Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.

The Welshmen of Tirawley

Sir Samuel Ferguson (1810–1886)

SCORNEY BWEE, the Barretts’ bailiff, lewd and lame,

To lift the Lynott’s taxes when he came,

Rudely drew a young maid to him!

Then the Lynotts rose and slew him,

And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him—

Small your blame,

Sons of Lynott!

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Then the Barretts to the Lynotts gave a choice,

Saying, ‘Hear, ye murderous brood, men and boys,

Choose ye now, without delay,

Will ye lose your eyesight, say,

Or your manhoods, here to-day?

Sad your choice,

Sons of Lynott!

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, said,

‘Only leave us our eyesight in our head.’

But the bearded Lynotts then

Quickly answered back again,

‘Take our eyes, but leave us men,

Alive or dead,

Sons of Wattin!’

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

So the Barretts with sewing-needles sharp and smooth,

Let the light out of the eyes of every youth,

And of every bearded man,

Of the broken Lynott clan;

Then their darkened faces wan

Turning south

To the river—

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

O’er the slippery stepping-stones of Clochan-na-n’all

They drove them, laughing loud at every fall,

As their wandering footsteps dark

Fail’d to reach the slippery mark,

And the swift stream swallow’d stark,

One and all

As they stumbled—

From the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Of all the blinded Lynotts one alone

Walk’d erect from stepping-stone to stone:

So back again they brought you,

And a second time they wrought you

With their needles; but never got you

Once to groan,

Emon Lynott,

For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever,

Emon Lynott again cross’d the river.

Though Duvowen was rising fast,

And the shaking stones o’ercast

By cold floods boiling past;

Yet you never,

Emon Lynott,

Falter’d once before your foemen of Tirawley.

But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood,

And the Barretts thus bespoke o’er the flood—

‘O, ye foolish sons of Wattin,

Small amends are these you’ve gotten,

For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten,

I am good

For vengeance!’

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

‘For ’tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a man

Bears the fortunes of himself and his clan,

But in the manly mind,

These darken’d orbs behind,

That your needles could never find

Though they ran

Through my heart-strings!’

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

‘But, little your women’s needles do I reck;

For the night from heaven never fell so black,

But Tirawley, and abroad

From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod,

I could walk it every sod,

Path and track,

Ford and togher,

Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley!

‘The night when Dathy O’Dowda broke your camp,

What Barrett among you was it held the lamp—

Showed the way to those two feet,

When through wintry wind and sleet,

I guided your blind retreat

In the swamp

Of Beäl-an-asa?

O ye vengeance-destin’d ingrates of Tirawley!’

So leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard,

The Lynott like a red dog hunted hard,

With his wife and children seven,

’Mong the beasts and fowls of heaven

In the hollows of Glen Nephin,

Light-debarr’d,

Made his dwelling,

Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.

And ere the bright-orb’d year its course had run,

On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son,

A child of light, with eyes

As clear as are the skies

In summer, when sunrise

Has begun;

So the Lynott

Nursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.

And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size,

Made him perfect in each manly exercise,

The salmon in the flood,

The dun deer in the wood,

The eagle in the cloud

To surprise

On Ben Nephin,

Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.

With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow,

With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow,

He taught him from year to year

And train’d him, without a peer,

For a perfect cavalier,

Hoping so—

Far his forethought—

For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.

And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed,

Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed;

Like the ear upon the wheat

When winds in Autumn beat

On the bending stems, his seat;

And the speed

Of his courser

Was the wind from Barna-na-gee o’er Tirawley!

Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent,

(He perfected in all accomplishment)—

The Lynott said, ‘My child,

We are over long exiled

From mankind in this wild—

—Time we went

Through the mountain

To the countries lying over-against Tirawley.’

So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown,

And green steam-gathering vales, they journey’d down;

Till, shining like a star,

Through the dusky gleams afar,

The bailey of Castlebar,

And the town

Of MacWilliam

Rose bright before the wanderers of Tirawley.

‘Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go,

What see’st thou by the loch-head below?’

‘O, a stone-house strong and great,

And a horse-host at the gate,

And a captain in armour of plate—

Grand the show!

Great the glancing!

High the heroes of this land below Tirawley!

‘And a beautiful Bantierna by his side,

Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide;

And in her hand a pearl

Of a young, little, fair-hair’d girl.’

Said the Lynott, ‘It is the Earl!

Let us ride

To his presence.’

And before him came the exiles of Tirawley.

‘God save thee, MacWilliam,’ the Lynott thus began;

‘God save all here besides of this clan;

For gossips dear to me

Are all in company—

For in these four bones ye see

A kindly man

Of the Britons—

Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley.

‘And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows,

I come to claim a scion of thy house

To foster; for thy race,

Since William Conquer’s days,

Have ever been wont to place,

With some spouse

Of a Briton,

A MacWilliam Oge, to foster in Tirawley.

‘And, to show thee in what sort our youth are taught,

I have hither to thy home of valour brought

This one son of my age,

For a sample and a pledge

For the equal tutelage,

In right thought,

Word, and action,

Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley.’

