As I Rode by Granard Moat (21 page)

The night was stormy, cold and late,

No human form was in the street;

The virgin snow lay on the highways,

And chok’d up alleys, lanes, and byways.

The North still pout’d its frigid store,

The clouds look’d black and threaten’d more;

The sky was starless, moonless, all

Above the silent world’s white pall.

The driving sleet-shower hiss’d aloud –

The distant forest roar’d and bow’d;

But Thady felt no hail nor sleet,

As home he reel’d thro’ Castle-street.

The whistling squall was beating on

The batter’d towers of old King John,

Which guarded once, in warlike state,

The hostile pass of Thomond-gate.

The blinding showers, like silvery balls,

Rustled against the ancient walls,

As if determined to subdue

What William’s guns had failed to do!

Old Munchin’s trees, from roots to heads,

Were rocking in their churchyard beds;

The hoary tombs were wrapt in snow,

The angry Shannon roar’d below.

Thade reel’d along, in slow rotation,

The greatest man in Erin’s nation;

Now darting forward, like a pike,

With upraised fist in act to strike;

Now wheeling backward, with the wind,

And half to stand or fall inclined;

Now sidelong, ’mid the pelting showers,

He stumbled near the tall round towers:

With nodding head and zig-zag feet,

He gained the centre of the street;

And, giddy as a summer-midge,

Went staggering towards old Thomond Bridge,

Whose fourteen arches braved so clever,

Six hundred years, the rapid river;

And seem’d, in sooth, a noble picture

Of ancient Irish architecture.

But here the startled Muse must linger,

With tearful eye and pointed finger

To that dark river once the bed

Of Limerick’s brave defenders dead –

There half the glorious hope she cherished,

In one sad hour, deluded, perish’d;

The fatal draw-bridge open’d wide,

And gave the warriors to the tide;

The flood received each foremost man,

The rear still madly pressing on;

’Til all the glory of the brave

Was buried in the whirling wave;

And heroes’ frames – a bloodless slaughter –

Chok’d up the deep and struggling water.

Now Thady ne’er indulged a thought

How Limerick’s heroes fell or fought;

This night he was in no position

For scripture, history, or tradition.

His thoughts were on the Bishop’s Lady –

The first tall arch he’d cross’d already;

He paused upon the haunted ground,

The barrier of her midnight round.

Along the Bridge-way, dark and narrow,

He peer’d – while terror drove its arrow,

Cold as the keen blast of October,

Thro’ all his frame and made him sober.

Awhile he stood in doubt suspended,

Still to push forward he intended;

When, lo! just as his fears released him,

Up came the angry ghost and seized him!

Ah, Thady! you are done! – Alas!

The Priest’s prediction comes to pass –

If you escape this demon’s clutch,

The devil himself is not your match!

He saw her face grim, large and pale,

Her red eyes sparkled through her veil;

Her scarlet cloak – half immaterial –

Flew wildly round her person aerial.

With oaths, he tried to grasp her form,

’Twere easier far to catch a storm;

Before his eyes she held him there,

His hands felt nothing more than air;

Her grasp press’d on him cold as steel;

He saw her form but could not feel;

He tried not, tho’ his brain was dizzy,

To kiss her, as he kissed Miss Lizzy,

But pray’d to heaven for help sincere –

The first time e’er he said a prayer.

’Twas vain – the Spirit, in her fury,

To do her work was in a hurry;

And, rising, with a whirlwind strength,

Hurl’d him o’er the battlement.

Splash went poor Thady in the torrent,

And roll’d along the rapid current,

Towards Curragour’s mad-roaring Fall

The billows tost him, like a ball;

And who dare say, that saw him sinking,

But ’twas his last full round of drinking?

Yet, no – against the river’s might

He made a long and gallant fight;

That stream in which he learned to swim,

Shall be no watery grave to him!

Near, and more near he heard the roar

Of rock-impeded Curragour,

Whose torrents, in their headlong sway,

Raged mad as lions for their prey!

Above the Fall he spied afloat

Some object, like an anchor’d boat,

To this, with furious grasp, he clung,

And from the tide his limbs upswung.

Half-frozen in the stern he lay,

Until the holy light of day

Brought forth some kind assisting hand

To row poor Thady to the strand.

’Mid gazing crowds, he left the shore

Well sober’d, and got drunk no more!

And in the whole wide parish round,

A better Christian was not found;

He loved his God and served his neighbour,

And earn’d his bread by honest labour.

Let me die young or thrive and bloom in Killaloe

And drowse on the bridge, all day, in summer weather

With nothing at all on my mind but a choice of drinks:

‘What’ll it be today, Johnny, whiskey or Guinness?’

All the rest of my long days, until death comes.

