The Poems of Thomas Davis

In a valley, far away,
With my Máire bhán a stóir,
Short would be the summer-day,
Ever loving more and more;
Winter-days would all grow long,
With the light her heart would pour,
With her kisses and her song,
And her loving maith go leór.
Fond is Máire bhán a stóir,
Fair is Máire bhán a stóir,
Sweet as ripple on the shore,
Sings my Máire bhán a stóir.

II

Oh! her sire is very proud,
And her mother cold as stone;
But her brother bravely vowed
She should be my bride alone;
For he knew I loved her well,
And he knew she loved me too,
So he sought their pride to quell,
But 'twas all in vain to sue.
True is Máire bhán a stóir,
Tried is Máire bhán a stóir,
Had I wings I'd never soar,
From my Máire bhán a stóir.

III

There are lands where manly toil
Surely reaps the crop it sows,
Glorious woods and teeming soil,
Where the broad Missouri flows;
Through the trees the smoke shall rise,
From our hearth with maith go leór,
There shall shine the happy eyes
Of my Máire bhán a stóir.
Mild is Máire bhán a stóir,
Mine is Máire bhán a stóir,
Saints will watch about the door
Of my Máire bhán a stóir.

Which means, “fair Mary my treasure.” If we are to write gibberish to enable some of our readers to pronounce this, we must do so thus, Maur-ya vaun asthore, and pretty looking stuff it is. Really it is time for the inhabitants of Ireland to learn Irish.—Author's Note.

Much plenty, or in abundance.—Author's Note.

University of Virginia Library

MAIRE BHAN A STOIR.

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