When MacWilliam beheld the brave boy ride and run,

Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder spun—

With a sigh, and with a smile,

He said,—‘I would give the spoil

Of a county, that Tibbot Moyle,

My own son,

Were accomplish’d

Like this branch of the kindly Britons of Tirawley.’

When the Lady MacWilliam she heard him speak,

And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek,

She said, ‘I would give a purse

Of red gold to the nurse

That would rear my Tibbot no worse;

But I seek

Hitherto vainly—

Heaven grant that I now have found her in Tirawley!’

So they said to the Lynott, ‘Here, take our bird!

And as pledge for the keeping of thy word,

Let this scion here remain

Till thou comest back again:

Meanwhile the fitting train

Of a lord

Shall attend thee

With the lordly heir of Connaught into Tirawley.’

So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard,

Like a lord of the country with his guard,

Came the Lynott, before them all,

Once again over Clochan-na-n’all

Steady and striding, erect and tall,

And his ward

On his shoulders

To the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Then a diligent foster-father you would deem

The Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream,

To cast the spear, to ride,

To stem the rushing tide,

With what feats of body beside.

Might beseem

A MacWilliam,

Foster’d free among the Welshmen of Tirawley.

But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart and mind,

For to what desire soever he inclined,

Of anger, lust, or pride,

He had it gratified,

Till he ranged the circle wide

Of a blind

Self-indulgence,

Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley.

Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound,

Lynott loosed him—God’s leashes all unbound—

In the pride of power and station,

And the strength of youthful passion,

On the daughters of thy nation,

All around,

Wattin Barrett!

O! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley!

Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame,

Fill’d the houses of the Barretts where’er he came;

Till the young men of the Back,

Drew by night upon his track,

And slew him at Cornassack.

Small your blame,

Sons of Wattin!

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Said the Lynott, ‘The day of my vengeance is drawing near,

The day for which, through many a long dark year,

I have toil’d through grief and sin—

Call ye now the Brehons in,

And let the plea begin

Over the bier

Of MacWilliam,

For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley!’

Then the Brehons to MacWilliam Burke decreed

An eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed;

And the Lynott’s share of the fine,

As foster-father, was nine

Ploughlands and nine score kine;

But no need

Had the Lynott,

Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley.

But rising, while all sat silent on the spot,

He said, ‘The law says—doth it not?—

If the foster-sire elect

His portion to reject,

He may then the right exact

To applot

The short eric.’

‘’Tis the law,’ replied the Brehons of Tirawley.

Said the Lynott, ‘I once before had a choice

Proposed me, wherein law had little voice;

But now I choose, and say,

As lawfully I may,

I applot the mulct to-day;

So rejoice

In your ploughlands

And your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawley.

‘And thus I applot the mulct: I divide

The land throughout Clan Barrett on every side

Equally, that no place

May be without the face

Of a foe of Wattin’s race—

That the pride

Of the Barretts

May be humbled hence for ever throughout Tirawley.

‘I adjudge a seat in every Barrett’s hall

To MacWilliam: in every stable I give a stall

To MacWilliam: and, beside,

Whenever a Burke shall ride

Through Tirawley, I provide

At his call

Needful grooming,

Without charge from any Brughaidh of Tirawley.

‘Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throes

Ye lawlessly caused me and caused those

Unhappy shame-faced ones

Who, their mothers expected once,

Would have been the sires of sons—

O’er whose woes

Often weeping,

I have groan’d in my exile from Tirawley.

‘I demand not of you your manhoods; but I take—

For the Burkes will take it—your Freedom! for the sake

Of which all manhood ’s given

And all good under heaven,

And, without which, better even

You should make

Yourselves barren,

Than see your children slaves throughout Tirawley!

‘Neither take I your eyesight from you; as you took

Mine and ours: I would have you daily look

On one another’s eyes

When the strangers tyrannize

By your hearths, and blushes arise,

That ye brook

Without vengeance

The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley!

‘The vengeance I design’d, now is done,

And the days of me and mine nearly run—

For, for this, I have broken faith,

Teaching him who lies beneath

This pall, to merit death;

And my son

To his father

Stands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley.’

Said MacWilliam—‘Father and son, hang them high!’

And the Lynott they hang’d speedily;

But across the salt water,

To Scotland, with the daughter

Of MacWilliam—well you got her!—

Did you fly,

Edmund Lindsay,

The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawley!

’Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tell

How, through lewdness and revenge, it befell

That the sons of William Conquer

Came over the sons of Wattin,

Throughout all the bounds and borders

Of the lands of Auley Mac Fiachra;

Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell,

And his valiant, Bible-guided,

Free heretics of Clan London,

Coming in, in their succession,

Rooted out both Burke and Barrett,

And in their empty places

New stems of freedom planted,

With many a goodly sapling

Of manliness and virtue;

Which while their children cherish,

Kindly Irish of the Irish,

Neither Saxons nor Italians,

May the mighty God of Freedom

Speed them well,

Never taking

Further vengeance on his people of Tirawley.