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The Mountainy Singer
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Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,
Laid like a queen on her purple car,
Carried you back ’twixt the night and the day;
Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,
Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,
Lit at the wheel of the southern star;
Gave you that look so far away,
Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?
Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,
Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
TO THE GOLDEN EAGLE
Wanderer of the mountain,
Winger of the blue,
From this stormy rock
I send my love to you.
Take me for your lover,
Dark and fierce and true —
Wanderer of the mountain,
Winger of the blue!
A PROPHECY
“The loins of the Galldacht
Shall wither like grass” —
Strange words I heard said
At the Fair of Dun-eas.
“A bard shall be born
Of the seed of the folk,
To break with his singing
The bond and the yoke.
“A sword, white as ashes,
Shall fall from the sky,
To rise, red as blood,
On the charge and the cry.
“Stark pipers shall blow,
Stout drummers shall beat,
And the shout of the north
Shall be heard in the street.
“The strong shall go down,
And the weak shall prevail,
And a glory shall sit
On the sign of the Gaodhal.
“Then Emer shall come
In good time by her own,
And a man of the people
Shall speak from the throne.”
Strange words I heard said
At the Fair of Dun-eas —
“The Gaodhaldacht shall live,
The Galldacht shall pass!”
I MET A WALKING-MAN
I met a walking-man;
His head was old and grey.
I gave him what I had
To crutch him on his way.
The man was Mary’s Son, I’ll swear;
A glory trembled in his hair!
And since that blessed day
I’ve never known the pinch:
I plough a broad townland,
And dig a river-inch;
And on my hearth the fire is bright
For all that walk by day or night.
THE NINEPENNY FIDIL
My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too;
I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,
And it is Irish, too.
I’m up in the morning early
To meet the dawn of day,
And to the lintwhite’s piping
The many’s the tune I play.
One pleasant eve in June time
I met a lochrie-man:
His face and hands were weazen,
His height was not a span.
He boor’d me for my fidil —
“You know,” says he, “like you,
My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too!”
He took my wee red fidil,
And such a tune he turned —
The Glaise in it whispered,
The Lionan in it m’urned.
Laid like a queen on her purple car,
Carried you back ’twixt the night and the day;
Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,
Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,
Lit at the wheel of the southern star;
Gave you that look so far away,
Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?
Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,
Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
TO THE GOLDEN EAGLE
Wanderer of the mountain,
Winger of the blue,
From this stormy rock
I send my love to you.
Take me for your lover,
Dark and fierce and true —
Wanderer of the mountain,
Winger of the blue!
A PROPHECY
“The loins of the Galldacht
Shall wither like grass” —
Strange words I heard said
At the Fair of Dun-eas.
“A bard shall be born
Of the seed of the folk,
To break with his singing
The bond and the yoke.
“A sword, white as ashes,
Shall fall from the sky,
To rise, red as blood,
On the charge and the cry.
“Stark pipers shall blow,
Stout drummers shall beat,
And the shout of the north
Shall be heard in the street.
“The strong shall go down,
And the weak shall prevail,
And a glory shall sit
On the sign of the Gaodhal.
“Then Emer shall come
In good time by her own,
And a man of the people
Shall speak from the throne.”
Strange words I heard said
At the Fair of Dun-eas —
“The Gaodhaldacht shall live,
The Galldacht shall pass!”
I MET A WALKING-MAN
I met a walking-man;
His head was old and grey.
I gave him what I had
To crutch him on his way.
The man was Mary’s Son, I’ll swear;
A glory trembled in his hair!
And since that blessed day
I’ve never known the pinch:
I plough a broad townland,
And dig a river-inch;
And on my hearth the fire is bright
For all that walk by day or night.
THE NINEPENNY FIDIL
My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too;
I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,
And it is Irish, too.
I’m up in the morning early
To meet the dawn of day,
And to the lintwhite’s piping
The many’s the tune I play.
One pleasant eve in June time
I met a lochrie-man:
His face and hands were weazen,
His height was not a span.
He boor’d me for my fidil —
“You know,” says he, “like you,
My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too!”
He took my wee red fidil,
And such a tune he turned —
The Glaise in it whispered,
The Lionan in it m’urned.
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Последний отзыв
Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
Далее