The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSixteen PoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Sixteen PoemsAuthor: William AllinghamCompiler: W. B. YeatsRelease date: October 9, 2005 [eBook #16839]Most recently updated: December 12, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Starner, Sigal Alon and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIXTEEN POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Sixteen PoemsAuthor: William AllinghamCompiler: W. B. YeatsRelease date: October 9, 2005 [eBook #16839]Most recently updated: December 12, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Starner, Sigal Alon and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Title: Sixteen Poems
Author: William AllinghamCompiler: W. B. Yeats
Author: William Allingham
Compiler: W. B. Yeats
Release date: October 9, 2005 [eBook #16839]Most recently updated: December 12, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Starner, Sigal Alon and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIXTEEN POEMS ***
A wild west Coast, a little Town,Where little Folk go up and down,Tides flow and winds blow:Night and Tempest and the Sea,Human Will and Human Fate:What is little, what is great?Howsoe'er the answer be,Let me sing of what I know.
A wild west Coast, a little Town,Where little Folk go up and down,Tides flow and winds blow:Night and Tempest and the Sea,Human Will and Human Fate:What is little, what is great?Howsoe'er the answer be,Let me sing of what I know.
Adieu to Belashanny!where I was bred and born;Go where I may, I'll think of you,as sure as night and morn.The kindly spot, the friendly town,where every one is known,And not a face in all the placebut partly seems my own;There's not a house or window,there's not a field or hill,But, east or west, in foreign lands,I'll recollect them still.I leave my warm heart with you,tho' my back I'm forced to turn—Adieu to Belashanny,and the winding banks of Erne!No more on pleasant eveningswe'll saunter down the Mall,When the trout is rising to the fly,the salmon to the fall.The boat comes straining on her net,and heavily she creeps,Cast off, cast off—she feels the oars,and to her berth she sweeps;Now fore and aft keep hauling,and gathering up the clew,Till a silver wave of salmonrolls in among the crew.Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit,and many a joke and 'yarn';—Adieu to Belashanny,and the winding banks of Erne!The music of the waterfall,the mirror of the tide,When all the green-hill'd harbouris full from side to side,From Portnasun to Bulliebawns,and round the Abbey Bay,From rocky Inis Saimerto Coolnargit sandhills gray;While far upon the southern line,to guard it like a wall,The Leitrim mountains clothed in bluegaze calmly over all,And watch the ship sail up or down,the red flag at her stern;—Adieu to these, adieu to allthe winding banks of Erne!Farewell to you, Kildoney lads,and them that pull an oar,A lug-sail set, or haul a net,from the Point to Mullaghmore;From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League,that ocean-mountain steep,Six hundred yards in air aloft,six hundred in the deep,From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge,and round by Tullen strand,Level and long, and white with waves,where gull and curlew stand;Head out to sea when on your leethe breakers you discern!—Adieu to all the billowy coast,and winding banks of Erne!Farewell, Coolmore,—Bundoran! andyour summer crowds that runFrom inland homes to see with joyth' Atlantic-setting sun;To breathe the buoyant salted air,and sport among the waves;To gather shells on sandy beach,and tempt the gloomy caves;To watch the flowing, ebbing tide,the boats, the crabs, the fish;Young men and maids to meet and smile,and form a tender wish;The sick and old in search of health,for all things have their turn—And I must quit my native shore,and the winding banks of Erne!Farewell to every white cascadefrom the Harbour to Belleek,And every pool where fins may rest,and ivy-shaded creek;The sloping fields, the lofty rocks,where ash and holly grow,The one split yew-tree gazingon the curving flood below;The Lough, that winds through islandsunder Turaw mountain green;And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods,with tranquil bays between;And Breesie Hill, and many a pondamong the heath and fern,—For I must say adieu—adieuto the winding banks of Erne!The thrush will call through Camlin grovesthe live-long summer day;The waters run by mossy cliff,and banks with wild flowers gay;The girls will bring their work and singbeneath a twisted thorn,Or stray with sweethearts down the pathamong the growing corn;Along the river-side they go,where I have often been,Oh, never shall I see againthe happy days I've seen!A thousand chances are to oneI never may return,—Adieu to Belashanny,and