A LEGEND OF ANTRIM.

BY T. D. M'GEE.

(SHOWING HOW RANDALL M'DONALD OF LORN, WON THE LANDS OF ANTRIM AND THEIR LADY.)

THE Lady of Antrim rose with the morn,

And donned her grandest gear;

And her heart beat fast, when a sounding horn

Announced a suitor near;

Her's was a heart so full of pride,

That love had little room,

And faith, I would not wish me such bride,

For all her beautiful bloom.

One suitor there came from the Scottish shore,
Long, and lithe, and grim;

And a younger one from Dunluce hoar,
And the lady inclined to him.
"But hearken ye, nobles both," she said,
As soon as they did dine-

"The hand must prove its chieftainry
That putteth a ring on mine.

"But not in the lists with armed hands,
Must this devoir be done,

Yet he who wins my broad, broad lands
Their lady may count as won.

Ye both were born upon the shore,—
Were bred upon the sea,

Now let me see you ply the oar,

For the land you love—and me!

"The chief that first can reach the strand,

May mount at morn and ride,

And his long day's ride shall bound his land,
And I will be his bride!"

M'Quillan felt hope in every vein,

As the bold, bright lady spoke

And M'Donald glanced over his rival again,
And bowed with a bargeman's stroke.

'Tis Summer upon the Antrim shore

The shore of shores it is

Where the white old rocks deep caves arch o'er, Unfathomed by man I wis

Where the basalt breast of our Isle flings back
The Scandinavian surge,

To howl through its native Scaggerack,
Chaunting the Viking's dirge.

'Tis Summer-the long white lines of foam

Roll lazily to the beach,

And man and maid from every home
Their eyes o'er the waters stretch.
On Glenarm's lofty battlements
Sitteth the Lady fair,

And the warm west wind blows softly
Through the links of her golden hair.

The boats in the distant offing,

Are marshalled prow to prow;
The boatmen cease their scoffing,
And bend to the rowlocks now;
Like glory-guided steeds they start-
Away o'er the waves they bound;
Each rower can hear the beating heart
Of his brother boatman sound.

Nearer! nearer! on they come-
Row, M'Donald, row!

For Antrim's princely castle home,

Its lands, and its Lady, row!

The chief that first can grasp the strand

May mount at morn and ride,

And his long day's ride shall bound his land,
And she shall be his bride!

He saw his rival gain apace,

He felt the spray in his wake

He thought of her who watched the race

More dear for her dowry sake!

Then he drew his skein from out its sheath,

And lopt off his left hand,

And pale and fierce, as a chief in death,

He hurled it to the strand!

"The chief that first can grasp the strand,
May mount at morn and ride;"

Oh, fleet is the steed which the bloody hand
Through Antrim's glens doth guide!
And legends tell that the proud ladye
Would fain have been unbanned,

For the chieftain who proved his chieftainry
Lorded both wife and land.

AILEEN THE HUNTRESS.

BY EDWARD WALSH.

[The incident related in the following ballad happened about the year 1731. Aileen, or Ellen, was daughter of M'Cartie of Clidane, an estate originally bestowed upon this respectable branch of the family of M'Cartie More, by James, the seventh earl of Desmond, and which, passing safe through the confiscations of Elizabeth, Cromwell, and William, remained in their possession until the beginning of the present century. Aileen, who is celebrated in the traditions of the people for her love of hunting, was the wife of James O'Connor, of Cluain-Tairbh, grandson of David, the founder of the Siol-t Da, a well-known sept at this day in Kerry. This David was grandson to Thomas MacTeige O'Connor, of Ahalahanna, head of the second house of O'Connor Kerry, who, forfeiting in 1666, escaped destruction by taking shelter among his relations, the Nagles of Monanimy.]

FAIR Aileen M'Cartie, O'Connor's young bride,
Forsakes her chaste pillow with matronly pride,
And calls forth her maidens (their number was nine)
To the bawn of her mansion, a-milking the kine.
They came at her bidding, in kirtle and gown,
And braided hair, jetty, and golden, and brown,
And form like the palm-tree, and step like the fawn,
And bloom like the wild rose that circled the bawn.

As the Guebre's round tower o'er the fane of Ardfert-
As the white hind of Brandon by young roes begirt-
As the moon in her glory 'mid bright stars outhung-
Stood Aileen M'Cartie her maidens among.

Beneath the rich kerchief, which matrons may wear,
Strayed ringletted tresses of beautiful hair;
They wav'd on her fair neck, as darkly as though
'Twere the raven's wing shining o'er Mangerton's snow!

