Narrative Poems, part 3, Barclay of Ury etc | Page 4

longing to be free,

Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer
"Lord, ope their eyes, that
they may see!"
1849.
KATHLEEN.
This ballad was originally published in my prose work, Leaves from
Margaret Smith's Journal, as the song of a wandering Milesian
schoolmaster. In the seventeenth century, slavery in the New World
was by no means confined to the natives of Africa. Political offenders
and criminals were transported by the British government to the
plantations of Barbadoes and Virginia, where they were sold like cattle
in the market. Kidnapping of free and innocent white persons was
practised to a considerable extent in the seaports of the United

Kingdom.
O NORAH, lay your basket down,
And rest your weary hand,
And
come and hear me sing a song
Of our old Ireland.
There was a lord of Galaway,
A mighty lord was he;
And he did
wed a second wife,
A maid of low degree.
But he was old, and she was young,
And so, in evil spite,
She baked
the black bread for his kin,
And fed her own with white.
She whipped the maids and starved the kern,
And drove away the
poor;
"Ah, woe is me!" the old lord said,
"I rue my bargain sore!"
This lord he had a daughter fair,
Beloved of old and young,
And
nightly round the shealing-fires
Of her the gleeman sung.
"As sweet and good is young Kathleen
As Eve before her fall;"
So
sang the harper at the fair,
So harped he in the hall.
"Oh, come to me, my daughter dear!
Come sit upon my knee,
For
looking in your face, Kathleen,
Your mother's own I see!"
He smoothed and smoothed her hair away,
He kissed her forehead
fair;
"It is my darling Mary's brow,
It is my darling's hair!"
Oh, then spake up the angry dame,
"Get up, get up," quoth she,
"I'll
sell ye over Ireland,
I'll sell ye o'er the sea!"
She clipped her glossy hair away,
That none her rank might know;

She took away her gown of silk,
And gave her one of tow,
And sent her down to Limerick town
And to a seaman sold
This
daughter of an Irish lord
For ten good pounds in gold.
The lord he smote upon his breast,
And tore his beard so gray;
But

he was old, and she was young,
And so she had her way.
Sure that same night the Banshee howled
To fright the evil dame,

And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen,
With funeral torches came.
She watched them glancing through the trees,
And glimmering down
the hill;
They crept before the dead-vault door,
And there they all
stood still!
"Get up, old man! the wake-lights shine!"
"Ye murthering witch,"
quoth he,
"So I'm rid of your tongue, I little care
If they shine for
you or me."
"Oh, whoso brings my daughter back,
My gold and land shall have!"

Oh, then spake up his handsome page,
"No gold nor land I crave!
"But give to me your daughter dear,
Give sweet Kathleen to me,
Be
she on sea or be she on land,
I'll bring her back to thee."
"My daughter is a lady born,
And you of low degree,
But she shall
be your bride the day
You bring her back to me."
He sailed east, he sailed west,
And far and long sailed he,
Until he
came to Boston town,
Across the great salt sea.
"Oh, have ye seen the young Kathleen,
The flower of Ireland?
Ye'll
know her by her eyes so blue,
And by her snow-white hand!"
Out spake an ancient man, "I know
The maiden whom ye mean;
I
bought her of a Limerick man,
And she is called Kathleen.
"No skill hath she in household work,
Her hands are soft and white,

Yet well by loving looks and ways
She doth her cost requite."
So up they walked through Boston town,
And met a maiden fair,
A
little basket on her arm
So snowy-white and bare.

"Come hither, child, and say hast thou
This young man ever seen?"

They wept within each other's arms,
The page and young Kathleen.
"Oh give to me this darling child,
And take my purse of gold."

"Nay, not by me," her master said,
"Shall sweet Kathleen be sold.
"We loved her in the place of one
The Lord hath early ta'en;
But,
since her heart's in Ireland,
We give her back again!"
Oh, for that same the saints in heaven
For his poor soul shall pray,

And Mary Mother wash with tears
His heresies away.
Sure now they dwell in Ireland;
As you go up Claremore
Ye'll see
their castle looking down
The pleasant Galway shore.
And the old lord's wife is dead and gone,
And a happy man is he,

For he sits beside his own Kathleen,
With her darling on his knee.

1849.
THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE
Pennant, in his Voyage to the Hebrides, describes the holy well of Loch
Maree, the waters of which were supposed to effect a miraculous cure
of melancholy, trouble, and insanity.
CALM on the breast of Loch Maree
A little isle reposes;
A shadow
woven of the oak
And willow o'er it closes.
Within, a Druid's mound is seen,
Set round with stony warders;
A
fountain, gushing through the turf,
Flows o'er its grassy borders.
And whoso bathes therein his brow,
With care or