 | Irish Poems |  |
17
THE MOUNTAINS
To my Father
I heard them talk of the mountains,
The kind and innocent folk:
Something troubled the fountains
The grief in my heart awoke.
The kind and innocent folk:
Something troubled the fountains
The grief in my heart awoke.
My heart was a heart that broke;
Something troubled the fountains;
The grief in my heart awoke
When they talked of the mountains.
Something troubled the fountains;
The grief in my heart awoke
When they talked of the mountains.
Over the mountain blue,
By the fields and the winding boreen,
I walked and I talked with you
In days that are over, asthoreen.
By the fields and the winding boreen,
I walked and I talked with you
In days that are over, asthoreen.
We walked together, asthoreen,
When the blackbird sang in the dew;
As we talked by the fields and the boreen
My heart was a bird that flew.
When the blackbird sang in the dew;
As we talked by the fields and the boreen
My heart was a bird that flew.
18
Now it is heavy as lead,
No matter how fine the weather;
It falls like a thing stone-dead
That once was light as a feather.
No matter how fine the weather;
It falls like a thing stone-dead
That once was light as a feather.
We walked and we talked together,
And pleasant the things we said:
The larks sprang out of the heather.
Och, many's the tear I've shed!
And pleasant the things we said:
The larks sprang out of the heather.
Och, many's the tear I've shed!
The kind and innocent people
Discourse of the mountains still.
I think of a low grey steeple
And the graves lying under the hill.
Discourse of the mountains still.
I think of a low grey steeple
And the graves lying under the hill.
Ochone—these Summers are chill!
They were meaning nothing, the people.
My heart went crying its fill
For a new grave under the steeple.
They were meaning nothing, the people.
My heart went crying its fill
For a new grave under the steeple.
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