the winding banks of Erne!Adieu to evening dances,when merry neighbours meet,And the fiddle says to boys and girls,'Get up and shake your feet!'To 'seanachas' and wise old talkof Erin's days gone by—Who trench'd the rath on such a hill,and where the bones may lieOf saint, or king, or warrior chief;with tales of fairy power,And tender ditties sweetly sungto pass the twilight hour.The mournful song of exileis now for me to learn—Adieu, my dear companionson the winding banks of Erne!Now measure from the Commons downto each end of the Purt,Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,—I wish no one any hurt;The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane,the Mall, and Portnasun,If any foes of mine are there,I pardon every one.I hope that man and womankindwill do the same by me;For my heart is sore and heavyat voyaging the sea.My loving friends I'll bear in mind,and often fondly turnTo think of Belashanny,and the winding banks of Erne.If ever I'm a money'd man,I mean, please God, to castMy golden anchor in the placewhere youthful years were pass'd;Though heads that now are black and brownmust meanwhile gather gray,New faces rise by every hearth,and old ones drop away—Yet dearer still that Irish hillthan all the world beside;It's home, sweet home, where'er I roamthrough lands and waters wide.And if the Lord allows me,I surely will returnTo my native Belashanny,and the winding banks of Erne.
Adieu to Belashanny!where I was bred and born;Go where I may, I'll think of you,as sure as night and morn.The kindly spot, the friendly town,where every one is known,And not a face in all the placebut partly seems my own;There's not a house or window,there's not a field or hill,But, east or west, in foreign lands,I'll recollect them still.I leave my warm heart with you,tho' my back I'm forced to turn—Adieu to Belashanny,and the winding banks of Erne!
No more on pleasant eveningswe'll saunter down the Mall,When the trout is rising to the fly,the salmon to the fall.The boat comes straining on her net,and heavily she creeps,Cast off, cast off—she feels the oars,and to her berth she sweeps;Now fore and aft keep hauling,and gathering up the clew,Till a silver wave of salmonrolls in among the crew.Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit,and many a joke and 'yarn';—Adieu to Belashanny,and the winding banks of Erne!
The music of the waterfall,the mirror of the tide,When all the green-hill'd harbouris full from side to side,From Portnasun to Bulliebawns,and round the Abbey Bay,From rocky Inis Saimerto Coolnargit sandhills gray;While far upon the southern line,to guard it like a wall,The Leitrim mountains clothed in bluegaze calmly over all,And watch the ship sail up or down,the red flag at her stern;—Adieu to these, adieu to allthe winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to you, Kildoney lads,and them that pull an oar,A lug-sail set, or haul a net,from the Point to Mullaghmore;From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League,that ocean-mountain steep,Six hundred yards in air aloft,six hundred in the deep,From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge,and round by Tullen strand,Level and long, and white with waves,where gull and curlew stand;Head out to sea when on your leethe breakers you discern!—Adieu to all the billowy coast,and winding banks of Erne!
Farewell, Coolmore,—Bundoran! andyour summer crowds that runFrom inland homes to see with joyth' Atlantic-setting sun;To breathe the buoyant salted air,and sport among the waves;To gather shells on sandy beach,and tempt the gloomy caves;To watch the flowing, ebbing tide,the boats, the crabs, the fish;Young men and maids to meet and smile,and form a tender wish;The sick and old in search of health,for all things have their turn—And I must quit my native shore,and the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to every white cascadefrom the Harbour to Belleek,And every pool where fins may rest,and ivy-shaded creek;The sloping fields, the lofty rocks,where ash and holly grow,The one split yew-tree gazingon the curving flood below;The Lough, that winds through islandsunder Turaw mountain green;And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods,with tranquil bays between;And Breesie Hill, and many a pondamong the heath and fern,—For I must say adieu—adieuto the winding banks of Erne!
The thrush will call through Camlin grovesthe live-long summer day;The waters run by mossy cliff,and banks with wild flowers gay;The girls will bring their work and singbeneath a twisted thorn,Or stray with sweethearts down the pathamong the growing corn;Along the river-side they go,where I have often been,Oh, never shall I see againthe happy days I've seen!A thousand chances are to oneI never may return,—Adieu to Belashanny,and the winding banks of Erne!
