Quote:

"the whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are so sure, and wise people always have doubts."

B. Russell

Note:

Yes. It is our birthdays.

Thank you for all the telegrams and letters of congratulation. We shall have a rollicking good evening. Thank you and yours once again.

Dugal, The Queen's Own Irregulars, The Imperious Zouaves, The Fearsome Fencibles, Minders and Watchers.

Brennan On The Moor

'Tis of a brave young highwayman
This story I will tell
His name was Willie Brennan
And in Ireland he did dwell
It was on the Kilwood Mountain
He commenced his wild career
And many a wealthy nobleman
Before him shook with fear

Chorus:
It was Brennan on the moor
Brennan on the moor
Bold, brave and undaunted
Was young Brennan on the moor

One day upon the highway
As young Willie he went down
He met the mayor of Cashiell
A mile outside of town
The mayor he knew his features
And he said, Young man, said he
Your name is Willie Brennan
You must come along with me

Now Brennan's wife had gone to town
Provisions for to buy
And when she saw her Willie
She commenced to weep and cry
Said, Hand to me that tenpenny
As soon as Willie spoke
She handed him a blunderbuss
From underneath her cloak

Now with this loaded blunderbuss
The truth I will unfold
He made the mayor to tremble
And he robbed him of his gold
One hundred pounds was offered
For his apprehension there
So he, with horse and saddle
To the mountains did repair

Now Brennan being an outlaw
Upon the mountains high
With cavalry and infantry
To take him they did try
He laughed at them with scorn
Until at last 'twas said
By a false-hearted woman
He was cruelly betrayed.

Clare's Dragoons

When, on Ramillies' bloody field,
The baffled French were forced to yield,
The victor Saxon backward reeled
Before the charge of Clare's dragoons.
The flags we conquered in that fray,
Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say,
We'll win them company today,
Or bravely die like CIare's dragoons.

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!
Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed and sabre bright!

Another Clare is here to lead,
The worthy son of such a breed
The French expect some famous deed,
When Clare leads on his bold dragoons.
Our colonel comes from Brian's race,
His wounds are in his breast and face,
The bearna baoghil is still his place,
The foremost of his bold dragoon,

Viva la, the new brigade!
Viva la, the old one too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade
And the shamrock shine forever new!

Oh! comrades, think how Ireland pines,
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,
Her dearest hope, the ordered lines,
And bursting charge of Clare's dragoons.
Then fling your green flag to the sky,
Be "Limerick!" your battle-cry,,
And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high
Around the track of Clare's dragoons.

Viva la, the new brigade!
Viva la, the old one too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade
And the shamrock shine forever new!

Jack Duggan


    Come along my hearties,
    We'll roam the mountains high,
    Together we will plunder,
    Together we will ride.
    We'll scar over valleys,
    And gallop for the plains,
    And scorn to live in
    slavery, bound down by iron chains.

    It's of a wild Colonial Boy,
    Jack Doolan was his name,
    Of poor but honest parents,
    He was born in Castlemaine.
    He was his father's only son,
    His mother's pride and joy,
    And so dearly did his parents love
    The wild Colonial Boy.

    When scarcely sixteen years of age,
    He left his father's home,
    And through Australia's sunny shores
    A bushranger did roam.
    He'd rob the largest squatters,
    Their stock he would destroy,
    A terror to Australia was
    The wild Colonial Boy.

    In sixty-one this daring youth
    Commenced his wild career,
    With a heart that knew no danger,
    No stranger did he fear.
    He bailed up the Beechworth roll mail-coach,
    And robbed Judge MacEvoy,
    Who trembled and gave up his gold to
    The wild Colonial Boy.

    He bade the judge "Good morning,"
    And told him to beware,
    That he'd never rob a poor man
    Who wafted on the square,
    Three mounted troopers came in sight,
    Kelly, Davis and Fitzroy,
    Who thought that they would capture him,
    The wild Colonial Boy.

    "Surrender now, Jack Doolan,
    You see we're three to one.
    Surrender in the queen's high name,
    You daring highwayman."
    Jack drew a pistol from his belt,
    And waved it like a toy,
    "I'll fight, but not surrender,"
    Cried the wild Colonial Boy.

