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he cried.

      ‘He died an hour ago.’

      The old priest Peter Gilligan

      In grief swayed to and fro.

      ‘When you were gone, he turned and died

      As merry as a bird.’

      The old priest Peter Gilligan

      He knelt him at that word.

      ‘He who hath made the night of stars

      For souls, who tire and bleed,

      Sent one of His great angels down

      To help me in my need.

      ‘He who is wrapped in purple robes,

      With planets in His care,

      Had pity on the least of things

      Asleep upon a chair.’

THE LAMENTATION OF THE OLD PENSIONER

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      I had a chair at every hearth,

      When no one turned to see,

      With ‘Look at that old fellow there,

      And who may he be?’

      And therefore do I wander now,

      And the fret lies on me.

      The road-side trees keep murmuring:

      Ah, wherefore murmur ye,

      As in the old days long gone by,

      Green oak and poplar tree?

      The well-known faces are all gone

      And the fret lies on me.

THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY

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      When I play on my fiddle in Dooney,

      Folk dance like a wave of the sea;

      My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,

      My brother in Moharabuiee.

      I passed my brother and cousin:

      They read in their books of prayer;

      I read in my book of songs

      I bought at the Sligo fair.

      When we come at the end of time,

      To Peter sitting in state,

      He will smile on the three old spirits,

      But call me first through the gate;

      For the good are always the merry,

      Save by an evil chance,

      And the merry love the fiddle

      And the merry love to dance:

      And when the folk there spy me,

      They will all come up to me,

      With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’

      And dance like a wave of the sea.

      THE DEDICATION TO A BOOK OF STORIES SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS

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      There was a green branch hung with many a bell

      When her own people ruled in wave-worn Eire;

      And from its murmuring greenness, calm of faery,

      A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.

      It charmed away the merchant from his guile,

      And turned the farmer’s memory from his cattle,

      And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle,

      For all who heard it dreamed a little while.

      Ah, Exiles, wandering over many seas,

      Spinning at all times Eire’s good to-morrow!

      Ah, worldwide Nation, always growing Sorrow!

      I also bear a bell branch full of ease.

      I tore it from green boughs winds tossed and hurled,

      Green boughs of tossing always, weary, weary!

      I tore it from the green boughs of old Eire,

      The willow of the many-sorrowed world.

      Ah, Exiles, wandering over many lands!

      My bell branch murmurs: the gay bells bring laughter,

      Leaping to shake a cobweb from the rafter;

      The sad bells bow the forehead on the hands.

      A honeyed ringing: under the new skies

      They bring you memories of old village faces;

      Cabins gone now, old well-sides, old dear places;

      And men who loved the cause that never dies.

      [134]

       [135]

EARLY POEMS

       II

       THE ROSE

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      ‘Sero te amavi, Pulchritudo tam antiqua et tam nova! Sero te amavi.’

      S. Augustine.

      [137]

       [138]

      To Lionel Johnson

EARLY POEMS:

       THE ROSE

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TO THE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF TIME

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      Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!

      Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:

      Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;

      The Druid, gray, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,

      Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;

      And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old

      In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,

      Sing in their high and lonely melody.

      Come near, that no more blinded by man’s fate,

      I find under the boughs of love and hate,

      In all poor foolish things that live a day,

      Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

      Come near, come near, come near—Ah, leave me still

      A little space for the rose-breath to fill!

      Lest

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