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Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
1 | |
CONTENTS Page | 1 |
LET ME SING OF WHAT I KNOW | 1 |
ABBEY ASAROE | 3 |
THE FAIRIES | 4 |
THE GIRL’S LAMENTATION | 6 |
KATE O’ BELASHANNY | 8 |
AEOLIAN HARP | 9 |
TWILIGHT VOICES | 10 |
THE ABBOT OF INNISFALLEN | 11 |
Produced by David Starner, Sigal Alon and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Sixteen poems by William
Allingham: Selected by
William Butler Yeats
The Dun Emer Press
Dundrum
MCMV
Let Me Sing of What I Know 1
The Winding Banks of Erne 1
Abbey Asaroe 7
A Dream 10
The Fairies 12
The Lepracaun or Fairy Shoemaker 14
The Girl’s Lamentation 17
The Nobleman’s Wedding 20
Kate O’ Belashanny 22
Four Ducks on a Pond 24
AEolian Harp 24
The Maids of Elfin Mere 25
Twilight Voices 26
The Lover and Birds 28
The Abbot of Innisfallen 30
The Ruined Chapel 34
A wild west Coast, a little
Town,
Where little Folk go up and
down,
Tides flow and winds blow:
Night and Tempest and the
Sea,
Human Will and Human Fate:
What is little, what is great?
Howsoe’er the answer
be,
Let me sing of what I know.
THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE
Adieu to Belashanny!
where I was bred
and born;
Go where I may, I’ll
think of you,
as sure as night
and morn.
The kindly spot, the friendly
town,
where every one
is known,
And not a face in all the
place
but partly seems
my own;
There’s not a house
or window,
there’s
not a field or hill,
But, east or west, in foreign
lands,
I’ll recollect
them still.
I leave my warm heart with
you,
tho’ my
back I’m forced to turn—
Adieu to Belashanny,
and the winding
banks of Erne!
No more on pleasant evenings
we’ll saunter
down the Mall,
When the trout is rising to
the fly,
the salmon to
the fall.
The boat comes straining on
her net,
and heavily she
creeps,
Cast off, cast off—she
feels the oars,
and to her berth
she sweeps;
Now fore and aft keep hauling,
and gathering
up the clew,
Till a silver wave of salmon
rolls in among
the crew.
Then they may sit, with pipes
a-lit,
and many a joke
and ’yarn’;—
Adieu to Belashanny,
and the winding
banks of Erne!
The music of the waterfall,
the mirror of
the tide,
When all the green-hill’d
harbour
is full from side
to side,
From Portnasun to Bulliebawns,
and round the
Abbey Bay,
From rocky Inis Saimer
to Coolnargit
sandhills gray;
While far upon the southern
line,
to guard it like
a wall,
The Leitrim mountains clothed
in blue
gaze calmly over
all,
And watch the ship sail up
or down,
the red flag at
her stern;—
Adieu to these, adieu to all
the winding banks
of Erne!
Farewell to you, Kildoney
lads,
and them that
pull an oar,
A lug-sail set, or haul a
net,
from the Point
to Mullaghmore;
From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League,
that ocean-mountain
steep,
Six hundred yards in air aloft,
six hundred in
the deep,
From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge,
and round by Tullen
strand,
Level and long, and white
with waves,
where gull and
curlew stand;
Head out to sea when on your
lee
the breakers you
discern!—
Adieu to all the billowy coast,
and winding banks
of Erne!
Farewell, Coolmore,—Bundoran!
and
your summer crowds
that run
From inland homes to see with
joy
th’ Atlantic-setting
sun;
To breathe the buoyant salted
air,
and sport among
the waves;
To gather shells on sandy
beach,
and tempt the
gloomy caves;
To watch the flowing, ebbing
tide,
the boats, the
crabs, the fish;
Young men and maids to meet
and smile,
and form a tender
wish;
The sick and old in search
of health,
for all things
have their turn—
And I must quit my native
shore,
and the winding
banks of Erne!
Farewell to every white cascade
from the Harbour
to Belleek,
And every pool where fins
may rest,
and ivy-shaded
creek;
The sloping fields, the lofty
rocks,
where ash and
holly grow,
The one split yew-tree gazing
on the curving
flood below;
The Lough, that winds through
islands
under Turaw mountain
green;
And Castle Caldwell’s
stretching woods,
with tranquil
bays between;
And Breesie Hill, and many
a pond
among the heath
and fern,—
For I must say adieu—adieu
to the winding
banks of Erne!