    He fired at Trooper Kelly,
    And brought him to the ground,
    And in return from Davis,
    He received a mortal wound.
    All shattered through the jaws he lay,
    Still firing at Fitzroy,
    And that's the way they captured him –
    The wild Colonial Boy.

Quote:

When the flag is unfurled, all reason is in the trumpet.
 

Ukrainian proverb

For My Friend Mister Emmet T.

Bold Robert Emmet

   The struggle is over, the boys are defeated,
   Old Ireland's surrounded with sadness and gloom,
   We were defeated and shamefuIIy treated,
   And I, Robert Emmet, awaiting my doom.

   Hung, drawn and quartered, sure that was my sentence,
   But soon I will show them no coward am I.
   My crime is the love of the land I was born in,
   A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.

   (Chorus)
   Bold Robert Emmet, the darling of Ireland,
   Bold Robert Emmet will die with a smile,
   Farewell companions both loyal and daring,
   I'll lay down my life for the Emerald Isle.

   The barque lay at anchor awaiting to bring me
   Over the billows to the land of the free;
   But I must see my sweetheart for I know she will cheer me,
   And with her I will sail far over the sea.


   But I was arrested and cast into prison,
   Tried as a traitor, a rebel, a spy;
   But no man can call me a knave or a coward,
   A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.

   Hark! I the bell's tolling, I well know its meaning,
   My poor heart tells me it is my death knell;
   In come the clergy, the warder is leading,
   I have no friends here to bid me farewell.
   Goodbye, old Ireland, my parents and sweetheart,
   Companions in arms to forget you must try;
   I am proud of the honour, it was only my duty-
   A hero I lived and a hero I'll die.

The Irish Guards

WE'RE not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so young at our trade.
For we had the honour at Fontenoy
Of meeting the Guards' Brigade.
'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,
And Lee that led us then,
And after a hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,
And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

The fashion's all for khaki now,
But once through France we went
Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,
The English - left at Ghent.
They're fighting on our side today
But, before they changed their clothes,
The half of Europe knew our fame,
As all of Ireland knows!
Old Days! The wild geese are flying,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's memory undying.
And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,
From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,
The ancient days come back no more
Than water under the bridge.
But the bridge it stands and the water runs
As red as yesterday,
And the Irish move to the sound of the guns
Like salmon to the sea.
Old Days! The wild geese are ranging .
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,
And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

We're not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so new in the ring,
For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe
When Louis was our King.
But Douglas Haig's our Marshal now
And we're King George's men,
And after one hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Ah, France! And did we stand by you,
When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?
Ah, France! And will we deny you
In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting,
And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

The Wild Ride


I HEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses,   
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses,   
All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and neighing.   
 
Let cowards and laggards fall back! But alert to the saddle   
Weatherworn and abreast, go men of our galloping legion,            
With a stirrup-cup each to the lily of women that loves him.   
 
The trail is through dolor and dread, over crags and morasses;   
There are shapes by the way, there are things that appal or entice us:   
What odds? We are Knights of the Grail, we are vowed to the riding.   
 
Thought's self is a vanishing wing, and joy is a cobweb,     
And friendship a flower in the dust, and glory a sunbeam:   
Not here is our prize, nor, alas! after these our pursuing.   
 
A dipping of plumes, a tear, a shake of the bridle,   
A passing salute to this world and her pitiful beauty;   
We hurry with never a word in the track of our fathers.     
 
I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses,   
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses,   
All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and neighing.   
 
We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm-wind;   
We leap to the infinite dark like sparks from the anvil.     
Thou leadest, O God! All's well with Thy troopers that follow.   


 Louise Imogen Guiney

The House of Orange

I took back my hand and I showed him the door
No dollar of mine would I part with this day
For fueling the engines of bloody cruel war
In my forefather's land far away.
Who fled the first Famine wearing all that they owned,
Were called 'Navigators', all ragged and torn,
And built the Grand Trunk here, and found a new home
Wherever their children were born.

Their sons have no politics. None call recall
Allegiance from long generations before.
O'this or O'that name just can't mean a thing
Or be cause enough for to war.
And meanwhile my babies are safe in their home,
Unlike their pale cousins who shiver and cry
While kneecappers nail their poor Dads to the floor
And teach them to hate and to die.

