Welcome to Merlyn's Pond, a place about natural things, our planet, the Universe, and things Celtic & magick. This is the premier issue of Merlyn's Pond. It is dedicated to the ancient Celtic legend's concerning Atlantis, and to the First One's from a time vastly ancient - as told in Irish ballad. For the magick faiery folk that visit Merlyn's Pond frequently, there is the ballad of The Gobban Saer, an ancient Celtic personage.
This is the first installment of many, with other pages slated to be released in the near future. This premier issue of Merlyn's Pond features ancient Irish/Celtic ballads. In Ireland, ballads, are a special way of preserving important historical legends and stories through storytelling. Ballads have been used for a long time by the Celtic people as an effective means to pass on information about events and individuals, and about Celtic magick and lore. Ballads have for centuries been a way of communicating information that is of importance among the Celts. Because books and writing were largely outlawed to those in Celtic society by the conquering Anglo-Saxon Europeans, oral communication, or storytelling as we better know it today, became the only means available to the dwlending Celtic race to pass on needed information from one generation to the next. For centuries before the Celtic race became the captive slaves of the invading Anglo-Saxon's and other Europeans, Celtic's known as Bard's, had been the caretakers of the books and historical writings of the vast Celtic civilization.
In the core-center of Ireland there once stood a city, built from huge megalithic stones. The name of this mighty stone city of magick for the Celts, was Tara - the center. It is said that this mighty stone city was very ancient, possibly dating back to those that came from the "First Time." It is sad that we no longer have this ancient city around to look more closely at - the ancient Irish city of Tara and the surrounding countryside was completely razed, and utterly destroyed by St. Patrick's military forces, during St. Patrick's so called purge of the "snakes" in Ireland. Much of the written history that had managed to survive the previous conquest by the Romans, did not manage to survive the cruel and genocidal reach of the Church and St. Patrick. The "snakes" actually purged from Ireland, as it turns out, was the last of the surviving and threatening powers of the ancient Celtic society, like the Bard's and other Celtic nobles. These marked Celtic families were systematically hunted down by St. Patrick's forces, quickly executed, and their property immediately forfeit to St. Patrick and the Church. Some of the Celtic families being pursued by St. Patrick and his forces, managed to escape to the reaches of Upper Northern Europe and into the Scandanavian area.
It is easy to see from that type of turbulent and oppressed history, how important oral communication became for the surviving and proud Celtic people, who were forced to stay on the continual move, always trying to escape constant persecution by the Church and other despots. For the surviving Celtic people; ballads became a necessary and functional way to pass on Celtic history, and within the few surviving Celtic families widely scattered over the world today, that same oral tradition of passing on history is still alive. Storytelling for a Celt is an almost instinctive nature that is within them from birth. The Irish sometime's refer to it as having the gift of Blarney. I personally believe that words and how to use them are a gift from Oghma, a Celtic diety of old who considered word's to be sacred, especially the written word.
The Irish/Celtic ballad's presented at this site, were compiled from The Ballads of Ireland, a book printed in Dublin, Ireland, circa., 1847. This book of Irish ballads is varied in age, but most of the ballads and myths have there roots deep in Celtic antiquity. Some of the ballads date back to around the 10th and 11th centuries CE, but telling of events going back to the 6th and 7th century BCE, while other ballads are about events just a few hundred years old!
Presented here, just as written and spelled, is a small sampling of some of the Irish ballads contained in that book, which is now in the public domain.
HY-BRASIL - THE ISLE OF THE BLEST BY GERALD GRIFFIN
[From the Isles of Aran and the west continent, often appears visible that enchanted island called O'Brasil, and in Irish Beg-ara, or the Lesser Aran, set down in cards of navigation. Whether it be reall and firm land, kept hidden by speciall ordinance of God, as the terrestriall paradise. or else some illusion of airy clouds appearing on the surface of the sea, or the craft of evil spirits, is more than our judgements can sound out. There is, westward of Aran, a wild island of huge rocks, (Skira Rocks) the receptacle of a deale of seals thereon yearly slaughtered. These rocks sometimes appear to be a great city far off, full of houses, castles, towers, and chimneys; sometimes full of blazing flames, smoak, and people running to and fru. Another day you would see nothing but a number of ships, with their sailes and riggings; then so many great stakes or reeks of corn and turf; and this not only on fair sun-shinning dayes, whereby it might be thought the reflection of the sun-beamse, on the vapours arising about it, had been the cause. but alsoe on dark and cloudy days. O'Flaherty's West Connaught, Irish Archaeological Society's Publications, page 68.]