The thrush will call through
Camlin groves
the live-long
summer day;
The waters run by mossy cliff,
and banks with
wild flowers gay;
The girls will bring their
work and sing
beneath a twisted
thorn,
Or stray with sweethearts
down the path
among the growing
corn;
Along the river-side they
go,
where I have often
been,
Oh, never shall I see again
the happy days
I’ve seen!
A thousand chances are to
one
I never may return,—
Adieu to Belashanny,
and the winding
banks of Erne!
Adieu to evening dances,
when merry neighbours
meet,
And the fiddle says to boys
and girls,
‘Get up
and shake your feet!’
To ‘seanachas’
and wise old talk
of Erin’s
days gone by—
Who trench’d the rath
on such a hill,
and where the
bones may lie
Of saint, or king, or warrior
chief;
with tales of
fairy power,
And tender ditties sweetly
sung
to pass the twilight
hour.
The mournful song of exile
is now for me
to learn—
Adieu, my dear companions
on the winding
banks of Erne!
Now measure from the Commons
down
to each end of
the Purt,
Round the Abbey, Moy, and
Knather,—
I wish no one
any hurt;
The Main Street, Back Street,
College Lane,
the Mall, and
Portnasun,
If any foes of mine are there,
I pardon every
one.
I hope that man and womankind
will do the same
by me;
For my heart is sore and heavy
at voyaging the
sea.
My loving friends I’ll
bear in mind,
and often fondly
turn
To think of Belashanny,
and the winding
banks of Erne.
If ever I’m a money’d
man,
I mean, please
God, to cast
My golden anchor in the place
where youthful
years were pass’d;
Though heads that now are
black and brown
must meanwhile
gather gray,
New faces rise by every hearth,
and old ones drop
away—
Yet dearer still that Irish
hill
than all the world
beside;
It’s home, sweet home,
where’er I roam
through lands
and waters wide.
And if the Lord allows me,
I surely will
return
To my native Belashanny,
and the winding
banks of Erne.
Gray, gray is Abbey Asaroe,
by Belashanny
town,
It has neither door nor window,
the walls are
broken down;
The carven-stones lie scatter’d
in briar and nettle-bed;
The only feet are those that
come
at burial of the
dead.
A little rocky rivulet
runs murmuring
to the tide,
Singing a song of ancient
days,
in sorrow, not
in pride;
The boortree and the lightsome
ash
across the portal
grow,
And heaven itself is now the
roof
of Abbey Asaroe.
It looks beyond the harbour-stream
to Gulban mountain
blue;
It hears the voice of Erna’s
fall,—
Atlantic breakers
too;
High ships go sailing past
it;
the sturdy clank
of oars
Brings in the salmon-boat
to haul
a net upon the
shores;
And this way to his home-creek,
when the summer
day is done,
Slow sculls the weary fisherman
across the setting
sun;
While green with corn is Sheegus
Hill,
his cottage white
below;
But gray at every season
is Abbey Asaroe.
There stood one day a poor
old man
above its broken
bridge;
He heard no running rivulet,
he saw no mountain-ridge;
He turn’d his back on
Sheegus Hill,
and view’d
with misty sight
The Abbey walls, the burial-ground
with crosses ghostly
white;
Under a weary weight of years
he bow’d
upon his staff,
Perusing in the present time
the former’s
epitaph;
For, gray and wasted like
the walls,
a figure full
of woe,
This man was of the blood
of them
who founded Asaroe.
From Derry to Bundrowas Tower,
Tirconnell broad
was theirs;
Spearmen and plunder, bards
and wine,
and holy abbot’s
prayers;
With chanting always in the
house
which they had
builded high
To God and to Saint Bernard,—
where at last
they came to die.
At worst, no workhouse grave
for him!
the ruins of his
race
Shall rest among the ruin’d
stones
of this their
saintly place.
The fond old man was weeping;
and tremulous
and slow
Along the rough and crooked
lane
he crept from
Asaroe.
A DREAM
I heard the dogs howl in the
moonlight night;
I went to the window to see
the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by
two.