It's those cruel beggars who spurn the fair coin.
The peace for their kids they could take at their will.
Since the day old King Billy prevailed at the Boyne,
They've bombed and they've slain and they've killed.
Now they cry out for money and wail at the door
But Home Rule or Republic, 'tis all of it shame;
And a curse for us here who want nothing of war.
We're kindred in nothing but name.

All rights and all wrongs have long since blown away,
For causes are ashes where children lie slain.
Yet the damned U.D.I and the cruel I.R.A.
Will tomorrow go murdering again.
But no penny of mine will I add to the fray.
"Remember the Boyne!" they will cry out in vain,
For I've given my heart to the place I was born
And forgiven the whole House of Orange
King Billy and the whole House of Orange.

Stan Rogers.

The Harp that Once Through Tara’s Halls
 
THE HARP that once through Tara’s halls   
  The soul of music shed,   
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls   
  As if that soul were fled.   
So sleeps the pride of former days,           
  So glory’s thrill is o’er,   
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,   
  Now feel that pulse no more.   

No more to chiefs and ladies bright   
  The harp of Tara swells:           
The chord alone, that breaks at night,   
  Its tale of ruin tells.   
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,   
  The only throb she gives,   
Is when some heart indignant breaks,           
  To show that still she lives.

Thomas Moore

Deirdre's Lamentation

The lions of the hills are gone,
And I am left alone--alone.
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
For I am sick, and fain would sleep.

The falcons of the wood are flown,
And I am left alone--alone.
Dig the grave both deep and wide,
And let us slumber side by side.

The dragons of the rock are sleeping,
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping.
Dig the grave, and make it ready,
Lay me on my true love's body.

Lay their spears and bucklers bright
By the warriors' sides aright.
Many a day the three before me
On their linked bucklers bore me.

Lay the collars, as is meet,
Of their greyhounds at their feet.
Many a time for me have they
Brought the tall red deer to bay.

In the falcon's jesses throw,
Hook and arrow, line and bow.
Never again by stream or plain
Shall the gentle woodsmen go.

Sweet companions, were ye ever
Harsh to me your sister, never.
Woods and wilds, an misty valleys
Were with you as good's a palace.

Oh! To hear my true love singing,
Sweet as sounds of trumpets' ringing.
Like the sway of ocean swelling
Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.

Oh! To hear the echoes pealing,
Round our green and fairy sheeling,
When the three with soaring chorus
Made the skylark silent o'er us!

Echo, now, sleep morn and even.
Lark, alone, enchant the heaven.
Ardan's lips are scant of breath,
Naisi's tongue is cold in death.

Stag, exult on glen and mountain.
Salmon, leap from loch to fountain.
Heron, in the free air warm ye,
Usnach's sons no more will harm ye.

Erin's stay, no more ye are
Rulers of the ridge of war.
Never more 'twill be your fate
To keep the beam of battle straight.

Woe is me! By fraud and wrong,
Traitors false, and tyrants strong,
Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold
For Barach's feast and Conor's gold.

Woe to Eman, roof and wall!
Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!
Tenfold woe and black dishonour
To the foul and false Clan Conor.

Dig the grave both wide and deep,
Sick I am, and fain would sleep!
Dig the grave, and make it ready,
Lay me on my true love's body.

FAIRY QUEENS OF IRELAND

There are many great fairy queens that are remembered in Irish folk tales. They are known as 'bean righean na brugh', the fairy queen of the palace, and are quite clearly the tutelary goddesses of local tribes. Many are still said to be the guardians of certain Irish clans.

Three miles south west of Lough Gur is Cnoc Aine, or Knockainy, the hill of Aine, one of the most important fairy queens of Munster. Also on the shores of the lake is Cnoc Finnine, of the goddess Fennel, the sister of Aine.

Many of the sidhe folk have encounters or relationships with mortals. The Earl of Desmond once saw Aine combing her hair on the bank of a river. He fell in love with her and seizing her cloak made her his wife. The offspring of this union was Aine's enchanted son Geroid Iarla, who lives under the lake awaiting his return to the world of men. Once every seven years he emerges from the water as a phantom riding on a white horse.

Aine is revered throughout Ireland. In Co. Derry locals say she was a mortal woman who was 'taken' by the fairies; the local family O'Corra are said to be descended from Aine. In Co. Louth Aine's stronghold is at Dunany point (Dun Aine). Every year three days are dedicated to her, the first Friday, Saturday and Sunday after Lammas; it was said that she would claim a life on those days.

