Part 32 (1/2)
Forests of cows' horns and drovers' sticks, clamor of frightened cattle, emphatic slapping of palms. Clouds of dust where the horse fair was carried on. Stands of fruit and cakes. Stalls of religious ornaments, prayer-books, and rosary beads ... A shooting gallery ... A three-card trickster, white and pimpled of face ... A trick-of-the-loop man, with soap-box and greasy string ... A man who sold a gold watch, a sovereign, and some silver for the sum of fifteen s.h.i.+llings ... An old man with the Irish bagpipes, bellows strapped to arm, playing ”The Birds Among the Trees,” ”The Swallow-tail Coat,” ”The Green Fields of America”
... small boys regarding him curiously ... later young farmers and girls would be dancing sets to his piping ... At the end of the street a ballad-monger declaiming, not singing--his head thrown back, his voice issuing in a measured chant ... ”The Lament for the Earl of Lucan”:
Patrick Sarsfield, Ireland's wonder!
Fought in the field like bolts of thunder!
One of Ireland's best commanders!
Now is food for the crows of Flanders!
Och! Ochone!
A knot of older people had gathered around him, white-headed farmers, bent turf-cutters of the glens, a girl-child with eyes like saucers. A priest stopped to listen ... The crude English of the ballad faded out, until there was nothing but disheveled agony ... rhythm ... a wail ...
Somewhere a leaping current of feeling ... There was a woman on the edge of the crowd, a lady ... She came nearer, as though hypnotized ...
The country bard stopped suddenly, exalted, and swung dramatically into Gaelic ... Dropping the alien tongue he seemed to have dropped fetters.... His voice rose to a paean ... he took on stature ... he looked straight in the eye of the sun ... And for Shane the clamor of the drovers ceased ... And there was the plucked note of harpers ... And fires of ancient oak ... and wolf-dogs sleeping on skins of elk ... And there was a wasted place in the twilight, and gra.s.s through a split hearthstone ... And a warrior-poet, beaten, thinking bitter under the stars ...
_Do threasgar an saoghal agas do thainic an gaoth mar smal-- Alastrom, Caesar, 's an mead do bhi da bpairt; Ta an Teamhair na fear agas feach an Traoi mar ta!
'S na Sasanaigh fein, do b' fheidir go bhfaigh dis bas!_
A voice spoke excitedly, imperiously to Shane:
”What is he saying? Do you know Gaelic?”
”I'm afraid I've forgotten my Gaelic, but I know this song.”
”Then what is it? Please tell me. I must know.”
”He says:
”The world conquers them all. The wind whirls like dust.
Alexander, Caesar, and the companies whom they led.
Tara is gra.s.s, and see how Troy is now!
And the English themselves, even they may die.”
”How great!” she said. ”How very great!” She turned to Shane, and as he saw the dark imperious face, he knew intuitively he was speaking to the Woman of Tusa hErin. She seemed puzzled for an instant. Something in Shane's clothes, his carriage ...
”You don't look as if you understood Gaelic? How is it you can translate this poem?”
”I knew it as a boy. My father was a Gaelic poet.”
”Then you are Shane Campbell.”
”And you are the woman of Tusa hErin!”
”You know Tusa hErin?”
”I know every blade of gra.s.s in the glens.”
”If you are ever near Tusa hErin, come and see me.”