On they pass’d, and
on they pass’d;
Townsfellows all, from first
to last;
Born in the moonlight of the
lane,
Quench’d in the heavy
shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when
we play’d
At soldiers once—but
now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight
to me
Who were drown’d, I
knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk;
bent and weak, too;
Some that I loved, and gasp’d
to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard
bed;
Some that I had not known
were dead.
A long, long crowd—where
each seem’d lonely,
Yet of them all there was
one, one only,
Raised a head or look’d
my way:
She linger’d a moment—she
might not stay.
How long since I saw that
fair pale face!
Ah! Mother dear! might
I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment
to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful
cheek were prest!
On, on, a moving bridge they
made
Across the moon-stream, from
shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;
Many long-forgot, but remember’d
then.
And first there came a bitter
laughter;
A sound of tears the moment
after;
And then a music so lofty
and gay,
That every morning, day by
day,
I strive to recall it if I
may.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s 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,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup 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 hill-side,
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 daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
THE LEPRACAUN OR FAIRY SHOEMAKER
Little Cowboy, what have you
heard,
Up on the lonely rath’s
green mound?
Only the plaintive yellow
bird
Sighing in sultry fields around,
Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee!—
Only the grasshopper and the
bee?—
’Tip-tap,
rip-rap,
Tick-a-tack-too!
Scarlet leather, sewn together,
This will make a shoe.
Left, right, pull it tight;
Summer days are warm;
Underground in winter,
Laughing at the storm!’
Lay your ear close to the
hill.
Do you not catch the tiny
clamour,
Busy click of an elfin hammer,
Voice of the Lepracaun 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?
I caught him at work one day,
myself,
In the castle-ditch where
foxglove grows,—
A wrinkled, wizen’d,
and bearded Elf,
Spectacles stuck on his pointed
nose,
Silver buckles to his hose,
Leather apron—shoe
in his lap—
’Rip-rap,
tip-tap,
Tick-tack-too!
(A grasshopper
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 mine, beyond
a doubt.
I stared at him; he stared
at me;
‘Servant, Sir!’
‘Humph!’ says he,
And pull’d a snuff-box
out.
He took a long pinch, look’d
better pleased,
The queer little Lepracaun;
Offer’d the box with
a whimsical grace,—
Pouf! he flung the dust in
my face,
And while I sneezed,
Was
gone!
With grief and mourning I
sit to spin;
My Love passed by, and he
didn’t come in;
He passes by me, both day
and night,
And carries off my poor heart’s
delight.
There is a tavern in yonder
town,
My Love goes there and he
spends a crown;
He takes a strange girl upon
his knee,
And never more gives a thought
to me.
Says he, ’We’ll
wed without loss of time,
And sure our love’s
but a little crime;’—
My apron-string now it’s
wearing short,
And my Love he seeks other
girls to court.
O with him I’d go if
I had my will,
I’d follow him barefoot
o’er rock and hill;
I’d never once speak
of all my grief
If he’d give me a smile
for my heart’s relief.
In our wee garden the rose
unfolds,
With bachelor’s-buttons
and marigolds;
I’ll tie no posies for
dance or fair,
A willow-twig is for me to
wear.
For a maid again I can never
be,
Till the red rose blooms on
the willow tree.
Of such a trouble I’ve
heard them tell,
And now I know what it means
full well.
As through the long lonesome
night I lie,
I’d give the world if
I might but cry;
But I mus’n’t
moan there or raise my voice,
And the tears run down without
any noise.
And what, O what will my mother
say?
She’ll wish her daughter
was in the clay.
My father will curse me to
my face;
The neighbours will know of
my black disgrace.
My sister’s buried three
years, come Lent;
But sure we made far too much
lament.
Beside her grave they still
say a prayer—
I wish to God ’twas
myself was there!
The Candlemas crosses hang
near my bed;
To look at them puts me much
in dread,
They mark the good time that’s
gone and past:
It’s like this year’s
one will prove the last.
The oldest cross it’s
a dusty brown,
But the winter winds didn’t
shake it down;
The newest cross keeps the
colour bright;
When the straw was reaping
my heart was light.
The reapers rose with the
blink of morn,
And gaily stook’d up
the yellow corn;
To call them home to the field
I’d run,
Through the blowing breeze
and the summer sun.
