The Fair Little Maiden

There is one at the door, Wolfe ODriscoll,
        At the door, who is bidding you come!
Who is he that wakes me in the darkness,
        Calling when all the worlds dumb?

Six horses has he to his carriage,
        Six horses blacker than the night,
And their twelve red eyes in the shadows
        Twelve lamps he carries for his light;

And his coach is a coffin black and mouldy,
        A huge black coffin open wide:
He asks for your soul, Wolfe ODriscoll,
        Who is calling at the door outside.

Who let him thro the gates of my gardens,
        Where stronger bolts have never been?
Twas the father of the fair little maiden
        You drove to her grave so green.

And who let him pass through the courtyard,
        By loosening the bar and the chain?
Oh, who but the brother of the maiden,
        Who lies in the cold and the rain!

Then who drew the bolts at the portal,
        And into my house bade him go?
She, the mother of the poor young maiden,
        Who lies in her youth so low.

Who stands, that he dare not enter,
        The door of my chamber, between?
O, the ghost of the fair little maiden,
        Who lies in the churchyard green.

Dora Sigerson Shorter

Dora Sigerson Shorter was an Irish poet and sculptor born in Dublin in 1866. She was one of the leading figures of the Irish Literary Revival, a movement that aimed to promote Irish literature and culture in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. She was also a close friend of W.B. Yeats and married the writer and journalist Clement King Shorter. Dora's work often dealt with themes of Irish nationalism and folklore, and she published several volumes of poetry before her untimely death in 1918.

Dora Sigerson Shorter

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Dora Sigerson Shorter, Simple Poetry

English

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The Ballad Of The Fairy Thorn-Tree

This is an evil night to go, my sister,
        To the fairy-tree across the fairy rath,
Will you not wait till Hallow Eve is over?
        For many are the dangers in your path!

I may not wait till Hallow Eve is over,
        I shall be there before the night is fled,
For, brother, I am weary for my lover,
        And I must see him once, alive or dead.

Ive prayed to heaven, but it would not listen,
        Ill call thrice in the devils name to-night,
Be it a live man that shall come to hear me,
        Or but a corpse, all clad in snowy white.

* * * * *

She had drawn on her silken hose and garter,
        Her crimson petticoat was kilted high,
She trod her way amid the bog and brambles,
        Until the fairy-tree she stood near-b...

Dora Sigerson Shorter

The Ballad Of The Little Black Hound

Who knocks at the Geraldines door to-night
        In the black storm and the rain?
With the thunder crash and the shrieking wind
        Comes the moan of a creatures pain.

And once they knocked, yet never a stir
        To show that the Geraldine knew;
And twice they knocked, yet never a bolt
        The listening Geraldine drew.

And thrice they knocked ere he moved his chair,
        And said, Whoever it be,
I dare not open the door to-night
        For a fear that has come to me.

Three times he rises from out his chair,
        And three times he sits him down.
Now what has made faint this heart of mine?
        He says with a growing frown.

Now what has made me a coward to-night,
        Who never knew fear before?

Dora Sigerson Shorter

The Old Maid

She walks in a lonely garden
        On the path her feet have made,
With high-heeled shoes, gold-buckled,
        And gown of a flowered brocade;

The hair that falls on her shoulders,
        Half-held with a ribbon tie,
Once glowed like the wheat in autumn,
        Now grey as a winter sky.

Time on her brow with rough fingers
        Writes his record of smiles and tears;
And her mind, like a golden timepiece,
        He stopped in the long past years.

At the foot of the lonely garden,
        When she comes to the trysting place
She knew of old, there she lingers,
        With a blush on her withered face.

The children out on the common:
        They climb to the garden wall;
And laugh: He will come to-morrow!
      ...

Dora Sigerson Shorter

The Kine Of My Father

The kine of my rather, they are straying from my keeping;
        The young goats at mischief, but little can I do:
For all through the night did I hear the Banshee keening;
        O youth of my loving, and is it well with you?

All through the night sat my mother with my sorrow;
        Whisht, it is the wind, O one childeen of my heart!
My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;
        Black head of my darling! too long are we apart.

Were your grave at my feet, I would think it half a blessing;
        I could herd then the cattle, and drive the goats away;
Many a Paternoster I would say for your safe keeping;
        I could sleep above your heart, until the dawn of day.

I see you on the prairie, hot with thirst and faint with hunger;

Dora Sigerson Shorter

The Priests Brother

Thrice in the night the priest arose
From broken sleep to kneel and pray.
Hush, poor ghost, till the red cock crows,
And I a Mass for your soul may say.

Thrice he went to the chamber cold,
Where, stiff and still uncoffinèd,
His brother lay, his beads he told,
And Rest, poor spirit, rest, he said.

Thrice lay the old priest down to sleep
Before the morning bell should toll;
But still he heard-and woke to weep-
The crying of his brothers soul.

All through the dark, till dawn was pale,
The priest tossed in his misery,
With muffled ears to hide the wail,
The voice of that ghosts agony.

At last the red cock flaps his wings
To trumpet of a day new-born.
The lark, awaking, soaring sings
Into the bosom of the morn.

Dora Sigerson Shorter

The Fairy Changeling

Dermod OByrne of Omah town
In his garden strode up and down;
He pulled his beard, and he beat his breast;
And this is his trouble and woe confessed:

The good-folk came in the night, and they
Have stolen my bonny wean away;
Have put in his place a changeling,
A weashy, weakly, wizen thing!

From the speckled hen nine eggs I stole,
And lighting a fire of a glowing coal,
I fried the shells, and I spilt the yolk;
But never a word the stranger spoke:

A bar of metal I heated red
To frighten the fairy from its bed,
To put in the place of this fretting wean
My own bright beautiful boy again.

But my wife had hidden it in her arms,
And cried For shame! on my fairy charms;
She sobs, with the strange child on her breast:
I lov...

Dora Sigerson Shorter