In rain or sun, even here in haunted Killaloe,

I would never remember for long the Danes or the Monks,

Not even Cromwell the whoreson, Collins or Owen Roe

Nor other men whose names were cursed or blessed

From Cork to Derry, Aughrim to Vinegar Hill.

With a breeze I would skim under sail on Lough Derg,

Or stroll at my ease through Owney & Arrah

Or lie in some scented meadow above Portroe

With nothing much on my mind but names for islands

Dim on the hazy Lough – islands in the Sea of China.

The girls I’d court would be Clare girls, mostly,

Farmers’ daughters, soft-eyed, supple and willing

With nothing averse in the heart to love under hedges,

Eager to comfort a single man with no harm in him,

And take a chance, at times, at more than kissing.

For a change, I would cross the long bridge to Ballina

And stretch my length by the Graves of the Leinstermen,

Sharing the skyward joy of the enraptured lark

And wish it is I were the grass-hidden hopper

Frittering the sunlit hour away, near my left hand.

From a choice of mansions in the woods of Leinster

Or a castle in Ulster with three avenue-gates

With no regrets in my mind I would turn

And choose Killaloe for the fine delights of my days

All the rest of my long days, until death comes.

I am a young fellow, as wild as a goat,

In Castletown Conyers I’m also well-known,

In Newcastle West I spent many a note

With Nellie and Judy and Mary.

My father abused me for being such a rake

And wasting my time in such frolicking ways.

But I ne’er could forget the kind nature of Kate.

And we’ll leave the old world as we find it.

My parents had reared me to shake and to mow,

To plough and to harrow, to reap and to sow.

But my heart being too airy to drop it so low

I set out on a high speculation.

On paper and parchment they taught me to write,

In Euclid and grammar they opened my eyes,

And in multiplication, in truth, I was bright.

And we’ll leave the old world as we find it.

If I chance for to go to the town of Rathkeale

The girls all around me do flock on the Square.

Some to give me a bottle, and others sweet cakes

To treat me, unknown to their parents.

There is one from Askeaton and one from the Pike,

Another from Ards my heart has beguiled,

Though being from the mountains her stockings are white.

And we’ll leave the old world as we find it.

To quarrel for riches I ne’er was inclined

For the greatest of misers must leave them behind.

I’ll purchase a cow that will never run dry

And I’ll milk her by twisting her horn.

John Damer of Shronel had plenty of gold,

And Devonshire’s treasure is twenty times more,

But he’s laid on his back among nettles and stones.

And we’ll leave the old world as we find it.

This cow can be milked without clover or grass

For she’s pampered with corn, good barley and hops.

She’s warm and stout, and she’s free in her paps,

And she’ll milk without spancel or halter.

The man that will drink it will cock his caubeen,

And if anyone cough there’ll be wigs on the geen,

And the feeble old hags will get supple and free.

And we’ll leave the old world as we find it.

If I chance for to go to the market of Croom,

With a cock in my hat and my pipes in full tune,

I am welcome at once, and brought up to a room

Where Bacchus is sporting with Venus.

There’s Peggy and Jane from the town of Bruree,

And Biddy from Bruff, and we all on the spree.

Such a combing of locks as there is about me.

And we’ll leave the old world as we find it.

There’s some says I’m foolish and more says I’m wise,

But being fond of the women I think is no crime,

For the son of King David had ten hundred wives

And his wisdom was highly recorded.

I’ll till a good garden and live at my ease,

And each woman and child can partake of the same,

If there’s war in the cabins theirselves they may blame,

And we’ll leave the old world as we find it.

And now for the future, I mean to be wise

And I’ll send for the women that acted so kind,

And I’ll marry them all on the morrow, by-and-by,

If the clergy agree to the bargain.

And when I’m on my back, and my soul has no ache,

These women will crowd for to cry at my wake.

And their sons and their daughters will offer their prayers

To the Lord for the soul of their father.

The lambs on the green hills stood gazing at me,

And many strawberries grow round the salt sea,

And many strawberries grow round the salt sea,

And many a ship sails the ocean.

The bride and bride’s party to church they did go,

The bride she rode foremost, she bears the best show,

But I followed after with my heart full of woe

For to see my love wed to another.

The first place I saw her was on the church stand,

Golden rings on her finger and her love by the hand.

Says I: ‘My wee lassie, I will be the man

Although you are wed to another.’

The next place I saw her was on the way home,

I ran on before her, not knowing where to roam.

Says I: ‘My wee lassie, I’ll be by your side

Although you are wed to another.’

‘Stop stop,’ says the groomsman, ’till I speak a word,

‘Will you venture your life on the point of my sword?

For courting so slowly you’ve lost this fair maid,

So begone for you’ll never enjoy her.’

Oh come, make my grave then both large, wide and deep,

And sprinkle it over with flowers so sweet,

And lay me down in it to take my last sleep,

For that’s the best way to forget her.