The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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A BALLAD. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
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A BALLAD.
In tenui, tenuis non gloria. Virg.
'Twas early in the morning, and
passing sweet to view,
The glist'ning Sun had kiss'd off cold April's falling dew,
I heard a lonely virgin, all by a river side,
Lamen thus sore her lost love, who in the battle dy'd;
She wrung her hands more white than snow, she tore her yellow hair,
And though in sorrow sunk, alas! methought look'd wond'rous fair;
For ever as the trembling tear stood bursting in her eye,
Her pretty bosom swell'd to sight, and gave a piteous sigh.
The glist'ning Sun had kiss'd off cold April's falling dew,
I heard a lonely virgin, all by a river side,
Lamen thus sore her lost love, who in the battle dy'd;
She wrung her hands more white than snow, she tore her yellow hair,
And though in sorrow sunk, alas! methought look'd wond'rous fair;
For ever as the trembling tear stood bursting in her eye,
Her pretty bosom swell'd to sight, and gave a piteous sigh.
“Why would'st thou go, my own love, the cruel
wars to brave,
Was not this bosom softer than Ocean's troubled wave?
Oh! did you on the damp ground enjoy such swect repose,
Or could those smiles that conquer'd me appease your deadly foes?
When round your comely temples, where curling tresses grew,
The bloody faulchions glitter'd, the whisling bullets flew,
Could you no pitying angel, o'erhead, to save you see,
And when I thought of you, love, did you still think of me?”
Was not this bosom softer than Ocean's troubled wave?
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Or could those smiles that conquer'd me appease your deadly foes?
When round your comely temples, where curling tresses grew,
The bloody faulchions glitter'd, the whisling bullets flew,
Could you no pitying angel, o'erhead, to save you see,
And when I thought of you, love, did you still think of me?”
The green sod where we lay, love, I've cover'd o'er
with flow'rs,
And there I've press'd the cold earth for many silent hours;
A willow-plant I planted, which you would joy to see,
But the flow'rs are all long wither'd, though the willow grows for me!
Ungrateful flow'rs they were, for morn, and ev'ning here,
I gently op'd their little leaves, and water'd with a tear;
And though the drooping willow-slip had least of all my care,
Behold you how it springs up, as fast as my despair!”
And there I've press'd the cold earth for many silent hours;
A willow-plant I planted, which you would joy to see,
But the flow'rs are all long wither'd, though the willow grows for me!
Ungrateful flow'rs they were, for morn, and ev'ning here,
I gently op'd their little leaves, and water'd with a tear;
And though the drooping willow-slip had least of all my care,
Behold you how it springs up, as fast as my despair!”
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“My father is a hard one, his heart is made of
stone,
My mother too is hard, and my sisters mock my moan;
They talk to me of sweethearts, of gold, and jest, and glee,
They little think my poor heart is in the grave with thee!
But they nor all the world, my thoughts of thee shall know,
And in this nook I'll hide up the treasure of my woe,
Till grief and sorrow tir'd out, I'll steal off, bye and bye,
And here upon the green sod, I'll lay me down and die!”
My mother too is hard, and my sisters mock my moan;
They talk to me of sweethearts, of gold, and jest, and glee,
They little think my poor heart is in the grave with thee!
But they nor all the world, my thoughts of thee shall know,
And in this nook I'll hide up the treasure of my woe,
Till grief and sorrow tir'd out, I'll steal off, bye and bye,
And here upon the green sod, I'll lay me down and die!”
| The Harp of Erin | |