 | Lays of the Western Gael, and Other Poems |  |
154
MOLLY ASTORE.
IRISH SONG.
Oh, Mary dear, oh, Mary fair,
Oh, branch of generous stem,
White blossom of the banks of Nair,
Though lilies grow on them!
You've left me sick at heart for love,
So faint I cannot see,
The candle swims the board above,
I'm drunk for love of thee!
Oh, stately stem of maiden pride,
My woe it is, and pain,
That I, thus sever'd from thy side,
The long night must remain!
Oh, branch of generous stem,
White blossom of the banks of Nair,
Though lilies grow on them!
You've left me sick at heart for love,
So faint I cannot see,
The candle swims the board above,
I'm drunk for love of thee!
Oh, stately stem of maiden pride,
My woe it is, and pain,
That I, thus sever'd from thy side,
The long night must remain!
Through all the towns of Innisfail
I've wander'd far and wide;
But from Downpatrick to Kinsale,
From Carlow to Kilbride,
'Mong lords and dames of high degree,
Where'er my feet have gone,
My Mary, one to equal thee
I've never look'd upon;
I live in darkness and in doubt
Whene'er my love's away,
But, were the blessed sun put out,
Her shadow would make day!
I've wander'd far and wide;
But from Downpatrick to Kinsale,
From Carlow to Kilbride,
'Mong lords and dames of high degree,
Where'er my feet have gone,
My Mary, one to equal thee
I've never look'd upon;
I live in darkness and in doubt
Whene'er my love's away,
But, were the blessed sun put out,
Her shadow would make day!
155
'Tis she indeed, young bud of bliss,
And gentle as she's fair.
Though lily-white her bosom is,
And sunny-bright her hair,
And dewy-azure her blue eye,
And rosy-red her cheek,—
Yet brighter she in modesty,
More beautifully meek!
The world's wise men from north to south
Can never cure my pain;
But one kiss from her honey mouth
Would make me whole again!
And gentle as she's fair.
Though lily-white her bosom is,
And sunny-bright her hair,
And dewy-azure her blue eye,
And rosy-red her cheek,—
Yet brighter she in modesty,
More beautifully meek!
The world's wise men from north to south
Can never cure my pain;
But one kiss from her honey mouth
Would make me whole again!
| Lays of the Western Gael, and Other Poems | |