On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell; Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, And they called it Hy-Brasil, the isle of the blest; From year unto year, and on the ocean's blue rim, The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim; The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!
A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail; From Ara, the Holy, he turned to the West, For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasil was blest. He heard not the voices that called from the shore - He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar; Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day, And he sped to Hy-Brasil, away, far away!
Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle, O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile; Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before; Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, And to Ara again he looked timidly back; Oh! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!
Rich dreamer, return! O, ye winds of the main, Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again. Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss, To barter thy calm life of labour and peace. The warning of reason was spoken in vain; He never revisited Ara again! Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, And he died on the waters, away, far away!
ARRANMORE BY THOMAS MOORE ["The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that in a clear day they can see from this coast Hy-Brasil, or the Enchanted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories." - Beaufort's Ancient Topography of Ireland.]
OH! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, How oft I dream of thee; And of those days when, by thy shore, I wandered young and free. Full many a path I've tried, since then, Through pleasure's flowery maze But ne'er could find the bliss again I felt in those sweet days.
How blithe upon the breezy cliffs At sunny morn I've stood' Wth heart as bounding as the skiffs That danced along the flood; Or when the western wave grew bright With daylight's parting wing, Have sought that Eden in its light' Which dreaming poets sing -
That Eden, where th' immortal brave Dwell in a land serene,- Whose bow'rs beyond the shining wave, At sunset, oft are seen; Ah, dream, too full of sadd'ning truth! Those mansions o'er the main Are like the hopes I built in youth, As sunny and as vain!
THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS BY THE REV. G. CROLY.
[The Rev. George Croly was born in Ireland about the end of the last century [18th]. He studied in the Dublin University, and was in due time ordained by the friend of Burke, O'Beirne, Bishop of Meath, who gave him charge of a parish in his diocese. His residence was on the border of an immense lake imbedded in mountains, where his poetic genius had ample nourishment in the beautiful scenes around him. After spending some years in this poetic solitide, he visited London, just at the time when England first embarked in the Spanish war. He sympathised warmly with the freedom oof that land of old romance, and travelled through Germany and France in the midst of their excitment. Several works were the result of this journey. Lord Brougham gave him one of the livings in his gift as Chancellor in 1831, and in 1835, Lord Lyndhurst, then Chancellor, gave him his present living as rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook. There is but little feeling in his poetry, and the heart looks in vain for either affection or tenderness in his gorgeous and vigorous poems.
"For at that time the Atlantic sea was navigable, and had an island before that mouth which is called by you the pillars of Hercules. But this island was greater than both Libya and all Asia together, and affored an easy passage to other neighbouring islands, as it was easy to pass from those islands to all the Continent which borders on this Atlantic sea. * * * But, in succeeding times, prodigious earthquakes and deluges taking place, and bringing with them desolation in the space of one day and night, all that warlike race of Athenians was at once merged under the earth; and the Atlantic island itself being absorbed in the sea, entirely disappeared." - Plato's Timoeus.]
OH! thou Atlantic, dark and deep, Thou wilderness of waves, Where all the tribes of earth might sleep In their uncrowded graves!
The sunbeams on thy bosom wake Yet never light thy gloom; The tempests burst, yet never shake Thy depths, thou mighty tomb!
Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear, Thy secrets who hath told? - The warrior and his sword are there, The merchant and his gold!
There lie their myriads in thy pall, Secure from steel and storm; And he, the feaster on them all, The canker-worm.
Yet on this wave the mountain's brow Once glow'd in morning's beam; And, like an arrow from the bow, Out sprang the stream:
And on the bank the olive grove, And the peache's luxury, And the damask rose - the nightbird's love - Perfumed the sky.
Where are thou, proud Atlantis, now? Where are thy bright and brave? Priest, people, warriors' living flow? Look on that wave!
Crime deepen'd on the recreant land, Long guilty, long forgiven; There power uprear'd the bloody hand, There scoff'd at Heaven.