When the straw was weaving
my heart was glad,
For neither sin nor shame
I had,
In the barn where oat-chaff
was flying round,
And the thumping flails made
a pleasant sound.
Now summer or winter to me
it’s one;
But oh! for a day like the
time that’s gone.
I’d little care was
it storm or shine,
If I had but peace in this
heart of mine.
Oh! light and false is a young
man’s kiss,
And a foolish girl gives her
soul for this.
Oh! light and short is the
young man’s blame,
And a helpless girl has the
grief and shame.
To the river-bank once I thought
to go,
And cast myself in the stream
below;
I thought ’twould carry
us far out to sea,
Where they’d never find
my poor babe and me.
Sweet Lord, forgive me that
wicked mind!
You know I used to be well-inclined.
Oh, take compassion upon my
state,
Because my trouble is so very
great.
My head turns round with the
spinning wheel,
And a heavy cloud on my eyes
I feel.
But the worst of all is at
my heart’s core;
For my innocent days will
come back no more.
THE NOBLEMAN’S WEDDING
I once was a guest at a Nobleman’s
wedding;
Fair was the Bride, but she
scarce had been kind,
And now in our mirth, she
had tears nigh the shedding
Her former true lover still
runs in her mind.
Attired like a minstrel, her
former true lover
Takes up his harp, and runs
over the strings;
And there among strangers,
his grief to discover,
A fair maiden’s falsehood
he bitterly sings.
’Now here is the token
of gold that was broken;
Seven long years it was kept
for your sake;
You gave it to me as a true
lover’s token;
No longer I’ll wear
it, asleep or awake.’
She sat in her place by the
head of the table,
The words of his ditty she
mark’d them right well:
To sit any longer this bride
was not able,
So down at the bridegroom’s
feet she fell.
’O one, one request,
my lord, one and no other,
O this one request will you
grant it to me?
To lie for this night in the
arms of my mother,
And ever, and ever thereafter
with thee.’
Her one, one request it was
granted her fairly;
Pale were her cheeks as she
went up to bed;
And the very next morning,
early, early,
They rose and they found this
young bride was dead.
The bridegroom ran quickly,
he held her, he kiss’d her,
He spoke loud and low, and
listen’d full fain;
He call’d on her waiting-maids
round to assist her
But nothing could bring the
lost breath back again.
O carry her softly! the grave
is made ready;
At head and at foot plant
a laurel-bush green;
For she was a young and a
sweet noble lady,
The fairest young bride that
I ever have seen.
Seek up and down, both fair
and brown,
We’ve purty lasses many,
O;
But brown or fair, one girl
most rare,
The Flow’r o’
Belashanny, O.
As straight is she as poplar-tree
(Tho’ not as aisy shaken,
O,)
And walks so proud among the
crowd,
For queen she might be taken,
O.
From
top to toe, where’er you go,
The
loveliest girl of any, O,—
Ochone!
your mind I find unkind,
Sweet
Kate o’ Belashanny, O!
One summer day the banks were
gay,
The Erne in sunshine glancin’
there,
The big cascade its music
play’d
And set the salmon dancin’
there.
Along the green my Joy was
seen;
Some goddess bright I thought
her there;
The fishes, too, swam close,
to view
Her image in the water there.
From
top to toe, where’er you go,
The
loveliest girl of any, O,—
Ochone!
your mind I find unkind,
Sweet
Kate o’ Belashanny, O!
My dear, give ear!—the
river’s near,
And if you think I’m
shammin’ now,
To end my grief I’ll
seek relief
Among the trout and salmon,
now;
For shrimps and sharks to
make their marks,
And other watery vermin there;
Unless a mermaid saves my
life,—
My wife, and me her merman
there.
From
top to toe, where’er you go,
The
loveliest girl of any, O,—
Mavrone!
your mind I find unkind,
Sweet
Kate o’ Belashanny, O!
’Tis all in vain that
I complain;
No use to coax or chide her
there;
As far away from me as Spain,
Although I stand beside her
there.
O cruel Kate! since that’s
my fate,
I’ll look for love no
more in you;
The seagull’s screech
as soon would reach
Your heart, as me implorin’
you.