It is at Cnoc Aine in Co. Limerick where Aine is most well remembered as a great queen. Every year on St. John's Eve (24 June) local people would form a procession around the hill, then carry flaming torches through the fields of ripening crops. Aine herself was seen on many occasions leading the procession.

The fairy queen of the north of Munster is Aoibheal; she is the ancestral deity of the O'Briens, (the descendants of Brian Boru) who rules from Craig Liath (grey rock) in Co. Clare. At the great battle of Clontarf, Aoibheal had fore-knowledge of the outcome and tried to warn her people. Aoibheal is revered in many of the 'Aislings', the vision poems of the eighteenth century concerning the future freedom of Ireland.

Cliodna is loved and cherished by the people of Co. Cork, where a number of place names are associated with her. She is the guardian goddess of the O'Keefes, and said to be the eldest daughter of the last Druid of Ireland. One of the three great waves mentioned in Irish mythology is Tonn Cliodna, the wave of Cliodna, off the coast at Glandore, Co. Cork. A legend tells of Ciabhan of the Curling Locks who took Cliodna out of the lands of Manannan and brought her to the shores of Ireland in his curragh. He left Cliodna alone on the shore while he went off to hunt deer; while he was gone Manannan sent a huge wave over the strand and Cliodna was drowned.

In the north east of Leinster the fairy queen Grian of the Bright Cheeks has her abode on Cnoc Greine. The sidhe mound of her father was attacked once by the five sons of Conall. Grian pursued them and in revenge she transformed them into badgers. In the Irish sagas Grania eloped with Diarmaid, and all over Ireland there are cairns and cromlechs known locally as 'the bed of Diarmaid and Grania'. In Co. Tipperary, east of loch Derg, lies Knockshegouna, the fairy hill of Una. Una is the wife of the fairy king Finnbheara of Cnoc Meadha; she is a somewhat elusive figure, but nevertheless her sidhe dwelling was a very important place in former times, and she is still remembered by local people.


FAIRY KINGS OF IRELAND

The great fairy king of Co. Galway in the west of Ireland is Finnbheara (Finnvarr). Cnoc Meadha is his abode, a prominent hill west of Tuam, on top of which is a burial mound. To the north west is Magh Tuireadh, where the legendary battle between the Fir Bolgs and the Tuatha De Danaans took place. There are many stories which illustrate Finnbheara's liking for earthly women. He would often draw young girls away to dance all night with him in his palace, but the next morning they were always found safely asleep in bed. One particular nobleman was not so fortunate, however. His bride was taken one time by the fairy king. The bride's old nurse told the noble that he must dig down into the sidhe mound, starting at the top. But during the night the fairies of the mound filled the tunnel back in with earth. This happened again on the second night. In despair the nobleman turned to the old nurse again, who told him to sprinkle the earth with salt and place a line of burning turf around the trench, as the sidhe could not resist that. The following morning the bride was found safe in her bed.

Finnbheara is also known to love horses, and he is usually seen riding a black horse with flaring red nostrils. Some-times he would invite young men to ride with his fairy host.

In Co. Limerick the fairy king Donn of Knockfierna is well remembered. There is a large earthern fort on his hill and a number of dolmens known as the 'Giants Graves'. You can see the entrance to his fairy palace. Donn is the ancient Celtic god of the Dead who rules the rocky islands to the south west on the Atlantic coast. Donn is also known in Co. Fermanagh as the ancestor of the Maguires, whom he helped in their battles. Sometimes he is seen riding on a white horse on stormy nights, when people would exclaim: "Donn is galloping in the clouds tonight". Donn now more closely resembles a medieval Irish landlord than a god. He rules quite strictly but will aid his people when needed. He is also believed to fight against rival hosts in other counties, the winner carrying off the best potato crop for that year.

It will be noted that the fairy queens and kings are in fact the old pagan gods and goddesses 'in disguise' who have long been revered by the Irish. I once heard someone state that the Celtic gods of Ireland had long been wiped out, buried under the sway of Catholicism. Yet anyone who has been to the Emerald Isle, or listened to her many folk tales can see for themselves that this is very far from the reality. The old gods live on in folk tales as the giants of the hill; the Gobhan Saor who built all the bridges of Ireland; the Gille Decair, a clown and trickster; the carl (serf) of the drab coat and many others. The old deities were once worshipped throughout Ireland, however it is in the west that they are best remembered now, the east having been more Christianized and anglicised, and subject to more invasions. By contrast, the west of Ireland, to which the native Irish were driven ("to hell or Connaught") has held on longer to her ancient heritage.

