JAMES (SEUMAS) MACMANUS (1868-)

A STOR, GRA GEAL MOCHREE1

TH

HE braes they are aflame with whin,
The glens with flowers rejoice;
In every bush a gladsome bird
Lifts up a tuneful voice.

But whin and flower and bonny bird,
And each sweet melody,

But adds an ache to my sore heart,

A stor, Gra geal mochree !

For, whins may flame and flowers may bloom,

And sun flood hill and plain,

And birds on every bough may sing

"Sweet Summer's come again;

Yet I shall shiver for the chill

That holds the heart of me

My Sun has set, my Summer fled,
A stor, Gra geal mochree!

You were my cherished Flower of Flowers, You were my Warbler sweet,

You were my Sun of Summer kind,

You were my world complete;

'Twas Nothingness beyond you, when

Those arms enfolded me

Now I'm alone with loneliness,

A stor, Gra geal mochree!

1A stor, gra geal mochree, bright treasure of my heart.

The Flower has withered on the brae,

The Bird has quit the tree,

And all the world has weary grown,
For my sad heart and me:
Yet patiently through empty years
My sorrow would I dree,

Did you but look your love once more,
A stor, Gra geal mochree !

The grass waves o'er your dear black head,
The cold clay wraps you round,

It's lonesome for you lying there

So deep in the dark ground,

Where my arms can never reach you,
Where you can never see

The blinding love that fills my eyes,
A stor, Gra geal mochree!

'Tis sad to think those eyes don't light,
And I, your Heart, so near;

'Tis sore that I should call and call,
And you refuse to hear,

But sleep, a rúin,1 for sure 'tis Night:
And soon glad Dawn shall be,
When lips will meet and souls will greet,
A stor, Gra geal mochree!

O

MY INVER BAY

H! Inver Bay on a harvest day,
And the sun goin' down the sky;
When with many's a laugh the boats put off,

And many's the merry cry!

1 A rúin, my dear.

To Cork's own cove though one may rove, They will not find mo croidhe!1

A rarer bay, a fairer bay,

A sweeter bay nor thee.

For the Kaiser's rod and his realms so broad, I wouldn't swap, not I,

My Inver Bay on a harvest day,

And the sun goin' down the sky.

A purtier boat there's not afloat
Than Donal Rose's "Nan,"

A boulder crew, nor boys more true
There's not in wide Irelan'.

A long, long pull, a sthrong, sthrong pull,
And one right hearty cheer,

Our "Nan

so brave, she tops the wave, And our comrades' boats we clear;

We lead the throng, we sthrike a song,
We rise it loud and high

On Inver Bay, of a harvest day,

And the sun goin' down the sky.

Till we reach away where the herrin's play,

There's neither slack nor slow;

As quick as thought our nets are shot,

On the thwarts, then we lie low,

And many's the stave rolls over the wave,

And many's the yarn is told;

The sea all white, with silver bright,

The air all filled with gold

1 Mo croidhe, pronounced machree, my heart.

A scene so grand, God's good right hand
It ne'er reached from on high,

As Inver Bay on a harvest day,
And the sun goin' down the sky.
O'er Norroway it's give me sway,
With a palace wide and broad,
With silks and wine and jewels fine,
And hundreds at my nod

In robes all gay, with golden spray
It's dhress me you might do;

But I'd loathe your wine, your jewels fine,

Your gold and your kingdom too;

For a ragged coat, in Donal's boat,
It's I'd lament and sigh,

And Inver Bay of a harvest day,
With the sun goin' down the sky.

Our bravest sons, our stoutest ones

Have rushed across the say,

And God He knows each wind that blows

Is waftin' more away!

It's sore distress does them hard press,

They dhrop their heads and go

Oh, Sorrow's Queen, it's you has seen

Their hearts big swelled with woe!

Though gold they make, their hearts they break, And they sit them down and cry,

For Inver Bay on a harvest day,

And the sun goin' down the sky;

Oh! Inver Bay on a harvest day,
And the sun goin' down the sky;

When with many's the laugh the boats put off,
And many's the merry cry!

To Cork's own cove though one may rove, They will not find, mo croidhe!

A rarer bay, a fairer bay,

A sweeter bay nor thee!

For the Kaiser's rod and his realms so broad

I wouldn't swap, not I,

My Inver Bay on a harvest day,

And the sun goin' down the sky.