Adieu to evening dances,when merry neighbours meet,And the fiddle says to boys and girls,'Get up and shake your feet!'To 'seanachas' and wise old talkof Erin's days gone by—Who trench'd the rath on such a hill,and where the bones may lieOf saint, or king, or warrior chief;with tales of fairy power,And tender ditties sweetly sungto pass the twilight hour.The mournful song of exileis now for me to learn—Adieu, my dear companionson the winding banks of Erne!
Now measure from the Commons downto each end of the Purt,Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,—I wish no one any hurt;The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane,the Mall, and Portnasun,If any foes of mine are there,I pardon every one.I hope that man and womankindwill do the same by me;For my heart is sore and heavyat voyaging the sea.My loving friends I'll bear in mind,and often fondly turnTo think of Belashanny,and the winding banks of Erne.
If ever I'm a money'd man,I mean, please God, to castMy golden anchor in the placewhere youthful years were pass'd;Though heads that now are black and brownmust meanwhile gather gray,New faces rise by every hearth,and old ones drop away—Yet dearer still that Irish hillthan all the world beside;It's home, sweet home, where'er I roamthrough lands and waters wide.And if the Lord allows me,I surely will returnTo my native Belashanny,and the winding banks of Erne.
Gray, gray is Abbey Asaroe,by Belashanny town,It has neither door nor window,the walls are broken down;The carven-stones lie scatter'din briar and nettle-bed;The only feet are those that comeat burial of the dead.A little rocky rivuletruns murmuring to the tide,Singing a song of ancient days,in sorrow, not in pride;The boortree and the lightsome ashacross the portal grow,And heaven itself is now the roofof Abbey Asaroe.It looks beyond the harbour-streamto Gulban mountain blue;It hears the voice of Erna's fall,—Atlantic breakers too;High ships go sailing past it;the sturdy clank of oarsBrings in the salmon-boat to haula net upon the shores;And this way to his home-creek,when the summer day is done,Slow sculls the weary fishermanacross the setting sun;While green with corn is Sheegus Hill,his cottage white below;But gray at every seasonis Abbey Asaroe.There stood one day a poor old manabove its broken bridge;He heard no running rivulet,he saw no mountain-ridge;He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill,and view'd with misty sightThe Abbey walls, the burial-groundwith crosses ghostly white;Under a weary weight of yearshe bow'd upon his staff,Perusing in the present timethe former's epitaph;For, gray and wasted like the walls,a figure full of woe,This man was of the blood of themwho founded Asaroe.From Derry to Bundrowas Tower,Tirconnell broad was theirs;Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine,and holy abbot's prayers;With chanting always in the housewhich they had builded highTo God and to Saint Bernard,—where at last they came to die.At worst, no workhouse grave for him!the ruins of his raceShall rest among the ruin'd stonesof this their saintly place.The fond old man was weeping;and tremulous and slowAlong the rough and crooked lanehe crept from Asaroe.
Gray, gray is Abbey Asaroe,by Belashanny town,It has neither door nor window,the walls are broken down;The carven-stones lie scatter'din briar and nettle-bed;The only feet are those that comeat burial of the dead.A little rocky rivuletruns murmuring to the tide,Singing a song of ancient days,in sorrow, not in pride;The boortree and the lightsome ashacross the portal grow,And heaven itself is now the roofof Abbey Asaroe.
It looks beyond the harbour-streamto Gulban mountain blue;It hears the voice of Erna's fall,—Atlantic breakers too;High ships go sailing past it;the sturdy clank of oarsBrings in the salmon-boat to haula net upon the shores;And this way to his home-creek,when the summer day is done,Slow sculls the weary fishermanacross the setting sun;While green with corn is Sheegus Hill,his cottage white below;But gray at every seasonis Abbey Asaroe.
There stood one day a poor old manabove its broken bridge;He heard no running rivulet,he saw no mountain-ridge;He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill,and view'd with misty sightThe Abbey walls, the burial-groundwith crosses ghostly white;Under a weary weight of yearshe bow'd upon his staff,Perusing in the present timethe former's epitaph;For, gray and wasted like the walls,a figure full of woe,This man was of the blood of themwho founded Asaroe.
