Part 2 (1/2)
[Footnote 2: Traditional Holy Hill]
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 splas.h.i.+ng round the charmed 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 splas.h.i.+ng 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?