 | Songs and Poems by George Sigerson |  |
15
THE CAILIN DEAS
The gold rain of eve was descending,
And purple robed forest and lea,
As I, through Glenmornin was wending
A wanderer from over the sea,
'Twas the lap of a west-looking mountain,
Its woody slope bright with the glow,
Where sang by a murmuring fountain
An Cailin deas crúidhte na m-bó.
And purple robed forest and lea,
As I, through Glenmornin was wending
A wanderer from over the sea,
'Twas the lap of a west-looking mountain,
Its woody slope bright with the glow,
Where sang by a murmuring fountain
An Cailin deas crúidhte na m-bó.
Yon cloud where a sun-ray reposes
Might picture her brown wavy hair,
And her teeth look, as if, in a rose's
Red bosom a snow-flake gleamed fair.
As her tones down the valley went ringing
The listening thrush mimicked them low,
And the brooklet harped soft to the singing
Of Cailin deas crúidhte na m-bó.
Might picture her brown wavy hair,
And her teeth look, as if, in a rose's
Red bosom a snow-flake gleamed fair.
As her tones down the valley went ringing
The listening thrush mimicked them low,
And the brooklet harped soft to the singing
Of Cailin deas crúidhte na m-bó.
“At last, o'er thy long night, sad Eirinn!”
She sang: “the bright dawning appears;
But thy mountaineers still are despairing,
The valley is dreary with fears:
Ah, my Diarmuid, the patriot-hearted,
Who would fire them with hope for the blow,
Far, Eirinn, from thee is he parted
Far from Cailin deas crúidhte na m-bó.
She sang: “the bright dawning appears;
But thy mountaineers still are despairing,
The valley is dreary with fears:
Ah, my Diarmuid, the patriot-hearted,
Who would fire them with hope for the blow,
Far, Eirinn, from thee is he parted
Far from Cailin deas crúidhte na m-bó.
16
Her tears, on a sudden, brimmed over,
Her voice trembled, low and less clear;
To listen I stepped from my cover,
But the bough-rustle broke on her ear;
She started—she reddened—“A Stóirín!”
My Diarmuid!—O, can it be so?”
And I clasped to my glad heart sweet Móirín,
Mo Cailin deas crúidhte na m-bó!
Her voice trembled, low and less clear;
To listen I stepped from my cover,
But the bough-rustle broke on her ear;
She started—she reddened—“A Stóirín!”
My Diarmuid!—O, can it be so?”
And I clasped to my glad heart sweet Móirín,
Mo Cailin deas crúidhte na m-bó!
| Songs and Poems by George Sigerson | |