Tho’
fair you are, and rare you are,
The
loveliest flow’r of any, O,—
Too
proud and high,—good-bye, say I,
To
Kate o’ Belashanny, O!
FOUR DUCKS ON A POND
Four ducks on a pond,
A grass-bank beyond,
A blue sky of spring,
White clouds on the wing;
What a little thing
To remember for years—
To remember with tears!
What is it that is gone, we
fancied ours?
Oh what is lost that never
may be told?—
We stray all afternoon, and
we may grieve
Until the perfect closing
of the night.
Listen to us, thou gray Autumnal
Eve,
Whose part is silence.
At thy verge the clouds
Are broken into melancholy
gold;
The waifs of Autumn and the
feeble flow’rs
Glimmer along our woodlands
in wet light;
Within thy shadow thou dost
weave the shrouds
Of joy and great adventure,
waxing cold,
Which once, or so it seemed,
were full of might.
Some power it was, that lives
not with us now,
A thought we had, but could
not, could not hold.
O sweetly, swiftly pass’d:—air
sings and murmurs;
Green leaves are gathering
on the dewy bough;
O sadly, swiftly pass’d:—air
sighs and mutters;
Red leaves are dropping on
the rainy mould.
Then comes the snow, unfeatured,
vast, and white.
O what is gone from us, we
fancied ours?—
THE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE
When the spinning-room was
here
Came Three Damsels, clothed
in white,
With their spindles every
night;
One and Two and three fair
Maidens,
Spinning to a pulsing cadence,
Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;
Till the eleventh hour was
toll’d,
Then departed through the
wold.
Years
ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as
the wind doth blow.
Three white Lilies, calm and
clear,
And they were loved by every
one;
Most of all, the Pastor’s
Son,
Listening to their gentle
singing,
Felt his heart go from him,
clinging
Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere.
Sued each night to make them
stay,
Sadden’d when they went
away.
Years
ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as
the wind doth blow.
Hands that shook with love
and fear
Dared put back the village
clock,—
Flew the spindle, turn’d
the rock,
Flow’d the song with
subtle rounding,
Till the false ‘eleven’
was sounding;
Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere
Swiftly, softly, left the
room,
Like three doves on snowy
plume.
Years
ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as
the wind doth blow.
One that night who wander’d
near
Heard lamentings by the shore,
Saw at dawn three stains of
gore
In the waters fade and dwindle.
Never more with song and spindle
Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere,
The Pastor’s Son did
pine and die;
Because true love should never
lie.
Years
ago, and years ago;
And the tall reeds sigh as
the wind doth blow.
Now, at the hour when ignorant
mortals
Drowse in the shade of their
whirling sphere,
Heaven and Hell from invisible
portals
Breathing comfort and ghastly
fear,
Voices
I hear;
I hear strange voices, flitting,
calling,
Wavering by on the dusky blast,—
’Come, let us go, for
the night is falling;
Come, let us go, for the day
is past!’
Troops of joys are they, now
departed?
Winged hopes that no longer
stay?
Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?
Powers that have linger’d
their latest day?
What
do they say?
What do they sing? I
hear them calling,
Whispering, gathering, flying
fast,—
’Come, come, for the
night is falling;
Come, come, for the day is
past!’
Sing they to me?—’Thy
taper’s wasted;
Mortal, thy sands of life
run low;
Thine hours like a flock of
birds have hasted:
Time is ending;—we
go, we go.’
Sing
they so?
Mystical voices, floating,
calling;
Dim farewells—the
last, the last?
Come, come away, the night
is falling;
‘Come, come away, the
day is past.’
See, I am ready, Twilight
voices!
Child of the spirit-world
am I;
How should I fear you? my
soul rejoices,
O speak plainer! O draw
nigh!
Fain
would I fly!
Tell me your message, Ye who
are calling
Out of the dimness vague and
vast;
Lift me, take me,—the
night is falling;
Quick, let us go,—the
day is past.
THE LOVER AND BIRDS
Within a budding grove,
In April’s ear sang every bird his best,
But not a song to pleasure my unrest,
Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;
Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in
jest.
To every word
Of every bird
I listen’d, and replied as it behove.
Scream’d Chaffinch,
’Sweet, sweet, sweet!
Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!’
‘Chaffinch,’ quoth I, ’be dumb
awhile, in fear
Thy darling prove no better than a cheat,
And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.’