The word went forth - the word of woe - The judgement-thunders pealed; The fiery earthquake blazed below; Its doom was seal'd.
Now on its hills of ivory Lie giant weed and ocean slime, Burying from man and angel's eye The land of crime.
THE ENCHANTED ISLAND ANCIENT IRISH BALLAD/TRADITIONAL
[The tradition in this beautliul little ballad is almost as that of which "Hy-Brasil," and other poems in this collection are founded, except it point of locality; the scene of the latter ballads being placed in the Atlantic, to the west of the Isles of Arran, while "the Enchanted Island" is supposed to be in the neighbourhood of Rathlin Island, off the north coast of the county Antrim. The name of the island, which has been spelt a different way by almost every writer on the subject, is supposed to be derived from Ragh-Erin, or "the Fort of Erin," as its situation, commanding the Irish coast, might make it, not unaptly, be styled "the fortress of Ireland." - See Leonard's Topographia Hibernica.]
To Rathlin's Isle I chanced to sail, When summer breezes softly blew, And there I heard so sweet a tale, That oft I wished it could be true. They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep, And hushed is ev'ry turbid swell, A mermaid rises from the deep, And sweetly tunes her magic shell.
And while she plays, rock, dell, and cave, In dying falls the sound retain, As if some choral spirits gave Their aid to swell her witching strain. Then summoned by that dulcet note, Uprising to th' admiring view, A fairy island seems to float With tints of many a gorgeous hue.
And glittering fanes, and lofty towers, All on this fairy isle are seen; And waving trees, and shady bowers, With more than mortal verdue green. And as it moves, the western sky Glows with a thousand varying rays; And the calm sea, tinged with each dye, Seems like a golden flood of blaze.
They also say, if earth or stone, From verdant Erin's hallowed land, Were on this magic island thrown, For ever fixed, it then would stand. But, when for this, some little boat In silence ventures from the shore - The mermaid sinks - hushed is the note, The fairy isle is seen no more!
THE VOYAGE OF EMAN OGE BY T.D. M'GEE
[The legend of Hy-Brasil is one of the best known of our national traditions. It is an island which used once every seventh year to emerge from the depths of the ocean, far to the west of Arran; and like a very Eden in its beauty; and, like Eden, too, shut against the race of man. Many voyages were undertaken by the adventurous and the visionary, in search of this fable-land, with what success is related in O'Flaherty's West Connaught, and other old books, English as well as Irish.]
In the Western Ocean's waters, where the sinking sun is lost, Rises many a holy cloiteach high o'er many an island coast, Bearing bells rung by the tempest when the spray to heaven is toss'd:
Bearing bells and holy crosses, that to Arran men afar Twinkle through the dawn and twilight, like a mist-environ'd star Hung in heaven for their monition, as, in sooth, such symbols are.
'Tis a Rosary of Islands in the Ocean's hollow palm - Sites of faith unchanged by storms, all unchanging in the calm, There the world-betray'd may hide them, and the weary heart find balm.
Wayward as a hill-stream chafing in a sad fir-forest glen, Lived the silent student Eman, among Arran's holy men, Sighing still for far Hy-Brasil - sight of fear to human ken.
Born a chieftain, and predestined by his sponsors for a sage, Eman Oge (young Edward) had tracked the sages over many an ancient page, Drained their old scholastic vials, nor did these his thirst assuage.
Thinking thenceforth, and deploring, sat he nightly on the strand, Ever watching, ever sighing, for the fabled fairy land; For this earth, he held it hateful, and its sons a soulless band.
'Twas midsummer midnight, silence on the isles and ocean lay, Fleets of sea-birds rode at anchor, on the waveless moonbright bay, To the moon, across the waters, stretched a shining silver way.
When - oh, Christa! - in the offing like a ship upon the sight, Loomed a land dazzling verdue, crossed with streams that flashed like light, Under emerald groves whose lustre glorified the solemn night.
As the hunter dashes on ward when the missing prey he spies, As to a gracious mistress the forgiven lover flies, So across the sleeping ocean Eman in his currach hies.
