Kitobni o'qish: «Elves and Heroes», sahifa 3

THE SONG OF GOLL

 
O Son of The Red,
Undone and laid dead—
  The blood of a hero
My cold blade hath shed.
 
 
Who fought me to-day?
Who sought me to slay?—
  The son of yon High King
I slew in the fray.
 
 
O blade that yon brave
Low laid in the grave,
  Ye gladdened the Fians
But grief to Conn gave.
 
 
Stone-hearted and strong,
Lone-hearted with long,
  Dark brooding, he sought to
Avenge his deep wrong.
 
 
Fair Son of The Red,
Care none thou art dead?—
  Old Goll of Clan Morna
Will mourn thou hast bled.
 
 
O where shall be found
To share with thee round
  The halls of Valhalla
Thy glory renowned?
 
 
O true as the blade
That slew thee, and made
  My fear and thine anger
For ever to fade—
 
 
Ah! when upon earth
Again will have birth
  A son of such honour
And bravery and worth?
 
 
Above thee in splendour
A love that could render
  Brave service, burned star-like
And constant and tender.
 
 
With fearing my name,
With hearing my fame,
  O none would dare combat
With Goll till Conn came? …
 
 
O great was thine ire—
The fate of thy sire,
  Awaiting thy coming,
Consumed thee like fire.
 
 
O Son of The Red,
Undone and laid dead—
  The blood of a hero
My cold blade hath shed.
 

THE BLUE MEN OF THE MINCH

 
When the tide is at the turning and the wind is fast asleep,
And not a wave is curling on the wide, blue Deep,
O the waters will be churning on the stream that never smiles,
Where the Blue Men are splashing round the charmčd isles.
 
 
As the summer wind goes droning o'er the sun-bright seas,
And the Minch is all a-dazzle to the Hebrides;
They will skim along like salmon—you can see their shoulders gleam,
And the flashing of their fingers in the Blue Men's Stream.
 
 
But when the blast is raving and the wild tide races,
The Blue Men ere breast-high with foam-grey faces;
They'll plunge along with fury while they sweep the spray behind,
O, they'll bellow o'er the billows and wail upon the wind.
 
 
And if my boat be storm-toss'd and beating for the bay,
They'll be howling and be growling as they drench it with their spray—
For they'd like to heel it over to their laughter when it lists,
Or crack the keel between them, or stave it with their fists.
 
 
O weary on the Blue Men, their anger and their wiles!
The whole day long, the whole night long, they're splashing round the isles;
They'll follow every fisher—ah! they'll haunt the fisher's dream—
When billows toss, O who would cross the Blue Men's Stream?
 

THE URISK

 
O the night I met the Urisk on the wide, lone moor!
Ah! would I be forgetting of The Thing that came with me?
For it was big and black as black, and it was dour as dour,
It shrank and grew and had no shape of aught I e'er did see.
 
 
For it came creeping like a cloud that's moving all alone,
Without the sound of footsteps … and I heard its heavy sighs …
Its face was old and grey, and like a lichen-covered stone,
And its tangled locks were dropping o'er its sad and weary eyes.
 
 
O it's never the word it had to say in anger or in woe—
It would not seek to harm me that had never done it wrong,
As fleet—O like the deer!—I went, or I went panting slow,
The waesome thing came with me on that lonely road and long.
 
 
O eerie was the Urisk that convoy'd me o'er the moor!
When I was all so helpless and my heart was full of fear,
Nor when it was beside me or behind me was I sure—
I knew it would be following—I knew it would be near!
 

THE NIMBLE MEN

(AURORA BOREALIS.)

 
    When Angus Ore, the wizard,
      His fearsome wand will raise,
    The night is filled with splendour,
      And the north is all ablaze;
    From clouds of raven blackness,
      Like flames that leap on high—
All merrily dance the Nimble Men across the Northern Sky.
 
 
    Now come the Merry Maidens,
      All gowned in white and green,
    While the bold and ruddy fellows
      Will be flitting in between—
    O to hear the fairy piper
      Who will keep them tripping by!—
The men and maids who merrily dance across the Northern Sky.
 
 
    O the weird and waesome music,
      And the never-faltering feet!
    O their fast and strong embraces,
      And their kisses hot and sweet!
    There's a lost and languished lover
      With a fierce and jealous eye,
As merrily flit the Nimble Folk across the Northern Sky.
 
 
So now the dance is over,
      And the dancers sink to rest—
    There's a maid that has two lovers,
      And there's one she loves the best;
    He will cast him down before her,
      She will raise him with a sigh—
Her love so bright who danced to-night across the Northern Sky.
 
 
    Then up will leap the other,
      And up will leap his clan—
    O the lover and his company
      Will fight them man to man—
    All shrieking from the conflict
      The merry maidens fly—
There's a Battle Royal raging now across the Northern Sky.
 
 
    Through all the hours of darkness
      The fearsome fight will last;
    They are leaping white with anger,
      And the blows are falling fast—
    And where the slain have tumbled
      A pool of blood will lie—
O it's dripping on the dark green stones from out the Northern Sky.
 
 
    When yon lady seeks her lover
      In the cold and pearly morn,
    She will find that he has fallen
      By the hand that she would scorn,—
    She will clasp her arms about him,
      And in her anguish die!—
O never again will trip the twain across the Northern Sky.
 

MY GUNNA

 
When my kine are on the hill,
Who will charm them from all ill?
While I'll sleep at ease until
  All the cocks are crowing clear.
Who'll be herding them for me?
It's the elf I fain would see—
For they're safe as safe can be
  When the Gunna will be near.
 