*

A circlet of pearls o'er her white bosom lay,
Erst worn by thy proud Queen, O'Connor the gay,
And now to the beautiful Aileen come down,
The rarest that ever shed light in the Laune. †
The many-fringed falluinn‡ that floated behind,
Gave its hues to the sun-light, its folds to the wind-
The brooch that refrain'd it, some forefather bold
Had torn from a sea-king in battle-field old!

Around her went bounding two wolf-dogs of speed,
So tall in their stature, so pure in their breed;
While the maidens awake to the new-milk's soft fall,
A song of O'Connor in Carraig's proud hall.

As the milk came outpouring, and the song came outsung,
O'er the wall 'mid the maidens a red-deer outsprung-
Then cheer'd the fair lady-then rush'd the mad hound-
And away with the wild stag in air-lifted bound!

The gem-fastened falluinn is dash'd on the bawn-
One spring o'er the tall fence—and Aileen is gone!
But morning's rous'd echoes to the deep dells proclaim
The course of that wild stag, the dogs, and the dame!
By Cluain Tairbh's green border, o'er moorland and height,
The red-deer shapes downward the rush of his flight-
In sunlight his antlers all-gloriously flash,

And onward the wolf-dogs and fair huntress dash!

By Sliabh Mis now winding, (rare hunting I ween!)
He gains the dark valley of Scota the queen §
Who found in its bosom a cairn-lifted grave,

When Sliabh-Mis first flow'd with the blood of the brave!
By Coill-Cuaigh's || green shelter, the hollow rocks ring—
Coill-Cuaigh, of the cuckoo's first song in the spring,

O'Connor, surnamed "Sugach," or the Gay, was a celebrated chief of this race, who flourished in the fifteenth century.

The river Laune flows from the Lakes of Killarney, and the celebrated Kerry Pearls are found in its waters.

Falluinn,-the Irish mantle.

The first battle fought between the Milesians and the Tuatha de Danans for the empire of Ireland was at Sliabh-Mis, in Kerry, in which Scota, an Egyptian princess, and the relict of Milesius, was slain. A valley on the north side of Sliabh-Mis, called Glean Scoithin, or the vale of Scota, is said to be the place of her interment. The ancient chronicles assert that this battle was fought 1300 years before the Christian era.

Coill-Cuaigh,-the Wood of the Cuckoo, so called from being the favourite

Coill-Cuaigh of the tall oak and gale-scenting spray-
GOD's curse on the tyrants that wrought thy decay!

Now Maing's lovely border is gloriously won,
Now the towers of the island* gleam bright in the sun,
And now Ceall-an Amanach's† portals are pass'd,
Where headless the Desmond found refuge at last!
By Ard-na greach‡ mountain, and Avonmore's head,
To the Earl's proud pavilion the panting deer fled—
Where Desmond's tall clansmen spread banners of pride,
And rush'd to the battle, and gloriously died!

The huntress is coming, slow, breathless, and pale,
Her raven locks streaming all wild in the gale;
She stops-and the breezes bring balm to her brow—
But wolf-dog and wild deer, oh! where are they now?
On Réidhlán-Tigh-an-Eárla, by Avonmore's well,
His bounding heart broken, the hunted deer fell,
And o'er him the brave hounds all gallantly died,
In death still victorious—their fangs in his side.

"Tis evening-the breezes beat cold on her breast,
And Aileen must seek her far home in the west;
Yet weeping, she lingers where the mist-wreathes are chill,
O'er the red-deer and tall dogs that lie on the hill!
Whose harp at the banquet told distant and wide,
This feat of fair Aileen, O'Connor's young bride?
O'Daly's-whose guerdon tradition hath told,
Was a purple-crown'd wine-cup of beautiful gold!

haunt of the bird of summer, is now a bleak desolate moor. The axe of the stranger laid its honours low.

* Castle Island" or the "island of Kerry,"-the stronghold of the Fitzgeralds.

It was in this churchyard that the headless remains of the unfortunate Gerald, the 16th Earl of Desmond, were privately interred. The head was carefully pickled, and sent over to the English queen, who had it fixed on London-bridge. This mighty chieftain possessed more than 570,000 acres of land, and had a train of 500 gentlemen of his own name and race. At the source of the Blackwater, where he sought refuge from his inexorable foes, is a mountain called "Reidhlan-Tigh-an-Earla," or "The Plain of the Earl's House." He was slain near Castle Island on 11th November 1583.

† Ard-na greach,-the height of the spoils or armies.