Nay, he never noted any of the Holy Island's signs, Saint Mac Duach's tall Cathedral, or Saint Brecan's ivied shrines, Or the old Cyclopean dwellings - for a rarer scene he pines.
Now he nears it - now he touches the gold-glittering precious sand - Lir of Ocean is no miser when such treasures slip his hand - But whence come these antique galleys crowding the deserted strand?
Tyrian galleys with white benches, sails of purple, prows of gold, Triremes such as carried Caesar to the British coast of old - Serpents that had borne Vikings southward on adventures bold.
Gondolas with glorious jewels sparkling on their necks of pride - Bucentaurs that brought the Doges to their Adriatic bride - Frisian Hulk and Spanish Pinnace lay reposing side by side.
Carracks, currachs, all the vessels that the ocean yet had borne, By no envious foemen captured, by no tempests toss'd or torn, Lay upon that stormless sea-beach all untarnish'd and unworn.
But within them, or beside them, crew or captain, saw he none: "Have mankind for ever languish'd for the land I now have won?" So sain Eman, as he landed, by his Angel tempted on.
Where it led him - what befel him - what he suffer'd - who shall say? One long year was pass'd and over - a long year and summer's day; Morning found him pallid, pulseless, stretch'd upon the island bay.
Dead he lay - his brow was calcined like a green leaf scorch'd in June, Hollow was his cheek, and haggard, gone his beaming smile and bloom - Dead he lay, as if his spirit had already faced its doom.
Who shall wake him? Who shall care him? Wayward Eman, stark and still, Who will nerve anew his footsteps to ascend life's craggy hill? Who will ease his anguish'd bosom? Who restore him Thought and Will?
Hark! how softly tolls the matin from the top of holy tower, How it moves the stark man! Lo you! hath a sound such magic power? Lo you! lo you! up he rises, waked and saved! ah, blessed hour!
Now he feels his brow - now gazes on that shore, and sky, and sea - Now upon himself, and, lo you, now he bends to earth his knee; God and angels hear him praying on the sea-shore fervently.
THE GOBBAN SAER BY T.D. M'GEE.
[In Petrie's "Round Towers," there is a short account of "the Goggan Saer" - their builder. He is there supposed to have lived in the first Christian age of Ireland - the 6th century, but his birth, life, and death, are involved in great obsecurity and many legends. He is perhaps, after Finn and St. Patrick, the most popular personage in the ancient period of Irish history.]
He stept a man out on the ways of men, And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name - Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen, From some source unexplor'd, the Master came; Gossips there were, who, wondrous keen of ken, Surmis'd that he should be a child of shame! Others, declared him of the Druids - then, Through Patrick's labours fallen from power and fame.
He lived apart wrapt up in many plans - He woo'd not women, tasted not of wine - He shunn'd the sports and councils of the clans - Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine. His orisons were old poetic ranns, Which the new Ollaves deem'd an evil sign; To most he seem'd one of those Pagan Khans, Whose mystic vigour knows no cold decline.
He was the builder of the wondrous Towers, Which tall, and straight, and exquisitely round, Rise monumental round the isle once ours; Index-like, marking spots of holy ground - In gloaming glens, in lowland bowers - On rivers' banks, these Cloiteachs old abound: Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hours, And Science flutters like a bird spell-bound!
Lo! wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire, Heroes and holy men repose below - The bones of some glean'd from the Pagan pyre, Others in armour lie, as for a foe: It was the mighty Master's life-desire, To chronicle his great ancestors, so; What holier duty, what achievement higher Remains to us, than this he thus doth show?
Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death: His labours done, no man beheld him more - 'Twas thought his body faded like a breath - Or like a sea-mist, floated off Life's shore Doubt overhangs his fate, and faith, and birth, His works alone attest his life, and lore - They are the only witness he hath - All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er.
Men call'd him Gobban Saer, and many a tale Yet lingers in the bye-ways of the land, Of how he cleft the rock, and down the vale Led the bright river, child-like, in his hand: Of how on giant ships he spread great sail, And many marvels else by him first plann'd - But though these legends fade - in Innisfail His name and Towers for centuries shall stand.
