CAOINE

(From the eighteenth-century Irish)

  Cold, dark, and dumb lies my boy on his bed;
  Cold, dark, and silent the night dews are shed;
  Hot, swift, and fierce fall my tears for the dead!

  His footprints lay light in the dew of the dawn
  As the straight, slender track of the young mountain fawn;
  But I’ll ne’er again follow them over the lawn.

  His manly cheek blushed with the sun’s rising ray,
  And he shone in his strength like the sun at midday;
  But a cloud of black darkness has hid him away.

  And that black cloud for ever shall cling to the skies: 
  And never, ah, never, I’ll see him arise,
  Lost warmth of my bosom, lost light of my eyes!

Songs to Music

BATTLE HYMN

(Written to an old Irish Air)

  Above the thunder crashes,
  Around the lightning flashes: 
  Our heads are heaped with ashes
    But Thou, God, art nigh! 
  Thou launchest forth the levin,
  The storm by Thee is driven,
  Give heed, O Lord, from Heaven,
    Hear, hear our cry!

  For lo, the Dane defaces
  With fire Thy holy places,
  He hews Thy priests in pieces,
    Our maids more than die. 
  Up, Lord, with storm and thunder,
  Pursue him with his plunder,
  And smite his ships in sunder,
    Lord God Most High!

THE SONG OF THE WOODS

(To an Irish Air of the same name)

  Not only where Thy blessed bells
    Peal afar for praise and prayer,
  Or where Thy solemn organ swells,
    Lord, not only art Thou there. 
  Thy voice of many waters
    From out the ocean comfort speaks,
  Thy Presence to a radiant rose
    Thrills a thousand virgin peaks.

  And here, where in one wondrous woof—­
    Aisle on aisle and choir on choir—­
  To rear Thy rarest temple roof,
    Pillared oak and pine aspire;
  Life-weary here we wander,
    When lo! the Saviour’s gleaming stole! 
  ’Tis caught unto our craving lips,
    Kissed and straightway we are whole.

THE ENCHANTED VALLEY

(To an Irish Air of the same name)

  I will go where lilies blow
    Beside the flow of languid streams,
  Within that vale of opal glow,
  Where bright-winged dreams flutter to and fro,
    Fain am I its magic peace to know.

  Beware! beware of that valley fair! 
    All dwellers there to phantoms turn,
  For joys and griefs they have none to share,
  Tho’ ever they yearn life’s burdens to bear,
    Ah! of that valley beware, beware!

REMEMBER THE POOR

(Founded on an Irish Ballad of the name)