 | Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill |  |
63
THE LITTLE SON.
When my little son is born on a sunny summer morn,
I'll take him sleepin' in my arms to wake beside the sea,
For the windy wathers blue would be dancin' if they knew,
An' the weeny waves that wet the sand come creepin' up to me.
I'll take him sleepin' in my arms to wake beside the sea,
For the windy wathers blue would be dancin' if they knew,
An' the weeny waves that wet the sand come creepin' up to me.
When my little son is here in the noonday warm an' clear,
I'll carry him so kindly up the glen to Craiga' Wood;
In a green an' tremblin' shadow there I'll hush my tender Iaddo,
An' the flittin' birds 'ill quet their songs as if they understood.
I'll carry him so kindly up the glen to Craiga' Wood;
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An' the flittin' birds 'ill quet their songs as if they understood.
When my pretty son's awake, och, the care o' him I'll take!
An' we'll never pass a gentle place between the dark an' day;
If he's lovely in his sleep on his face a veil I'll keep,
Or the wee folk an' the good folk might be wantin' him away.
An' we'll never pass a gentle place between the dark an' day;
If he's lovely in his sleep on his face a veil I'll keep,
Or the wee folk an' the good folk might be wantin' him away.
When my darlin' comes to me he will lie upon my knee,—
Though the world should be my pillow he must know no harder place.
Sure a queen's son may be cold in a cradle all o' gold,
But my arm shall be about him an' my kiss upon his face.
Though the world should be my pillow he must know no harder place.
Sure a queen's son may be cold in a cradle all o' gold,
But my arm shall be about him an' my kiss upon his face.
| Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill | |