SONG.
The Little Black Rose
shall be red at last!
What made it black but the East wind dry
And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?
It shall redden the hills when June is nigh!
The Silk of the Kine
shall rest at last!
What drave her forth but the dragon-fly?
In the golden vale she shall feed full fast
With her mild gold horn, and her slow dark eye.
The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last:
The pine long-bleeding, it shall not die!
—This song is secret. Mine ear it pass'd
In a wind o'er the stone-plain of Athenry.
