The Mountainy Singer. Campbell Joseph

beach and margent pale;

      Not a bawn appears in view,

      Not a sail!

      Round about!

      In and out!

      Thro’ the stones and sandy bars

      To the music of the stars!

      The asteroidal fire that dances

      Nightly in the northern blue,

      The brightest of the boreal lances,

      Dances not so light as you,

      Cliodhna!

      Dances not so light as you.

      THE FIGHTING-MAN

      A fighting-man he was,

      Guts and soul;

      His blood as hot and red

      As that on Cain’s hand-towel.

      A copper-skinned six-footer,

      Hewn out of the rock.

      Who would stand up against

      His hammer-knock?

      Not a sinner —

      No, and not one dared!

      Giants showed clean heels

      When his arm was bared.

      I’ve seen him swing an anvil

      Fifty feet,

      Break a bough in two,

      And tear a twisted sheet.

      And the music of his roar —

      Like oaks in thunder cleaving;

      Lips foaming red froth,

      And flanks heaving.

      God! a goodly man,

      A Gael, the last

      Of those that stood with Dan

      On Mullach-Maist!

      MY MOTHER HAS A WEE RED SHOE

      My mother has a wee red shoe —

      She bought it off a bacach-man;

      And all the neighbours say it’s true

      He stole it off a Leath-brogan.

      Bacach-man, bacach-man,

      Where did you get it?

      Faith now, says he,

      In my leather wallet!

      My father has an arrow-head —

      He begged it off poor Peig na Blath;

      And Mor, the talking-woman, said

      She found it in a fairy rath.

      Peig na Blath, Peig na Blath,

      Where did you get it?

      Faith now, says she,

      In my wincey jacket!

      My brother has a copper pot —

      He tryst’ it wi’ a shuiler-man;

      And gossip says it’s like as not

      He truff’d it from a Clobhair-ceann.

      Shuiler-man, shuiler-man,

      Where did you get it?

      Faith now, says he,

      In my breeches’ pocket!

      BY A WONDROUS MYSTERY

      By a wondrous mystery

      Christ of Mary’s fair body

      Upon a middle winter’s morn,

      Between the tides of night and day,

      In Ara’s holy isle was born.