Yet from a twig,
With voice so big,
The little fowl his utterance did repeat.
Then I, ’The man forlorn
Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.’
‘And what’ll he do? What’ll
he do?’ scoff’d
The Blackbird, standing, in an ancient thorn,
Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the
croft
With cackling laugh;
Whom I, being half
Enraged, called after, giving back his
scorn.
Worse mock’d the
Thrush, ’Die! die!
Oh, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!
Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!’
(went his lay.)
‘Take heed! take heed!’ then ’Why?
why? why? why? why?
See-ee now! see-ee now!’ (he drawl’d)
‘Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!’
O Thrush, be still!
Or at thy will,
Seek some less sad interpreter than I.
’Air, air! blue air
and white!
Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither
I flee!’
(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)
’Hills, countries, many waters glittering
bright,
Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper,
deeper, whither I see, see,
see!’
‘Gay Lark,’ I said,
’The song that’s bred
In happy nest may well to heaven make
flight.’
’There’s something,
something sad,
I half remember’—piped a broken
strain.
Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.
‘Spring’s opening cheerily, cheerily!
be we glad!’
Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,
Till now, grown meek,
With wetted cheek,
Most comforting and gentle thoughts I
had.
The Abbot of Innisfallen
awoke ere dawn of day;
Under the dewy green leaves
went he forth to pray.
The lake around his island
lay smooth and dark and deep,
And wrapt in a misty stillness
the mountains were all asleep.
Low kneel’d the Abbot Cormac
when the dawn was dim and gray;
The prayers of his holy office
he faithfully ’gan say.
Low kneel’d the Abbot Cormac
while the dawn was waxing red;
And for his sins’ forgiveness
a solemn prayer he said:
Low kneel’d that holy Abbot
while the dawn was waxing clear;
And he pray’d with loving-kindness
for his convent-brethren dear.
Low kneel’d that blessed Abbot
while the dawn was waxing bright;
He pray’d a great prayer for Ireland,
he pray’d with all his might.
Low kneel’d that good old Father
while the sun began to dart;
He pray’d a prayer for all men,
he pray’d it from his heart.
His blissful soul was in Heaven,
tho’ a breathing man was he;
He was out of time’s dominion,
so far as the living may be.
The Abbot of Innisfallen
arose upon his
feet;
He heard a small bird singing,
and O but it sung
sweet!
It sung upon a holly-bush,
this little snow-white
bird;
A song so full of gladness
he never before
had heard.
It sung upon a hazel,
it sung upon a
thorn;
He had never heard such music
since the hour
that he was born.
It sung upon a sycamore,
it sung upon a
briar;
To follow the song and hearken
this Abbot could
never tire.
Till at last he well bethought
him;
he might no longer
stay;
So he bless’d the little
white singing-bird,
and gladly went
his way.
But, when he came to his Abbey,
he found a wondrous
change;
He saw no friendly faces there,
for every face
was strange.
The strange men spoke unto
him;
and he heard from
all and each
The foreign tongue of the
Sassenach,
not wholesome
Irish speech.
Then the oldest monk came
THE RUINED CHAPEL
By the shore, a plot of ground
Clips a ruin’d chapel
round,
Buttress’d with a grassy
mound;
Where Day and Night and Day
go by,
And bring no touch of human
sound.
Washing of the lonely seas,
Shaking of the guardian trees,
Piping of the salted breeze;
Day and Night and Day go by
To the endless tune of these.
Or when, as winds and waters
keep
A hush more dead than any
sleep,
Still morns to stiller evenings
creep,
And Day and Night and Day
go by;
Here the silence is most deep.
The empty ruins, lapsed again
Into Nature’s wide domain,
Sow themselves with seed and
grain
As Day and Night and Day go
by;
And hoard June’s sun
and April’s rain.
Here fresh funeral tears were
shed;
Now the graves are also dead;
And suckers from the ash-tree
spread,
While Day and Night and Day
go by;
And stars move calmly overhead.
Here end sixteen poems, written by William Allingham, and selected for re-printing by William Butler Yeats. Printed upon paper made in Ireland, and published by Elizabeth Corbet Yeats at the Dun Emer Press, in the house of Evelyn Gleeson at Dundrum, in the county of Dublin, Ireland, finished on the fifteenth day of September, in the year 1905.