From Derry to Bundrowas Tower,Tirconnell broad was theirs;Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine,and holy abbot's prayers;With chanting always in the housewhich they had builded highTo God and to Saint Bernard,—where at last they came to die.At worst, no workhouse grave for him!the ruins of his raceShall rest among the ruin'd stonesof this their saintly place.The fond old man was weeping;and tremulous and slowAlong the rough and crooked lanehe crept from Asaroe.
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;I went to the window to see the sight;All the Dead that ever I knewGoing one by one and two by two.On they pass'd, and on they pass'd;Townsfellows all, from first to last;Born in the moonlight of the lane,Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.Schoolmates, marching as when we play'dAt soldiers once—but now more staid;Those were the strangest sight to meWho were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea.Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak, too;Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;Some but a day in their churchyard bed;Some that I had not known were dead.A long, long crowd—where each seem'd lonely,Yet of them all there was one, one only,Raised a head or look'd my way:She linger'd a moment—she might not stay.How long since I saw that fair pale face!Ah! Mother dear! might I only placeMy head on thy breast, a moment to rest,While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!On, on, a moving bridge they madeAcross the moon-stream, from shade to shade,Young and old, women and men;Many long-forgot, but remember'd then.And first there came a bitter laughter;A sound of tears the moment after;And then a music so lofty and gay,That every morning, day by day,I strive to recall it if I may.
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;I went to the window to see the sight;All the Dead that ever I knewGoing one by one and two by two.
On they pass'd, and on they pass'd;Townsfellows all, from first to last;Born in the moonlight of the lane,Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when we play'dAt soldiers once—but now more staid;Those were the strangest sight to meWho were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak, too;Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;Some but a day in their churchyard bed;Some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd—where each seem'd lonely,Yet of them all there was one, one only,Raised a head or look'd my way:She linger'd a moment—she might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face!Ah! Mother dear! might I only placeMy head on thy breast, a moment to rest,While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!
On, on, a moving bridge they madeAcross the moon-stream, from shade to shade,Young and old, women and men;Many long-forgot, but remember'd then.
And first there came a bitter laughter;A sound of tears the moment after;And then a music so lofty and gay,That every morning, day by day,I strive to recall it if I may.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.
High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
Little Cowboy, what have you heard,Up on the lonely rath's green mound?Only the plaintive yellow birdSighing in sultry fields around,Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee!—Only the grasshopper and the bee?—'Tip-tap, rip-rap,Tick-a-tack-too!Scarlet leather, sewn together,This will make a shoe.Left, right, pull it tight;Summer days are warm;Underground in winter,Laughing at the storm!'Lay your ear close to the hill.Do you not catch the tiny clamour,Busy click of an elfin hammer,Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrillAs he merrily plies his trade?He's a spanAnd a quarter in height.Get him in sight, hold him tight,And you're a madeMan!You watch your cattle the summer day,Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay;How would you like to roll in your carriage,Look for a duchess's daughter in marriage?Seize the Shoemaker—then you may!'Big boots a-hunting,Sandals in the hall,White for a wedding-feast,Pink for a ball.This way, that way,So we make a shoe;Getting rich every stitch,Tick-tack-too!'Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocksThis keen miser-fairy hath,Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks,Ruin and round-tow'r, cave and rath,And where the cormorants build;From times of oldGuarded by him;Each of them fill'dFull to the brimWith gold!I caught him at work one day, myself,In the castle-ditch where foxglove grows,—A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded Elf,Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,Silver buckles to his hose,Leather apron—shoe in his lap—'Rip-rap, tip-tap,Tick-tack-too!(A grasshopper on my cap!Away the moth flew!)Buskins for a fairy prince,Brogues for his son,—Pay me well, pay me well,When the job is done!'The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.I stared at him; he stared at me;'Servant, Sir!' 'Humph!' says he,And pull'd a snuff-box out.He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased,The queer little Lepracaun;Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace,—Pouf! he flung the dust in my face,And while I sneezed,Was gone!
