 | Irish Songs and Ballads |  |
106
GRAGALMACHREE.
At the foot of Newry Mountain, to a stream in the wood
One day I went fishing, and the take was so good
That the very first moment my angle was out
My hook it was fast in a fine plunging trout.
One day I went fishing, and the take was so good
That the very first moment my angle was out
My hook it was fast in a fine plunging trout.
But as down stream I stepped, with my soul full of sport,
On a sudden I chanced on a charming resort:
Where the beeches were bending in beautiful bowers
O'er a velvet-green carpet embroidered with flowers.
On a sudden I chanced on a charming resort:
Where the beeches were bending in beautiful bowers
O'er a velvet-green carpet embroidered with flowers.
And from under that arbour, so cool and so deep,
A colleen's voice chanted that made my heart leap,
For the song that she sang was, “My Lawrence, come hither,
For upon my secret heart you 've put your comether.”
A colleen's voice chanted that made my heart leap,
For the song that she sang was, “My Lawrence, come hither,
For upon my secret heart you 've put your comether.”
I threw down my angle, and, in through the shade,
Stole soft to the side of that young, blooming maid:
O, she's slender in the waist and her face is fair to see,
And her name in plain Irish is, Gragalmachree.
Stole soft to the side of that young, blooming maid:
O, she's slender in the waist and her face is fair to see,
And her name in plain Irish is, Gragalmachree.
111
For her tears and her sobs she scarcely could say,
“Ah, Lawrence! ah, Lawrence! what carried you this way
To overhear the secret long lodged in my breast,
And leave me for ever disgraced and distressed?”
“Ah, Lawrence! ah, Lawrence! what carried you this way
To overhear the secret long lodged in my breast,
And leave me for ever disgraced and distressed?”
Now, comfort you, comfort you, Gragalmachree,
For that little, sweet song was Heaven's music to me,
And God's blessing for ever attend on the thought
That took me fishing trout, till I found myself caught.
For that little, sweet song was Heaven's music to me,
And God's blessing for ever attend on the thought
That took me fishing trout, till I found myself caught.
And the moon she may darken and the stars lose their light:
And the green plains of Erin they may blacken with blight,
And her mountains all melt in the middle of the sea,
If I ever prove false to my Gragalmachree.
And the green plains of Erin they may blacken with blight,
And her mountains all melt in the middle of the sea,
If I ever prove false to my Gragalmachree.
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