Marked by Sidhe

I tried to capture you
In the forests of Donegal,
Your bark of hair, red, so dark,
Was smear, camouflage, and window
Into a lost Fae world made as I was sinking
Without ever knowing, falling, without fear
Years later, you have long left and I still
Breathe in a wooden box of dream.

The Hosting Of The Sidhe

The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.

William Butler Yeats

The Sidhe

When the moon is full
On a starless night
A lone Sidhe puts his lips to the horn
And he begins to blow

The music echoes through the fog
Each Sidhe picks up the song
The grey horses lift their ears
Answer the call, then begins to run across the bog

They ride in the wild hunt
Strange wild and free
The mist roils as they fly
Everyone douth flee

They ride through the forest dark
The ground is hard
They kill on a lark
Full of the battle lust

A fire burns inside their hearts
Driving others to pain
They destroy, they hurt
For nothing to gain

When the moon is full
On a starless night
A lone Sidhe puts his lips to the horn
And he begins to blow

The Legend of Tír na nÓg


Long ago, on an isle of emerald green, surrounded by a sea of azure blue, there lived a young man named Oisín.

Oisín liked to explore the moors with the Fianna the name of a band of ancient warrior-hunters and defenders of Ireland.

One day, when Oisín and the Fianna were out hunting, they saw an extraordinary sight. It was a beautiful young woman with long red hair, riding on a spirited white mare. The sun glistened off the maiden's hair, casting a magical golden light.

The mare's movements were so fluid that she appeared to float across the ground. As her rider brought her to a stop before the group, the horse's hooves struck at the field stones impatiently, sending small sparks into the air.

"My name is Niamh," the woman said, in a voice that sounded like the music of a harp. "My father is the king of Tír na nÓg."

Oisín stepped forward from the group of hunters to welcome the rider. As his eyes met Niamh's, they fell in love.

"Come with me to Tír na nÓg," Niamh pleaded to her new found love. After only a moment's hesitation, Oisín swung up behind Niamh onto the white horse.

Together, they crossed the sea to Tír na nÓg.

Having grown up on the Emerald Isle, Oisín would never have believed that a more beautiful land existed. But, as he gazed upon Tír na nÓg, he was stunned by the beauty around him.

In this magical land, Niamh and Oisín built a life together. They spent each day exploring Tír na nÓg with the white mare. Niamh and Oisín's love grew deeper as Niamh shared the beauty of her enchanted homeland.

300 years passed as though it were but a single day. No one in Tír na nÓg ever grew old or fell sick. They lived in endless, youthful moments filled with happiness.

In spite of the beauty of the land and the deep love that Niamh and Oisín shared for each other, a small part of Oisín's soul knew loneliness.

Such feelings were unheard of in Tír na nÓg but in spite of her efforts, Niamh was unable to ease Oisín's loneliness.

So, when Oisín came to Niamh and told her of his desire to return to Ireland to see his family and the Fianna again, she could not hold him back.

"All right," said Niamh. "Return to Ireland on the back of the white mare. But my dear, your foot must not touch the soil of Ireland!"

Immediately Oisín rode the white horse back across the sea to the land of his birth.

As soon as the mare's hooves touched Ireland's soil, Oisín realized how much the land had changed. Oisín's family and friends had long passed away. Their grand castle was over grown with ivy.

Oisín was so caught up in his quest to find his family and his grief at their loss, that he forgot to care for the beautiful white horse. In spite of her hunger and fatigue she continued to respond to her rider.

Finally, with a sad heart, Oisín turned the mare back toward the sea to return to Tír na nÓg.

Approaching the sea, he came upon a group of men working in a field. As the mare reached the group, her fatigue caused her to stumble. Her hoof hit a stone. Oisín bent down to pick up the rock, planning to take it to Tír na nÓg. He was sure that it would ease his sadness to carry a piece of Ireland back with him.

But as his hand grasped the stone, Oisín lost his balance and fell to the ground.

Within moments, Oisín aged 300 years.

Without her rider, the mare reared up and rushed into the ocean, returning to Tír na nÓg and her beloved Niamh.

