 | Irish Songs and Ballads |  |
150
O'CURNAN'S SONG.
O Mary bhan asthore,
That through my bosom's core
Hast pierced me past the Isle of Fodla's healing;
By Heaven, 'tis my belief,
Had you but known my grief,
Long since to me with succour you'd been stealing.
That through my bosom's core
Hast pierced me past the Isle of Fodla's healing;
By Heaven, 'tis my belief,
Had you but known my grief,
Long since to me with succour you'd been stealing.
With tears the night I waste;
No food by day I taste,
But wander weak and silent as a shadow!
Ah! if I may not find
My Mary true and kind,
My mother soon must weep, a sonless widow.
No food by day I taste,
But wander weak and silent as a shadow!
Ah! if I may not find
My Mary true and kind,
My mother soon must weep, a sonless widow.
I know not night from day:
“Cuckoo!” the thrushes say!
But how can it be May in dark December?
My friends look strange and wild;
But hasten, Mary mild,
And well my heart its mistress shall remember.
“Cuckoo!” the thrushes say!
But how can it be May in dark December?
My friends look strange and wild;
But hasten, Mary mild,
And well my heart its mistress shall remember.
151
No herb or skill of hand
My cure can now command,
From you, O Flower of Love, alone I'll seek it;
Then hasten, hasten here,
My own and only dear,
And in your secret ear I'll softly speak it.
My cure can now command,
From you, O Flower of Love, alone I'll seek it;
Then hasten, hasten here,
My own and only dear,
And in your secret ear I'll softly speak it.
One sweet kiss from your mouth
Would quench my burning drouth,
And lift me back to life; ah! yield it to me;
Or make for me my bed
Among the mouldering dead,
Where the winding worms may crawl and channel through me.
Would quench my burning drouth,
And lift me back to life; ah! yield it to me;
Or make for me my bed
Among the mouldering dead,
Where the winding worms may crawl and channel through me.
Ah! better buried so
Than like a ghost to go,
All music, dance, and sport with sighs forsaking;
A witless, wandering man
For the love of Mary bhan,
With the heart within my bosom slowly breaking.
Than like a ghost to go,
All music, dance, and sport with sighs forsaking;
A witless, wandering man
For the love of Mary bhan,
With the heart within my bosom slowly breaking.
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