Fires of Driftwood eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 43 pages of information about Fires of Driftwood.

Hawthorn trees were quick with May—­
  “Sir,” said I, “Good-day to you”! 
  But he counted.  “One and two”
In strange way.

Fool I was—­oh, fool was I
  (Who should know the ways of them!)
  That I touched his cloak’s green hem,
Passing by.

I was fey with spring and mirth—­
  Speaking him without a thought—­
  Now is joy a thing forgot
On the earth.

Ere the sweet thorn-buds were through,
  Wife and child doom-stricken lay,
  Cold as winter, white as spray—­
“One and two!”

Now I seek eternally
  That grim Counter of the fen,
  Praying he may count again—­
Counting, “Three”.

* In the bad chance of a meeting with the “Little People” the mortal is cautioned not to speak to them nor to touch, but to pass by quickly with averted eye.—­Old tale.

The Enchantress

I fear Eileen, the wild Eileen—­
  The eyes she lifts to mine,
That laugh and laugh and never tell
  The half that they divine!

She draws me to her lonely cot
  Ayont the Tulloch Hill;
And, laughing, draws me to her door
  And, laughing, holds me still.

I bless myself and bless myself,
  But in the holy sign,
There seems to be no heart of love,
  To still the pain in mine.

The morning, bright above the moor,
  Is bright no more for me—­
A weary bit of burning pain
  Is where my heart should be!

For since the wild, sweet laugh of her
  Has drawn me to her snare,
The only sunlight in the world
  Is shining from her hair.

Yet well I know, ah, well I know
  Why ’tis so sweet and wild—­
She slept beneath a faery thorn,
  She is a faery child!

And so I leave my mother lone,
  No meal to fill the pot,
And follow, follow wild Eileen. 
  If so I will or not.

I fear to meet her in the glen,
  Or seek her by the shore;
I fear to lift her cabin’s latch,
  But—­should she come no more!—­

O Eileen Og, O wild Eileen,
  My heart is wracked with fear
Lest you should meet your faery kin,
  And, laughing, leave me here!

The Banshee

The Banshee cries on the rising wind
  “O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
The dead to free and the quick to bind—­
(Close fast the shutter and draw the blind!)
  “O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”

Why are you paler my dearest dear? 
  “O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
’Tis but the wind in the elm tree near—­
(Acushla, hush! lest the Banshee hear!)
  “O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”

See, how the crackling fire up-springs,
  “O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
Up and up on its flame-red wings;
Hark, how the cheerful kettle sings! 
  “O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”

Core of my heart!  How cold your lips! 
  “O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
White as the spray the wild wind whips,
Still as your icy finger tips! 
  “O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”

Copyrights
Project Gutenberg
Fires of Driftwood from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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