JUNE 



IRISH GARDENING, 



89 



in most show schedules about tent committees not 

 allowing- untidy exhibits to be staged, but I must admit 

 that they do not do their duty. You will be told that you 

 do not want to discourage a beginner by acting as 

 above ; quite right, but why not take the trouble to help 

 that poor beginner, and show him how the thing should 

 be done. He would, perhaps, thank you. and the tout 

 ensemble of your show would look much better. After 

 all, much depends on the exhibitor himself but even he 

 can be got at if you go the right way. I think the card 

 business with the exposed points has much to recom- 

 mend it to a universal trial all through our shows this 

 year. 



Nature-Poetry. 



By PXdraic Colvm. 



|N the mountain to-day there is 

 the beautiful lig-ht of the sum- 

 mer. The furze, against a 

 backg-round of recent burning-, 

 is fresh, brilliant, and profuse. 

 The young- kids are still beside 

 their mothers, but they have 

 become active and daring-, and the old horses in 

 the grass-lands have regained some spirit and 

 bravery. The beauty of this month is so palpable 

 that every generation has expressed delight in it, 

 and it is so simple that the oldest are the truest 

 expressions. As I cross the mountain to-day an 

 Irish poem of the ninth century is in my mind. 

 It was made by Fionn, the hero of a race older 

 perhaps than the historic Gaelic race. In Fionn's 

 day a hero had to show he was something of a poet 

 before he was admitted into the military com- 

 panionship of the Fianna, and certainly Fionn 

 and many of his companions showed a poet's 

 understanding of the large and simple nature 

 amongst which they moved. Well, the young 

 champion was asked to "prove his poetry," 

 and, as became a youth in the youth of the 

 world, he took for his subject the May day. 

 Said Fionn : — 



May day, season surpassing ! Splendid is colour then ! 

 Blackbirds sing a full lay if there be a slender shaft 

 of day. 



The dust-coloured cuckoo calls aloud welcome, splendid 

 summer : The bitter, bad weather is past, the 

 boughs of the wood are a thicket. 



Summer cuts the river down, the swift herd of horses 

 seek the pool, the long hair of the heather is out- 

 spread the soft white, wild cotton blows. 



The harp of the forest sounds nnisic, the sail gathers — 

 perfect peace. Colour has settled on every height, 

 haze in the lake of full waters. 



The corncrake, a strenuous bard, discourses, the lofty 



virgin waterfall sings a welcome to the warm pool, 



the talk of the rushes is come. 

 Man flourishes, the maiden buds in her strong pride. 



Perfect each forest from top to ground. Perfect 



each great stately plain. 



A timorous, tiny, persistent little fellow sings at the 

 top of his voice, the lark sings clear tidings. Sur- 

 passing May of delicate colours. 



Fionn remained a lover of the beautiful sum- 

 mer time. Once a lazy fellow in his service, 

 wishing to numb human endeavour, stated in 

 poetic stanzas that winter was in occupation of 

 the land. Fionn contradicted him. Summer 

 had come, and, as of old, the hero praised the 

 season : — 



The sun smiles over every land. A parting for me 

 from the brood of cares. Hounds bark, stags 

 tryst, ravens flourish, summer has come. 



The light and colour of summer has been 

 noticed by those old Irish poets. " When 

 splendid summer time spreads her coloured 

 mantle " is a phrase used in another of the 

 nature poems. 



In Standish Hayes O'Grady's " Silva Gadelica" 

 many nature poems are quoted. One of the 

 longest, enumerating the trees, informs us how 

 each tree was regarded by our ancestors, 

 lubhdan saw his servant about to burn a twist 

 of woodbine, and he recited the following poem 

 as a counsel to the woodman : — 



O man, that for Fergus of the feasts doth kindle 

 fire, whether afloat or ashore, never burn the King of the 

 Woods. Monarch of Innisfail's forests the woodbine is, 

 whom none maj' hold captive, no feeble sovereign's eft'ort 

 it is to hug all tough trees in his embrace. . . 

 Burn not the precious apple tree of spreading and 

 low sweeping bough, tree ever decked in bloom of 

 white, against whose fair head all man put forth the 

 hand. The surly blackthorn is a wanderer, and a wood 

 that the artificer burns not, throughout his body, though 

 it be scanty, birds in their flocks warble. The noble 

 willow tree burn not, a tree sacred to poems, within his 

 blooms bees are a-sucking, all love the little cage. . . 

 Dark is the colour of the ash, timber that makes the 

 wheels to go, rods he furnishes for the horseman's 

 hands, and his form turns battle into flight. Tenter- 

 hook amongst woods the spiteful briar is. by all means 

 burn him that is so keen and green, he cuts, he flays 

 the foot . . . Holly, burn it green, holly, burn it dry; 

 of all trees whatsoever, the critically best is the holly. 

 . . . Patriarch of the long-lasting woods is the yew, 

 sacred to feasts as is well known, of him now build ye 

 dark-red vats of goodly size. 



I fancy it would take a whole number of this 

 journal to quote with any fulness the nature 

 poems embedded in the slow-moving prose of 



