 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
THE WEDDING OF THE CLANS.
A GIRL'S BABBLE.
I go to knit two clans together;
Our clan and this clan unseen of yore:
Our clan fears nought! but I go, O whither?
This day I go from my Mother's door.
Our clan and this clan unseen of yore:
Our clan fears nought! but I go, O whither?
This day I go from my Mother's door.
Thou redbreast sing'st the old song over
Though many a time thou hast sung it before;
They never sent thee to some strange new lover:—
I sing a new song by my Mother's door.
Though many a time thou hast sung it before;
They never sent thee to some strange new lover:—
I sing a new song by my Mother's door.
I stepp'd from my little room down by the ladder,
The ladder that never so shook before;
I was sad last night: to-day I am sadder
Because I go from my Mother's door.
The ladder that never so shook before;
I was sad last night: to-day I am sadder
Because I go from my Mother's door.
The last snow melts upon bush and bramble;
The gold bars shine on the forest's floor;
Shake not, thou leaf! it is I must tremble
Because I go from my Mother's door.
The gold bars shine on the forest's floor;
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Because I go from my Mother's door.
From a Spanish sailor a dagger I bought me;
I trail'd a rose-tree our grey bawn o'er;
The creed and my letters our old bard taught me;
My days were sweet by my Mother's door.
I trail'd a rose-tree our grey bawn o'er;
The creed and my letters our old bard taught me;
My days were sweet by my Mother's door.
My little white goat that with raised feet huggest
The oak stock, thy horns in the ivies frore,
Could I wrestle like thee—how the wreaths thou tuggest!—
I never would move from my Mother's door.
The oak stock, thy horns in the ivies frore,
Could I wrestle like thee—how the wreaths thou tuggest!—
I never would move from my Mother's door.
O weep no longer, my nurse and Mother!
My foster-sister, weep not so sore!
You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother;
Alone I go from my Mother's door.
My foster-sister, weep not so sore!
You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother;
Alone I go from my Mother's door.
Farewell, my wolf-hound, that slew Mac Owing
As he caught me and far through the thickets bore:
My heifer, Alb, in the green vale lowing,
My cygnet's nest upon Lorna's shore!
As he caught me and far through the thickets bore:
My heifer, Alb, in the green vale lowing,
My cygnet's nest upon Lorna's shore!
He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me;
His hand is like that of the giant Balor:
But I fear his kiss; and his beard affrights me,
And the great stone dragon above his door.
His hand is like that of the giant Balor:
But I fear his kiss; and his beard affrights me,
And the great stone dragon above his door.
Had I daughters nine with me they should tarry;
They should sing old songs; they should dance at my door;
They should grind at the quern;—no need to marry!
O when will this marriage-day be o'er?
They should sing old songs; they should dance at my door;
They should grind at the quern;—no need to marry!
O when will this marriage-day be o'er?
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |