 | Irish Songs and Ballads |  |
93
THE HANDSOME WITCH.
“Have I seen a witch, your honour?'Deed I often have that same;
But the worst was Morna Connor,
Called ‘The Handsome Witch’ by name.
She was tall, no woman taller
Ever cross'd your cur'ous sight,
And to see her pass, you'd call her
Higher nor her proper height:
For though Time his constant quarrel
Waged upon her cheek and lip;
Though he stole their laughin' coral
And destroyed their lovely clip;
Though he robbed the sculptured roundness
From her ivory neck and arm,
Wasted up the soft profoundness
Of her bosom's swellin' charm;
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Of his shinin' winter snow;
Yes! and wrote his warnin' wrinkles
On her bold, unbendin' brow—
Time himself, that still unsparin'
Bows the lordliest in the land,
Could not curb the haughty bearin'
Of that woman great and grand.
No! nor thin one curlin' cluster
Of her long, luxuriant hair:
No! nor quinch the steady lustre
Of her eyes' contimptuous stare.
Many a cow wid swellin' udder,
As the crafty crone went by,
Took one cowld, unchristian shudder,
Dad! and ran complately dry;
While the witch she crossed the clover,
Steadyin' on her skull wid care
A full keeler frothin' over,
As if milked from out the air.
Many a colleen in the dairy
Still should wave the churn-staff round,
Scatterin' salt that crabbed fairy
Wid her canthrips to confound:
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Till she hadn't strength to stand;
While through clear, enchanted water
Morna drew the dead-man's hand.
But I beg your honour's pardon,
I'll conclude some other day;
For the calf is in the garden,
And the heifer 's at the hay.”
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