THE WRECK OF THE AIDEEN
Is it cure me, docther, darlin'? an ould boy of siventy-four,
Afther soakin' off Berehaven three and thirty hour and more,
Wid no other navigation underneath me but an oar.
God incrase ye, but it's only half myself is livin' still,
An' there's mountin' slow but surely to my heart the dyin' chill;
God incrase ye for your goodness, but I'm past all mortial skill.
But ye'll surely let them lift me, won't you, docther, from below?
Ye'll let them lift me surely—very soft and very slow—
To see my ould ship Aideen wanst agin before I go?
Lay my head upon your shoulder; thank ye kindly, docther, dear.
Take me now; God bless ye, cap'n! now together! sorra fear!
Have no dread that ye'll distress me—now, agin, ochone! I see her.
Ologone! my Aideen's Aideen, christened by her laughin' lips,
Wid a sprinkle from her finger, as ye started from the slips,
Thirty year ago come Shrovetide, like a swan among the ships.
And we both were constant to ye till the bitter, bitter day,
Whin the typhus took my darlin,' and she pined and pined away,
Till yourself's the only sweetheart that was left me on the say.
So through fair and foul we'd travel, you and I thin, usen't we?
The same ould coorse from Galway Bay, by Limerick and Tralee,
Till this storm it shook me overboard, and murthered you, machree.
But now, agra, the unruly wind has flown into the West,
And the silver moon is shinin' soft upon the ocean's breast,
Like Aideen's smilin' spirit come to call us to our rest.
Still the sight is growin' darker, and I cannot rightly hear,
The say's too cold for one so old; O, save me, cap'n, dear!
Now its growin' bright and warm agin, and Aideen, Aideen's here.
