 | Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill |  |
80
ONLY ONE.
There' five-an'-fifty islands maybe, take the world aroun',
An' the sun he be to light them all afore his goin' down;
But when he looks on Ireland 'tis then he shines the best,
An' he wants to see no other, an' he sinks into the West,—
For the sun would sleep beside her in the West.
An' the sun he be to light them all afore his goin' down;
But when he looks on Ireland 'tis then he shines the best,
An' he wants to see no other, an' he sinks into the West,—
For the sun would sleep beside her in the West.
81
There' many a lough in Ireland, an' one I know is small,
An' a little house beside it where the childer run an' call;
An' wather there an' heather there, an' sorra thing to see,
But a quare an' lonesome place it is that holds the girl for me,—
She's walkin' by the lough-side, an' thinkin' long for me.
An' a little house beside it where the childer run an' call;
An' wather there an' heather there, an' sorra thing to see,
But a quare an' lonesome place it is that holds the girl for me,—
She's walkin' by the lough-side, an' thinkin' long for me.
If I'd step up the loanin', the childer they would fly,
They're very strange in them parts where no one's passin' by;
They'd scatter out like pettericks, an' hide among the heather,
Their sister standin' by the door, an' in we'd go together,—
To spake the word would aise our hearts, the two of us together.
They're very strange in them parts where no one's passin' by;
They'd scatter out like pettericks, an' hide among the heather,
Their sister standin' by the door, an' in we'd go together,—
To spake the word would aise our hearts, the two of us together.
82
Then why go heavy-hearted, man, an' why live here your lone?
The sun he loves a green isle, but keeps the sky his own;
He's down in love this evenin', he's far away the morn,—
A man will lave his fancy an' the place where he was born,
Aye, a wheen things behind him in the place where he was born.
The sun he loves a green isle, but keeps the sky his own;
He's down in love this evenin', he's far away the morn,—
A man will lave his fancy an' the place where he was born,
Aye, a wheen things behind him in the place where he was born.
But for all that the best does be still-an'-ever one,
Oh, ne'er another Ireland can smile beneath the sun!
For all the loughs in Ireland, for all the glens there be,
The one lough, the one glen, the one girl for me;—
She's walkin' by the wather-side, an' thinkin' long for me.
Oh, ne'er another Ireland can smile beneath the sun!
For all the loughs in Ireland, for all the glens there be,
The one lough, the one glen, the one girl for me;—
She's walkin' by the wather-side, an' thinkin' long for me.
| Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill | |