upon the blue, blue peak The shadows gray The golden sheaves The mossy walls The russet eaves I greet the friends I've loved And lost To all forget The tempest tossed That braved for me The ocean's foam Some heart remembers me at home Ears brings return I will be there Thou strained sea fragrant messenger I wake and weep The moon shines sweet O dream too short O bird too fleet End of the wild geese This recording Is in the public to me I stand forgotten for lorn outside If I dare to turn my feet away From the chill and the gloom If I followed yawn radiant track With eager and noiseless tread Should I find her my only sweet In some fragrant, fire-lit room Her soft dress, shadowy black And the glow on her bent bright head Perhaps if I only dread She would not bid me be gone Perhaps she would smile As of yore And be kind and forget to chat Perhaps if she knew how I cared I will go, I will seek her anon Alas, they have shut the door And I am alone outside France is fine End of outside This recording is in the public domain To an Isle in the Water By William Butler Yeats From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for Liberty From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org Shy one Shy one Shy one of my heart She moves In the fire-light Pensively apart She carries in the dishes And lays them In a row To an Isle in the water With her I would go She carries in the candles And lights the curtain room Shy In the doorway And Shy In the gloom And Shy as a rabbit Helpful And Shy To an Isle in the water With her Would I fly End of To an Isle In the water This recording Is in the public domain An Old Song Resung by William Butler Yeats From the Book of Irish Poetry Part 1 Read for LibriVox.org By Larry Wilson An Old Song Resung Down by the Sally Gardens My love and I did meet She passed the Sally Gardens She bid me take love easy As the leaves grow on the tree But I, being young and foolish With her would not agree In a field by the river My love and I did stand And on my leaning shoulder She laid her snow-white hand She bid me take life easy As the grass grows on the weirs But I was young and foolish And now in full of tears End of an Old Song Resung by William Butler Yeats This recording is in the public domain.