Little Cowboy, what have you heard,Up on the lonely rath's green mound?Only the plaintive yellow birdSighing in sultry fields around,Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee!—Only the grasshopper and the bee?—'Tip-tap, rip-rap,Tick-a-tack-too!Scarlet leather, sewn together,This will make a shoe.Left, right, pull it tight;Summer days are warm;Underground in winter,Laughing at the storm!'Lay your ear close to the hill.Do you not catch the tiny clamour,Busy click of an elfin hammer,Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrillAs he merrily plies his trade?He's a spanAnd a quarter in height.Get him in sight, hold him tight,And you're a madeMan!
You watch your cattle the summer day,Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay;How would you like to roll in your carriage,Look for a duchess's daughter in marriage?Seize the Shoemaker—then you may!'Big boots a-hunting,Sandals in the hall,White for a wedding-feast,Pink for a ball.This way, that way,So we make a shoe;Getting rich every stitch,Tick-tack-too!'Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocksThis keen miser-fairy hath,Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks,Ruin and round-tow'r, cave and rath,And where the cormorants build;From times of oldGuarded by him;Each of them fill'dFull to the brimWith gold!
I caught him at work one day, myself,In the castle-ditch where foxglove grows,—A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded Elf,Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,Silver buckles to his hose,Leather apron—shoe in his lap—'Rip-rap, tip-tap,Tick-tack-too!(A grasshopper on my cap!Away the moth flew!)Buskins for a fairy prince,Brogues for his son,—Pay me well, pay me well,When the job is done!'The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.I stared at him; he stared at me;'Servant, Sir!' 'Humph!' says he,And pull'd a snuff-box out.He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased,The queer little Lepracaun;Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace,—Pouf! he flung the dust in my face,And while I sneezed,Was gone!
With grief and mourning I sit to spin;My Love passed by, and he didn't come in;He passes by me, both day and night,And carries off my poor heart's delight.There is a tavern in yonder town,My Love goes there and he spends a crown;He takes a strange girl upon his knee,And never more gives a thought to me.Says he, 'We'll wed without loss of time,And sure our love's but a little crime;'—My apron-string now it's wearing short,And my Love he seeks other girls to court.O with him I'd go if I had my will,I'd follow him barefoot o'er rock and hill;I'd never once speak of all my griefIf he'd give me a smile for my heart's relief.In our wee garden the rose unfolds,With bachelor's-buttons and marigolds;I'll tie no posies for dance or fair,A willow-twig is for me to wear.For a maid again I can never be,Till the red rose blooms on the willow tree.Of such a trouble I've heard them tell,And now I know what it means full well.As through the long lonesome night I lie,I'd give the world if I might but cry;But I mus'n't moan there or raise my voice,And the tears run down without any noise.And what, O what will my mother say?She'll wish her daughter was in the clay.My father will curse me to my face;The neighbours will know of my black disgrace.My sister's buried three years, come Lent;But sure we made far too much lament.Beside her grave they still say a prayer—I wish to God 'twas myself was there!The Candlemas crosses hang near my bed;To look at them puts me much in dread,They mark the good time that's gone and past:It's like this year's one will prove the last.The oldest cross it's a dusty brown,But the winter winds didn't shake it down;The newest cross keeps the colour bright;When the straw was reaping my heart was light.The reapers rose with the blink of morn,And gaily stook'd up the yellow corn;To call them home to the field I'd run,Through the blowing breeze and the summer sun.When the straw was weaving my heart was glad,For neither sin nor shame I had,In the barn where oat-chaff was flying round,And the thumping flails made a pleasant sound.Now summer or winter to me it's one;But oh! for a day like the time that's gone.I'd little care was it storm or shine,If I had but peace in this heart of mine.Oh! light and false is a young man's kiss,And a foolish girl gives her soul for this.Oh! light and short is the young man's blame,And a helpless girl has the grief and shame.To the river-bank once I thought to go,And cast myself in the stream below;I thought 'twould carry us far out to sea,Where they'd never find my poor babe and me.Sweet Lord, forgive me that wicked mind!You know I used to be well-inclined.Oh, take compassion upon my state,Because my trouble is so very great.My head turns round with the spinning wheel,And a heavy cloud on my eyes I feel.But the worst of all is at my heart's core;For my innocent days will come back no more.
