The Fiddler Of Dooney

WHEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney, Folk dance like a wave of the sea; My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet, My brother in Moharabuiee.

I passed my brother and cousin: They read in their books of prayer; I read in my book of songs I bought at the Sligo fair.

When we come at the end of time, To Peter sitting in state, He will smile on the three old spirits, But call me first through the gate;

For the good are always the merry, Save by an evil chance, And the merry love the fiddle And the merry love to dance:

And when the folk there spy me, They will all come up to me, With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’ And dance like a wave of the sea.

THE DEDICATION TO A BOOK OF STORIES SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS

THERE was a green branch hung with many a bell When her own people ruled in wave-worn Eire; And from its murmuring greenness, calm of faery, A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.

It charmed away the merchant from his guile, And turned the farmer’s memory from his cattle, And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle, For all who heard it dreamed a little while.

Ah, Exiles, wandering over many seas, Spinning at all times Eire’s good to-morrow! Ah, worldwide Nation, always growing Sorrow! I also bear a bell branch full of ease.

I tore it from green boughs winds tossed and hurled, Green boughs of tossing always, weary, weary! I tore it from the green boughs of old Eire, The willow of the many-sorrowed world.

Ah, Exiles, wandering over many lands! My bell branch murmurs: the gay bells bring laughter, Leaping to shake a cobweb from the rafter; The sad bells bow the forehead on the hands.

A honeyed ringing: under the new skies They bring you memories of old village faces; Cabins gone now, old well-sides, old dear places; And men who loved the cause that never dies.