ROSE CONDON. A BALLAD OF FEAR-MUIGHE-FEINE. BY FEARDANA. OVER valley, and rock, and lea,— Merrily strike the wild harp's strain,- Hath come to our Funcheon's side again; An Ardrigh's crown is yellow and bright- So loosely o'er her fair brows thrown: And her neck as the wild rose soft and white, She is daughter of Condont brave Strike the wild harp's string of pride- Nine moons have silvered the Funcheon's wave To the banished Knight of thy woods, Gailtee! Oh! Love, thy power grows day by day- All for the love of Condon's child, And chased the Saxon far away Beyond the pale of his mountains wild! Three eves more o'er Funcheon's tide— Strike the wild harp clear and sweet- Her brave, triumphant love to meet; Fear-Muighe-Feine-the plain of the Fenian men—which anciently included the baronies of Condon and Clongibbon, together with what is at present called the barony of Fermoy, is walled in on the south by the Nagles mountains, and on the north by the Gailtees and Ballyhouras, or mountains of Mole. It was called Armoy, and I believe Ardmulla, by Spenser. Crag Thierna, or Corrin Thierna, a romantic steep eastward of the town of Fermoy, and celebrated in the legends of the peasantry as one of the great fairy palaces of Munster. Condon was chief of the barony which still bears his name, and lived in his castle of Clochleigh, near the junctions of the Funcheon and Ariglin with the Oun Mór-great river -the Blackwater. * The sun set in his purple pride Over the far-off crests of Mole, Long she waits her lover's tread— Till day's bright legions all are fled, And the white stars peer through the forest tree. With his martial step and bearing high; But why is the maiden's heart adread As her warrior-love draws fondly nigh? Does victory paint a warrior's mail- With swarth, gold gems and diamonds pale, Sheddeth a wild and elfin gleam, And strange sounds on the breezes sail, The warrior now beside her stands Strike the wild harp sad and low- But her loved knight ne'er gazèd so! That bound her in his spells that night, Far, far away in his love-winged flight! From Oun Mór's tide to Carrig'nour". To the storied hill of Kil-da-righ, Through the wild woods rode amain; Condon sat within his hall Strike the wild harp mournfully Sadness did his heart enthral, Grief for her he might not see; Searching still, Clongibbon tall Roamed the forests lone and drear, Like maniac man bereft of all The joyance of this earthly sphere! Joy in lone Crag Thierna's steep!— For young Rosa with the locks of gold. Carriganour, a very ancient castle a few miles below Mitchelstown, on the bank of the Funcheon. Mocollop Castle, a huge pile, eastward of Clochleigh, near the shore of the Blackwater. Kil-da-righ, the Church of the two Kings, at present Kildorrery, a small town on the Cork border, between Fermoy and Kilmallock. But ah! the maid did nought but weep, And eight bright moons had lost their flame, Yet still by Oun Mór swift and deep Nine sweet nights have robed the dells— The fairy throngs came trooping by; Beneath the midnight moon they played, Sat lorn within the ruin's shade. It is beside a fountain fair Strike the wild harp sweet and low— A shadow glides before her there, And looking up, beside her stands With pitying eyes and claspèd hands! A mitre decked in golden sheen Strike the wild harp wond'ringly- And sandals of the mountain tree Ah! he hath heard the maiden's moan, One pure draught from a cup of stone. The fays may sport o'er hill and plain- But never shall their power again In magic gyve that maiden hold. One cool, bright draught she scarce has ta’en, When fearful dies the fairy strain O'er moonlit crag and lonely moss ! Short time their splendid pageant shone- Then faded in the moonlight wan, Far o'er Caher Drina's castled hill;† • Teompal Molaga-the Temple or Church of Saint Molaga-an extremely beautiful and picturesque ruin, about a mile north-east of Kildorrery, on a bend of the Funcheon. Beside it is an ancient well dedicated to the saint, to which the peasantry ascribe many virtues, and of which many strange legends are told. † Caher Drina, or Fort Prospect, a castle about three miles south-east of Carriganour. Oun-na-geeragh river, a tributary of the Funcheon. Glashmona, a stream rising in the Ballyhoura mountains. By the banks of this stream, the peasantry tell many legends relating to the battles fought there between the ancient tribes. Aha Phooka-the Ford of the Spirit is a steep and dangerous pass leading from Limerick into the Clongibbon country. Oh! joy, she sees the eastern ray— Strike the wild harp glad and clear— The herald of a golden day, The fairest in the circling year. It is the first bright morn of May, And stream and plain smile calmly now, And many a wild bird pours his lay In gladness from the greenwood bough. Oh! Freedom leadeth where she list Strike the wild harp's string of pride— Wild joy the maid can ne'er resist Impels toward Oun-na-geeragh's side; There, while the stream by day is kissed, A strange sight meets her wondering eyes— It is not golden morning mist, With glad larks o'er it in the skies: The red fires of a Saxon raid Strike the wild harp fierce and high- Gleam brightly from the forest deep, "Ho! wake the tired creachs from their rest !"— Strike the harp o'er hill and plain On toward Kilfinane's mountain crest The raiders take their course again. Fear gathereth in the maiden's breast, As wind away that fierce-browed horde, Taking their pathway to the west, Triumphant through the Spirit's Ford. Is that the thunder of the flood Strike the harp all fiercely now She hears wild rising from the wood, Oh! rushing back in panic mood, Like leaves before a mountain wind, The raiders come in dust and blood, And who is he her sire before Strike the wild harp high and grand— Scattering the raiders evermore Before the wide sweep of his brand? Ah well within her fond heart's core She knows her lover's martial form, As fiercely on the river's shore He sweepeth through the battle storm. Oh! God, that lance-stroke through his side- The swift waves o'er their bed of stone ! Oh! joy-it is no mortal wound Let the harp's glad tone arise— As wakening sense asserts its reign— To cheer his course through life again. The clangour of the fight is o'er Strike the wild harp's proudest lay— Passed westward through the Spirit's Way. Glad was the look Clongibbon wore His herds reta'en, his valleys free— As clasped he in his arms once more The gold-haired maid of green Fear-muighe! THE VOICES OF THE BELLS. I STOOD On the side of a leafy hill, When the fragrant air was so hushed and still, And the trees looked so green, And such heavenly light Streamed the branches between, That an air of delight Seemed to dimple the scene ;- And the drowsy hum of glittering flies, All was so tranquil above, around, Such a sense of repose seemed to hang o'er the ground, It seemed as though Nature herself obeyed "Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath day." Why is it that, still 'mid the fairest scenes, And why, as I stood on that leafy hill, Did a nameless fear my bosom chill, That whispered to me, "Though the earth be fair, And the sun shine bright, and the balmy air Be vocal with sweetest melody, And the flowers be beautiful to see; |