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IRISH MELODIES. |
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Of all the proud steeds that ever bore Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,
White Steed, most joy to thee ; Who still, with the first young glance of spring, From under that glorious lake dost hring
My love, my Chief, to me.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launch'd, thy long mane * curls,
Fair Steed, as white and free; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Glide o'er the blue wave, scattering flowers
Around my love and thee.
Of-all the sweet deaths that maidens die, Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
Most sweet that death will be, Which, under the next May evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, 111 die for thee.
more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of May-day, gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.
Among other stories connected with this Legend of the Lakes it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw herself into the lake.
* The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, " O'Donohue's white horses." |
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