The Mountainy Singer. Campbell Joseph

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      I am the gilly of Christ,

      The mate of Mary’s Son;

      I run the roads at seeding time,

      And when the harvest’s done.

      I sleep among the hills,

      The heather is my bed;

      I dip the termon-well for drink,

      And pull the sloe for bread.

      No eye has ever seen me,

      But shepherds hear me pass,

      Singing at fall of even

      Along the shadowed grass.

      The beetle is my bellman,

      The meadow-fire my guide,

      The bee and bat my ambling nags

      When I have need to ride.

      All know me only the Stranger,

      Who sits on the Saxon’s height;

      He burned the bacach’s little house

      On last Saint Brigid’s Night.

      He sups off silver dishes,

      And drinks in a golden horn,

      But he will wake a wiser man

      Upon the Judgment Morn!

      I am the gilly of Christ,

      The mate of Mary’s Son;

      I run the roads at seeding time,

      And when the harvest’s done.

      The seed I sow is lucky,

      The corn I reap is red,

      And whoso sings the Gilly’s Rann

      Will never cry for bread.

      Go, ploughman, plough

      The mearing lands,

      The meadow lands,

      The mountain lands:

      All life is bare

      Beneath your share,

      All love is in your lusty hands.

      Up, horses, now!

      And straight and true

      Let every broken furrow run:

      The strength you sweat

      Shall blossom yet

      In golden glory to the sun.

      Go, reaper,

      Speed and reap,

      Go take the harvest

      Of the plough:

      The wheat is standing

      Broad and deep,

      The barley glumes

      Are golden now.

      Labour is hard,

      But it endures

      Like love:

      The land is yours:

      Go reap the life

      It gives you now,

      O sunbrowned master

      Of the plough!

      The millway path looks like a wraith,

      The lock is black as ink,

      And silently in stream and sky

      The stars begin to blink.

      I see them pass along the grass

      With slow and solemn tread:

      Aoibheall, their queen, is in between —

      A corpse is at their head!

      They wander on with faces wan,

      And dirges sad as wind.

      I know not, but it may be that

      The dead’s of human kind.

      The storm is still, the rain hath ceased

      To vex the beauty of the east:

      A linnet singeth in the wood

      His hermit song of gratitude.

      So shall I sing when life is done

      To greet the glory of the sun;

      And cloud and star and stream and sea

      Shall dance for very ecstasy!

      Twopence a day for scaring crows —

      Tho’ the rain beats and the wind blows!

      The scholars think I’ve little wit,

      But, God! I’ve got my share of it.

      Why does the gorbing land-shark

      Leave ploughed rigs for the green park?

      Where little’s to find, and nothing’s to eat

      But rabbits’ droppings and pheasants’ meat.

      He knows better than come my way

      Between the mouth and the tail of day.

      For one lick of my hurding wattle

      Would lay him out like a showman’s bottle!

      And the thoughts that rise in my crazed head

      When the cloud is low and the wind’s dead.

      Where you see only clay and stones

      I see swords and blanching bones..

      But I’ll leave you now – it’s gone six,

      And the smoke is curling over the ricks.

      And it’s hardly like that the land-shark

      Will trouble the furrows after dark.

      Sleep, white love, sleep,

      A cedarn cradle holds thee,

      And twilight, like a silver-woven coverlid,

      Enfolds thee.

      Moon and star keep charmèd watch

      Upon thy lying;

      Water plovers thro’ the dusk

      Are tremulously crying.

      Sleep, white love mine,

      Till day doth shine.

      Sleep, white love, sleep,

      The daylight wanes, and deeper

      Gathers the blue darkness

      O’er the cradle of the sleeper.

      Cliodhna’s curachs, carmine-oared,

      On Loch-da-linn are gleaming;

      Blind bats flutter thro’ the night,

      And carrion birds are screaming.

      Sleep, white love mine,

      Till day doth shine.

      Sleep, СКАЧАТЬ