# Poems by "Cushag"/The Babe of Earey Cushlin

THE BABE OF EAREY CUSHLIN.
So sad the lot of babe forlorn That hath no home in earth or sky, But sobs along the dark'ning broogh— "A Babe without a Name am I!"
Scarce launched upon its earthly course, It had no time to sin or pray; But all unwelcome, undesired, Its harmless life was cast away.
Unblest by sign of Holy Cross, Whose weight, like Christ, it surely bore, A sinless soul, through dreary space Thrust out to wander evermore.
It sobs along the lonely broogh, Where night and darkness fill the sky, "Oh, pity me! Oh, pity me! A Babe without a Name am I!"
Dark was the night and rough the road The Heiress in her anguish trod; To frenzy wrought, her only thought To hide her shame beneath the sod.
Ask not what woeful deed was done Ere dimly dawned the sombre day; What madness of despair sent forth That dreadful cry above the bay!
The sea-mews rose and wheeled and crossed, White wings against the dark brow'd hill; And widening circles on the tide Broke silently, and all was still.
•••••• At Earey-Cushlin blinds are drawn, And whispers fill the stagnant air, Wet foot-prints track the silent hall, And sea-weed drips from off the stair.
And on a day the mourners go, And hymns are sung and prayers are said, And in the Churchyard's hallowed ground They leave one more among the dead.
And should they grudge her hallowed ground That knew not what despair was hers, Nor dreamed what madness found her there In that lone Keeill among the furze?
So mass was sung and prayers were said, And tender hearts wept tears of pain. Perchance such tears might help to cleanse A hopeless soul from sinful stain.
Sad fate was hers; yet might she hope, Though ages long must pass before, Through prayers and fears and burning tears At last to reach the heavenly door.
And then–when purged by cleansing fires She trembles toward the distant light, Will she not think of that poor babe Thrust out to wander through the night!
So sad the lot of Babe unblest That hath no home in heaven or earth, But mourns in its cold winding sheet About the place that gave it birth.
It may not reach to heaven above It may not rest in earth below; Nor with its lighted taper pierce The limbo of its outcast woe.
The grey tide leaps upon the rocks, The sea-mews rise and cross and wheel, And ever as the darkness falls The Babe weeps lonely in the Keeill.
And in its trailing winding sheet Sobs o'er the broogh its piteous cry:— "Oh, pity me! oh, pity me! A Babe without a name am I!"
The old man ceased, and in the pause, We watched the smoke against the hill; As in a dream he told his tale, As in a dream we listened still.
His sea-blue eyes though dimmed by years Saw far beyond our time and space, And child-like faith in unseen things Had smoothed the furrows in his face.
His simple creed–to do his best As guardian of that treasured pile, Whose ancient towers and ruined choirs Stand crowned about Peel's holy Isle.
And leaning on his staff he sat Beside us in the sunny nook, Embrasured by cathedral walls Whose stones were all his sacred book.
Far off in haze we saw the Cronk That frowns o'er Earey Cushlin's strand, So far remote it seemed to be As old tales told in fairy-land.
And then one spoke–“Ah, say not so That sinless souls could thus be left To suffer for another’s fault Forever–of all hope bereft.”
“Such hapless souls might rather be The nurselings of the saints on high, And learn in gentler worlds than ours The music of the earth and sky.”
“Alas!” he said, “Those little ones Who unbaptised have breathed and died, May never reach the highest bliss– But still–the Father’s net is wide.”
“And you shall hear how this poor Babe Was lifted from its grievous plight, And, by the faith of two poor men, Set free to reach the blessed Light.” •••••• From Niarbyl Point to Bradda Head The great Bay Mooar lies broad and deep, And here the fishers cast their nets, While landward folk are lost in sleep.
With steady sweep of heavy oars, From Dalby strand they make their way, Before the lingering light has left The crags of Cronk-ny-Iree Lhaa.
Sometimes the night is loud with storm, Sometimes the creeping fog comes round, And sometimes all the moonlit hours Are holy with a peace profound.
Sometimes between the dusk and dark The fishers see a glancing spark, A tiny riding-light; Now here–now there– And now a pair, And now a score, And everywhere Around them dancing bright. And straightway all about them ride The fairy nickeys on the tide; And all the air is full of din, And elfish voices, shrewd and thin, And creak of spar, And smell of tar, And water washing up the side;
While here and there, And everywhere, The gentle folk Are well bespoke, And room is left for them to ride In safety on the gleaming tide. And then a puff Of wind comes by, “Oie-vie, oie-vie!” the fairies cry. And all around the sea is bare, And not a boat is anywhere!
And that’s the time the men would find Good luck with all the nets they cast, And rowing slow with loaded store, Be home before the night was past.
But other times the fish was scarce, And some would stay and some would go, About the Sloc or further out Or back to sleeping Dalby, row.
And sometimes only one alone Would drift along the shadowy land, And in the darkness quake to hear The Babe at Earey-Cushlin strand.
Two mates were drifting thus one night In lonely silence on the Bay, Such silence as old comrades know That means more than a man can say.
Then spoke at last the younger man– “The Babe is fretting sore to-night; And pitiful it is to hear Its cries up yonder on the height!”
And then the twain began to speak Of that sad story of the place; And question why such things should he And what could limit Saving Grace.
“For seemeth me,” the elder said, “That babe hath more than common loss, For it was born on holy ground Though never named with sign of cross.”
“And seemeth me,” he musing said, “It must have been so nearly saved, That even now it might be blest If any man the deed had braved.”
“And surely God’s own heart must ache To hear it sobbing through the dark, And long to have its christened soul Beside Him in the sheltering ark.”
“Your tender babes are safe at home, And cradled in their mother’s prayers; My sturdy sons to manhood grown, Have long repaid my early cares.”
“The very hawks upon the hill Watch their fierce brood through calm and storm; And timid conies in the fern Keep their soft younglings safe and warm.”
“And will not He who made them all Watch o’er His little lost ones too, And, maybe waited till this hour, For us poor men His Will to do.”
And then the other made reply– “Let us christen the Babe if that be so, And if we are doing the Will of the Lord He will send us a token, that we shall know.”
And these men of the sea stood up in the boat, That under them gave, and rocked, and swayed, And their hearts o’erflowed with a mighty faith, And they spake with God and were not afraid.
And they signed the Cross on the midnight air, While the lifting billows rolled and fell, And the star of night was their altar-light, And the deep sea sounded their vesper bell.
And the elder lifted his sea-worn hand, And bared to the sky his rev’rent head; While the younger followed him word by word. And thus to the Babe they spoke and said–
“If thou’rt a boy thy name shall be Juan, If thou’rt a girl thy name shall be Joan.” And the crying ceased and the Babe was still And the sound of the sea was heard alone.
And a star shot up from the lone dark Keeill And a soul flew free from the throes of night; And their eyes were opened that they could see The Babe’s glad welcome to fields of light.
And they heard the music of harps on high While the lifting billows rolled and fell, Till the sun rose over the watching Cronk And the deep sea sounded their matin bell.