"But how did you know it really was the banshee after all, Thomas?"
"Begor, sir, I knew the apparation of her well enough; but 'twas confirmed by a sarcumstance that occurred the same time. There was a Misther O'Nales was come on a visit, ye must know, to a place in the neighbourhood--one o' the ould O'Nales iv the county Tyrone, a rale ould Irish family--an' the banshee was heard keening round the house that same night, be more then one that was in it; an' sure enough, Misther Harry, he was found dead in his bed the next mornin'. So if it wasn't the banshee I seen that time, I'd like to know what else it could a' been."
[Footnote 15: _Na bac leis_--_i.e._, don't mind it.]
_For the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight, of Kerry, who was killed in Flanders, 1642._
There was lifted up one voice of woe, One lament of more than mortal grief, Through the wide South to and fro, For a fallen Chief. In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me, I looked out upon the midnight air? My own soul was all as gloomy, As I knelt in prayer.
O'er Loch Gur, that night, once--twice--yea, thrice-- Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave That half curled into ice Its moon-mirroring wave. Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine, And Mogeely's Phantom Women Mourned the Geraldine!
Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours. And Fermoy in fitful strains Answered from her towers. Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly, Mourned in concert, and their piercing keen Woke to wondering life the stilly Glens of Inchiqueen.
From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore There was fear; the traders of Tralee Gathered up their golden store, And prepared to flee; For, in ship and hall from night till morning, Showed the first faint beamings of the sun, All the foreigners heard the warning Of the Dreaded One!
"This," they spake, "portendeth death to us, If we fly not swiftly from our fate!" Self-conceited idiots! thus Ravingly to prate! Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters Ring laments like those by shore and sea! Not for churls with souls like hucksters Waileth our Banshee!
For the high Milesian race alone Ever flows the music of her woe! For slain heir to bygone throne, And for Chief laid low! Hark!... Again, methinks, I hear her weeping Yonder! Is she near me now, as then? Or was but the night-wind sweeping Down the hollow glen?