AILEEN THE HUNTRESS. BY EDWARD WALSH
[The incident related in the following ballad happened about the year 1731. Aileen, or Ellen, was daughter of M'Cartie of Clidane, an estate originally bestowed upon this respectable branch of the family M'Cartie More, by James the seventh earl of Desmond, and which, passing safe through the confiscations of Elizabeth, Cromwell, and William, remained in their possession until the beginning of the present century [19th]. Aileen, who is celebrated in the traditions of the people for her love of hunting, was the wife of James O'Connor, of Cluain-Tairbh, grandson of David, the founder of the Siol-t Da, a well-known sept at this day in Kerry. This David was grandson to Thomas MacTeige O'Connor, of Ahalahanna, head of the second house of O'Connor Kerry, who, forfeiting in 1666, escaped destruction by taking shelter among his relations, the Nagles of Monanimy.] More details following the ballad.
Fair Aileen M'Cartie, O'Connor's young bride, Forsakes her chaste pillow with matronly pride, And calls forth her maidens (their number was nine) To the bawn of her mansion, a-milking the kine. They came at her bidding, in kirtle and gown, And braided hair, jetty, and golden, and brown, And form loke the palm-tree, and step like the fawn, And bloom like the wild rose that circled the bawn.
As the Guebre's round tower o'er the fane of Ardfert - As the white hind of Brandon by young roes begirt - As the moon in her glory 'mid bright stars outhung - Stood Aileen M'Cartie her maidens among. Beneath the rich kerchief, which matrons may wear, Strayed ringletted tresses of beautiful hair; They wav'd on her fair neck, as darkly as though "Twere the raven's wing shining o'er Mangerton's snow!
A circlet of pearls o'er her white bosom lay, Erst worn by thy proud Queen, O'Connor the gay, And now to the beautiful Aileen come down, The rarest that ever shed light in the Laune. The many-fringed falluinn that floated behind, Gave its hues to the sun-light, its folds to the wind - The brooch that refrain'd it, some forefather bold Had torn from a sea-king in battle-field old!
Around her went bounding two wolf-dogs of speed, So tall in their stature, so pure in their breed; While the maidens awake to the new-milk's soft fall, A song of O'Connor in Carraig's proud hall. As the milk came outpouring, and the song came outsung, O'er the wall 'mid the maidens a red-deer outsprung, Then cheer'd the fair lady - then rush'd the mad hound - And away with the wild stag in air-lifted bound!
The gem-fastened fulluinn is dash'd on the bawn - One spring o'er the tall fence - and Aileen is gone! But morning's rous'd echoes to the deep dells proclaim The course of that wild stag, the dogs, and the dame! By Cluain Tairbh's green border, o'er moorland and height, The red-deer shapes downward the rush of his flight - In sunlight his antlers all-gloriously flash, And onward the wolf-dogs and fair huntress dash!
By Sliabh-Mis now winding, (rare hunting I ween!) He gains the dark valley of Scota the queen Who found in its bosom a cairn-lifted grave, When Sliabh-Mis first flow'd with the blood of the brave! By Coill-Cuaigh's green shelter, the hollow rocks ring - Coill-Cuaigh, of the cuckoo's first song in the spring, Coill-Cuaigh of the tall oak and gale-scenting spray - GOD's curse on the tyrants that wrought thy decay!
Now Maing's lovely border is gloriously won, Now the towers of the island gleam bright in the sun, And now Ceall-an Amanach's portals are pass'd, Where headless the Desmond found refuge at last! By Ard-na greach mountain, and Avonmore's head, To the Earl's proud pavilion the panting deer fled - Where Desmond's tall clansmen spread banners of pride, And rush'd to the battle, and gloriously died!
The huntress is coming, slow, breathless, and pale, Her raven locks streaming all wild in the gale; She stops - and the breezes bring balm to her brow - But wolf-dog and wild deer, oh! where are they now? On Reidhlan-Tigh-an-Earla, by Avonmore's well, His bounding heart broken, the hunted deer fell, Ando'er him the brave hounds all gallantly died, In death still victorious - their fangs in his side.
'Tis evening - the breezes beat cold on her breast, And Aileen must seek her far home in the west; Yet weeping, she lingers where the mist-wreathes are chill, O'er the red-deer and tall dogs that lie on the hill! Whose harp at the banquet told distant and wide, This feat of fair Aileen, O'Connor's young bride? O'Daly's - whose guerdon tradition hath told, Was a purple-crown'd wine-cup of beautiful gold!