 
He will watch the long weird night,
When the stars will shake with fright,
Or the ghostly moon leaps bright
  O'er the ben like Beltane fire.
If my kine would seek the corn,
He will turn them by the horn—
And I'll find them all at morn
  Lowing sweet beside the byre.
 
 
Croumba's bard has second-sight,
And he'll moan the Gunna's plight,
When the frosts are flickering white,
  And the kine are housed till day;
For he'll see him perched alone
On a chilly old grey stone,
Nibbling, nibbling at a bone
  That we'll maybe throw away.
 
 
He's so hungry, he's so thin,
If he'd come we'd let him in,
For a rag of fox's skin
  Is the only thing he'll wear.
He'll be chittering in the cold
As he hovers round the fold,
With his locks of glimmering gold
  Twined about his shoulders bare.
 

THE GRUAGACH

(MILKMAID'S SONG.)

 
The lightsome lad wi' yellow hair,
The elfin lad that is so fair,
He comes in rich and braw attire—
To loose the kine within the byre—
 
 
    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,
      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—
    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain
      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.
 
 
He's dressed so fine, he's dressed so grand,
A supple switch is in his hand;
I've seen while I a-milking sat
The shadow of his beaver hat.
 
 
    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,
      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—
    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain
      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.
 
 
My chuckling lad, so full o' fun,
Around the corners he will run;
Behind the door he'll sometimes jink,
And blow to make my candle blink.
 
 
    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,
      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—
    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain
      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.
 
 
The elfin lad that is so braw,
He'll sometimes hide among the straw;
He's sometimes leering from the loft—
He's tittering low and tripping soft.
 
 
    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,
      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—
    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain
      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.
 
 
And every time I'll milk the kine
He'll have his share—the luck be mine!
I'll pour it in yon hollowed stone,
He'll sup it when he's all alone—
 
 
    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,
      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—
    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain
      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.
 
 
O me! if I'd his milk forget,
Nor cream, nor butter I would get;
Ye needna' tell—I ken full well—
On all my kine he'd cast his spell.
 
 
    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,
      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—
    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain
      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.
 
 
On nights when I would rest at ease,
The merry lad begins to tease;
He'll loose the kine to take me out,
And titter while I move about.
 
 
    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,
      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—
    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain
      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.
 

THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF THE BARN

 
When all the big lads will be hunting the deer,
And no one for helping Old Callum comes near,
O who will be busy at threshing his corn?
Who will come in the night and be going at morn?
 
 
    The Little Old Man of the Barn,
    Yon Little Old Man—
    A bodach forlorn will be threshing his corn,
    The Little Old Man of the Barn.
 
 
When the peat will turn grey and the shadows fall deep,
And weary Old Callum is snoring asleep;
When yon plant by the door will keep fairies away,
And the horse-shoe sets witches a-wandering till day.
 
 
    The Little Old Man of the Barn,
    Yon Little Old Man—
    Will thresh with no light in the mouth of the night,
    The Little Old Man of the Barn.
 
 
For the bodach is strong though his hair is so grey,
He will never be weary when he goes away—
The bodach is wise—he's so wise, he's so dear—
When the lads are all gone, he will ever be near.
 
 
    The Little Old Man of the Barn,
    Yon Little Old Man—
    So tight and so braw he will bundle the straw—
    The Little Old Man of the Barn.
 

YON FAIRY DOG

 
'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals,
  Whose heart would never fail,
Would hear yon fairy ban-dog fierce
  Come howling down the gale;
The patt'ring of the paws would sound
Like horse's hoofs on frozen ground,
While o'er its back and curling round
  Uprose its fearsome tail.
 
 
'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals—
  Yon man that hath no fears—
Beheld the dog with dark-green back
  That bends not when it rears;
Its sides were blacker than the night,
But underneath the hair was white;
Its paws were yellow, its eyes were bright,
  And blood-red were its ears.
 
 
'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals—
  The man who naught will dread—
Would wait it, stooping with his spear,
  As nigh to him it sped;
The big black head it turn'd and toss'd,
"I'll strike," cried he, "ere I'll be lost,"
For every living thing that cross'd
  Its path would tumble dead.
 
 
'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals—
  The man who ne'er took fright—
Would watch it bounding from the hills
  And o'er the moors in flight.
When it would leave the Uist shore,
Across the Minch he heard it roar—
Like yon black cloud it bounded o'er
  The Coolin Hills that night.
 

THE WATER-HORSE

 
O the Water-Horse will come over the heath,
  With the foaming mouth and the flashing eyes,
He's black above and he's white beneath—
  The hills are hearing the awesome cries;
The sand lies thick in his dripping hair,
And his hoofs are twined with weeds and ware.
 
 
Alas! for the man who would clutch the mane—
  There's no spell to help and no charm to save!
Who rides him will never return again,
  Were he as strong, O were he as brave
As Fin-mac-Coul, of whom they'll tell—
He thrashed the devil and made him yell.
 
 
He'll gallop so fierce, he'll gallop so fast,
  So high he'll rear, and so swift he'll bound—
Like the lightning flash he'll go prancing past,
  Like the thunder-roll will his hoofs resound—
And the man perchance who sees and hears,
He would blind his eyes, he would close his ears.
 
 
The horse will bellow, the horse will snort,
  And the gasping rider will pant for breath—
Let the way be long, or the way be short,
  It will have one end, and the end is death;
In yon black loch, from off the shore,
The horse will splash, and be seen no more.