When the men in the field witnessed this, they were amazed. Not only had they seen a young man age before their eyes, they had also seen a tired old plow horse transformed into a beautiful silver-white mare, who raced into the sea.

The men went to Oisín's aid and carried him to St. Patrick.

When Oisín met St. Patrick, he told Patrick of the his family and the Fianna, who had disappeared from Ireland almost 300 years before. Then he told St. Patrick of Niamh and the magical land of Tír na nÓg.

As Oisín ended his story, a great weariness swept over him and he closed his eyes in eternal slumber.

Even to this day, the fishermen and lighthouse keepers still tell of foggy nights when the moon is full, and they see a shimmering white horse dancing in the waves along the shores of Ireland. Some say that the red-haired maiden who rides the horse still searches for Oisín.

Approximate pronunciation guide
Fionn – Fyonn
Oisín – Ush-een
Eachtra – Acht-tra
Niamh Chinn Óir – Nee-ve keen ore
Fianna- fee-anna
Gleann na Smól - Glan nah Smole (valley of the thrushes)

For Our Miss Niamh

Niamh Chinn Oir - Queen of Tir Na Nog

Across the dewy morning hills of Eireann
Rode Niamh Chinn Oir on a snow-white steed
To Oisin fairy poet of the Fianna
For she fain would this mortal wed

Come with me to the fairy land of Tir Na Nog
For I have long loved you said she
And Oisin taken with her beauty
He bade farewell to his company

They rode through stormy regions far across the sea
To a land where time had ne'er its harvest reaped
And for an age there Oisin lived contented
Till longing for his comrades made him weep

I cannot help but read these sad dreams in your eyes
So you may return to your country
And take my blessing with this one command
Do not dismount from you fairy steed

But when at last he reached that misty island
So strange a sight did meet his puzzled frown
For Oisin rode as a giant among the people
And nowhere were the Fianna to be found

He learned from a gathering of workers
Together straining with a heavy load
That centuries before his friends had perished
Which painful tidings filled him with despair

As payment for the news that we have told you
Pray help us with this heavy stone to move
For if your strength should match your mighty stature
Scarce more than a touch enough should prove

But the saddle tore as Oisin leaned to help them
And sorely he upon the ground was thrown
He quickly turned into an aged man
And ne'er again set eyes on Tir Na Nog.

Leo O'Kelly

TÍR NA nÓG

Fadó fadó Éirinn, roimh theacht don nua-aois,
Bhí conaí ann ar an bhFiann,
Fionn 's a mhac Oisín
Is iomaí eachtra a bhain leo siúd,
Is iomaí casadh croí,
Ach ní dhéanfar dearmad ar an lá
A bhuail Oisín le Niamh.

Niamh Chinn Ór, as Tír na nÓg,
B'í an bhean ab áille gné a chas ar Oisín Óg
Mheall í é le breathacht,
Mheall sí é le póg,
Mheall sí é gan aon agó
Go Tír na nÓg
Bhí Oisín, lá brea gréine,
Ag siúl le ciumhais na habhann
' Measc blathanna buí, is luachra,
Taibhsíodh dó an tsamhail,
Spéirbhean ghléigeal álainn
A d'fhag croí an laoich sin fann,
Thug cuireadh dó go ír na nÓg
Go síoraí cónaí ann.

Tír álainn, tír na hóige,
Tír dhiamhair aislingí
Trí chéad bliain chaith Oisín ann
I ngrá mór le Niamh
Ach fonn nár fhág é choíche,
Is nach bhféadfadh sé a chloí,
Dul thar n-ais go hÉirinn,
Go bhfeichfeadh sé í arís.

"Ná fág an áit seo," arsa Niamh
"Ná himigh uaim, a chroí"
"Ma fhágann tusa Tír na nÓg,
Nó fhillfidh tú arís."
Ach d'fhill Oisín ar Éirinn,
Mar bhí fiabhras ina chroí
Is fuair sé bás ós comhair an Naoimh
B'shin deireadh lena thriall.
Tír na nÓg, ó Tír na nÓg,
Tír uasal na draíochta a bhí ann fadó,
Féach thiar ansin í
Thiar ar fhíor na spéire
San áit go mba mhaith liom bheith,
Sin Tír na nÓg.

Colm Mac Séalaigh