[1.) O'Connor, surnamed "Sugach," or the Gay, was a celebrated chief of this race, who flourished in the fifteenth century., 2.) The river Laune flows from the Lakes of Killarney, and the celebrated Kerry Pearls are found in its waters., 3.) Falluinn - the Irish mantle., 4.) The first battle fought between the Milesians and the Tuatha de Danans for the empire of Ireland was at Sliabh-Mis, in Kerry, in which Scota, an Egyptian princess, and the relict of Milesius, was slain. A valley on the north side of Sliabh-Mis, called Glean Scoithin, or the vale of the Scots, is said to be the place of her interment. The ancient chronicles assert that this battle was fought 1300 years before the Christian era. [approximately 900 to 1000 years before Jesus was born.], 5.) Coill-Cuaigh, - the Wood of the Cuckoo, so called from being the favourite haunt of the bird of summer, is now a bleak desolate moor. The axe of the stranger laid its honours low., 6.) "Castle Island" or the "island of Kerry," - the stronghold of the Fitzgeralds., 7..) It was in this churchyard that the headless remains of the unfortunate Gerald, the 16th Earl of Desmond, were privately interred. The head was carefully pickled, and sent over to the English queen, who had it fixed on London-bridge. This mighty chieftan possessed more than 570,000 acres of land, and had a train of 500 gentlemen of his own name and race. At the source of the Blackwater, where he sought refuge from his inexorable foes, is a mountain called "Reidhlan-Tigh-an-Earla," or "The Plain of the Earl's House." He was slain near Castle Island on 11th November 1583., 7.) Ard-na greach, - the height of the spoils or armies.
THE IRISH WIFE. BY T.D. M'GEE.
[In 1376 the statute of Kilkenny forbade the English settlers in Ireland to intermarry with the old Irish, under penalty of outlawry. James Earl of Desmond, and Almaric, Baron Grace, were the first to violate this law. One married an O'Meagher; the other a M'Cormack. Earl Desmond, who was an accomplished poet, may have made a defence like the following for his marriage.]
I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land - I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand. For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life - An outlaw - so I'm near her To love till death my Irish wife.
Oh, what would be this home of mine - A ruined, hermit-haunted place, But for the light that nightly shines, Upon its walls from Kathleen's face? What comfort in a mine of gold - What pleasure in a royal life, If the heart within lay dead and cold, If I could not wad my Irish wife?
I knew the law forbade the banns - I knew my King abhorred her race - Who never bent before their clans, Must bow before their ladies grace. Take all my forfeited domain, I cannot wage with kinsmen strife - Take knightly gear and noble name, And I will keep my Irish wife.
My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, My heaven by day, my stars by night - And twinlike truth and fondness lie Within her swelling bosom white. My Irish wife has golden hair - Apollo's harp had once such strings - Apollo's self might pause to hear Her bird-like carol when she sings.
I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land - I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand. For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life - In death I would be near her, And rise beside my Irish wife!
BRIGHIDIN BAN MO STORE. BY EDWARD WALSH
[Brighidin ban mo stor is in English fair young bride, or Bridget my treasure. The proper sound of this phrase is not easily found by the mere English-speaking Irish. It is as if written - "Bree-dheen-bawn-mu-sthore." The proper name Brighit, signifies a fiery dart, and was the name of the goddess of poetry in the Pagan days of Ireland.]
I am a wand'ring minstrel man, And Love my only theme, I've stray'd beside the pleasant Bann, And eke the Shannon's stream; I've pip'd and play'd to wife and maid By Barrow, Suir, and Nore, But never met a maiden yet Like Brighidin Ban Mo Store.
My girl hath ringlets rich and rare, By Nature's fingers wove - Loch-Carra's swan is not so fair As her breast of love; And when she moves, in Sunday sheen, Beyond our cottage door, I'd scorn the high-born Saxon queen For Brighidin Ban Mo Store.
It is not that thy smile is sweet, And soft thy voice of song - It is not that thou fleest to meet My comings lone and long; But that doth rest beneath thy breast, A heart of purest core, Whose pulse is known to me alone, My Brighidin Ban Mo Store!
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