A Song and a Tale By Nora Hopper I--Lament of the Last Leprechaun FOR the red shoon of the Shee, For the falling o’ the leaf, For the wind among the reeds, My grief! For the sorrow of the sea, For the song’s unquickened seeds, For the sleeping of the Shee, My grief! For dishonoured whitethorn-tree, For the runes that no man reads, Where the grey stones face the sea, My grief! Lissakeole, that used to be Filled with music night and noon, For their ancient revelry, My grief! For the empty fairy shoon, Hollow rath and yellow leaf; Hands unkissed to sun or moon: My grief--my grief! II--Aonan-na-Righ AONAN-NA-RIGH they called him in Tir Ailella[I.]--“Darling of the King”--but it was in idle sport, for Cathal the Red hated the son of his old age as men now have forgotten to hate; and once Aonan had sprung from his sleep with a sharp skene thrust through his arm, that had meant to drink his life-blood; and once again he had found himself alone in the heart of the battle, and he had scarcely won out of the press with his life--and with the standard of the Danish enemy. Thus it was seen that neither did the Danish spears love the “King’s Darling”; and the sennachies made a song of this, and it was chanted before the King for the first time when he sat robed and crowned for the Beltane feast, and Aonan stood at his left hand, pouring out honey-wine into his father’s cup. And before he drank, Cathal the King stared hard at the cup-bearer, and the red light that burned in his eyes was darkened because of the likeness in Aonan’s face to his mother Acaill (dead and buried long since), whom Cathal had loved better than his first wife Eiver, who was a king’s daughter, and better than the Danish slave Astrild, who bore him five sons, elder and better-loved than Aonan, for all the base blood in their veins. And of these, two were dead in the battle that had spared Aonan, and there were left to Cathal the King only the Druid Coloman, and Toran the boaster, and Guthbinn of the sweet voice, who as yet was too young to fight. “Drink, Aonan-na-Righ,” shrilled Astrild from her seat at the King’s left hand. “Drink: lest there be death in the cup.” Aonan took up the golden cup, and gave her back smile for smile. “I drink,” he said, “to my mother, Acaill of Orgiall.” But the King snatched the cup from his fingers, and dashed it down on the board, so that the yellow mead spilled and stained Astrild’s cloak; but she did not dare complain, for there was the red light in Cathal’s eyes that was wont to make the boldest afraid. “Bring me another cup,” he said to one that stood near. “And now, will none of ye do honour to the toast of Aonan-na-Righ? Bring ye also a cup for the prince; and, Guthbinn, put your harp aside.”