Sprays of Shamrock by Clinton Scollard [p 3]MUCKROSS At night there came unto MacCarthy More A hooded vision with a voice that said, "Go thou straightway and raise a house to God Upon the spot where stands the Rock of Song!" So with the golden lifting of the dawn Upsprang the chieftain and loud called his kerns, And bade them seek the Rock. For many a day They roved the sweeping meads and fens and fells In fruitless search, and ever forth again Relentlessly he drove them from his hold Beside the dimpling waters of Lough Leane. "The Rock!" he cried, "find ye the Rock of Song!" And still they found it not. Then the gaunt chief, His long locks hoary with the frost of years, Girded himself, and turned his tottering steps Abroad in the soft lengthening of the dusk Athwart a woodland close, and saw and heard A little maid, her pitcher held at poise, Singing an old lament in minors clear [p 4]And plaintive as the twilight, words that voiced The poignant, passionate yearning of the soul. "A sign!" the spent man whispered low, "a sign!" And on the spot he raised a house to God. [p 5]THE HILL OF MAEVE I This is the hill of Maeve, the queen, A mighty bulwark of gray-green Whereon was set, by hands unknown, A rugged monument of stone. The great winds mourn, and sobs the wave Beneath the lichened cairn of Maeve. II From many a rocky Leitrim height O'er Lough Gill's waters, blue and bright, From where Benbulbin fronts the foam, And sees the Sligo ships put home, Maeve's hill is like a pharos flame, As is eternally her name! III 'Neath azure tides of morning air Ripple the waves of Ballysadare [p 6]Under where frowning Knocknarea Looks o'er the Rosses far to sea, - Looks far to sea, remembering Maeve's loveliness, a vanished thing. IV The cromlechs, gray with eld, below, Recall the dreams of long ago, - The dreams of kern and king, both slave To beauty, and the white Queen Maeve; And though she slumbers, deep, so deep, Her golden memory may not sleep! [p 7]AT KILLYBEGS At Killybegs above the crags The gray gulls pipe with voices thinned, And all the green trees are like flags That wave and waver in the wind. At Killybegs about the dunes Rustle the crispy grass and whin, And low the long tide croons and croons As it creeps out, as it creeps in. At Killybegs the white sails race When the blue sea is like a floor; Like doubt night falls with haggard face; Sometimes the ships return no more. The brown bee drains the cottage flowers Of honey to their crimson dregs, And love hath many happy hours 'Twixt birth and death at Killybegs! [p 8]THE CRIPPLE I have dreams of the outer islands, Firths and forths of the Far-Away; I have dreams of the heathery highlands Under the golden day. We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive Classic Library collection. Many of the books in our collection have been out of print for decades, and therefore have not been accessible to the general public. The aim of our publishing program is to facilitate rapid access to this vast reservoir of literature, and our view is that this is a significant literary work, which deserves to be brought back into print after many decades. The contents of the vast majority of titles in the Classic Library have been scanned from the original works. To ensure a high quality product, each title has been meticulously hand curated by our staff. Our philosophy has been guided by a desire to provide the reader with a book that is as close as possible to ownership of the original work. We hope that you will enjoy this wonderful classic work, and that for you it becomes an enriching experience.