With grief and mourning I sit to spin;My Love passed by, and he didn't come in;He passes by me, both day and night,And carries off my poor heart's delight.
There is a tavern in yonder town,My Love goes there and he spends a crown;He takes a strange girl upon his knee,And never more gives a thought to me.
Says he, 'We'll wed without loss of time,And sure our love's but a little crime;'—My apron-string now it's wearing short,And my Love he seeks other girls to court.
O with him I'd go if I had my will,I'd follow him barefoot o'er rock and hill;I'd never once speak of all my griefIf he'd give me a smile for my heart's relief.
In our wee garden the rose unfolds,With bachelor's-buttons and marigolds;I'll tie no posies for dance or fair,A willow-twig is for me to wear.
For a maid again I can never be,Till the red rose blooms on the willow tree.Of such a trouble I've heard them tell,And now I know what it means full well.
As through the long lonesome night I lie,I'd give the world if I might but cry;But I mus'n't moan there or raise my voice,And the tears run down without any noise.
And what, O what will my mother say?She'll wish her daughter was in the clay.My father will curse me to my face;The neighbours will know of my black disgrace.
My sister's buried three years, come Lent;But sure we made far too much lament.Beside her grave they still say a prayer—I wish to God 'twas myself was there!
The Candlemas crosses hang near my bed;To look at them puts me much in dread,They mark the good time that's gone and past:It's like this year's one will prove the last.
The oldest cross it's a dusty brown,But the winter winds didn't shake it down;The newest cross keeps the colour bright;When the straw was reaping my heart was light.
The reapers rose with the blink of morn,And gaily stook'd up the yellow corn;To call them home to the field I'd run,Through the blowing breeze and the summer sun.
When the straw was weaving my heart was glad,For neither sin nor shame I had,In the barn where oat-chaff was flying round,And the thumping flails made a pleasant sound.
Now summer or winter to me it's one;But oh! for a day like the time that's gone.I'd little care was it storm or shine,If I had but peace in this heart of mine.
Oh! light and false is a young man's kiss,And a foolish girl gives her soul for this.Oh! light and short is the young man's blame,And a helpless girl has the grief and shame.
To the river-bank once I thought to go,And cast myself in the stream below;I thought 'twould carry us far out to sea,Where they'd never find my poor babe and me.
Sweet Lord, forgive me that wicked mind!You know I used to be well-inclined.Oh, take compassion upon my state,Because my trouble is so very great.
My head turns round with the spinning wheel,And a heavy cloud on my eyes I feel.But the worst of all is at my heart's core;For my innocent days will come back no more.
I once was a guest at a Nobleman's wedding;Fair was the Bride, but she scarce had been kind,And now in our mirth, she had tears nigh the sheddingHer former true lover still runs in her mind.Attired like a minstrel, her former true loverTakes up his harp, and runs over the strings;And there among strangers, his grief to discover,A fair maiden's falsehood he bitterly sings.'Now here is the token of gold that was broken;Seven long years it was kept for your sake;You gave it to me as a true lover's token;No longer I'll wear it, asleep or awake.'She sat in her place by the head of the table,The words of his ditty she mark'd them right well:To sit any longer this bride was not able,So down at the bridegroom's feet she fell.'O one, one request, my lord, one and no other,O this one request will you grant it to me?To lie for this night in the arms of my mother,And ever, and ever thereafter with thee.'Her one, one request it was granted her fairly;Pale were her cheeks as she went up to bed;And the very next morning, early, early,They rose and they found this young bride was dead.The bridegroom ran quickly, he held her, he kiss'd her,He spoke loud and low, and listen'd full fain;He call'd on her waiting-maids round to assist herBut nothing could bring the lost breath back again.O carry her softly! the grave is made ready;At head and at foot plant a laurel-bush green;For she was a young and a sweet noble lady,The fairest young bride that I ever have seen.
I once was a guest at a Nobleman's wedding;Fair was the Bride, but she scarce had been kind,And now in our mirth, she had tears nigh the sheddingHer former true lover still runs in her mind.
Attired like a minstrel, her former true loverTakes up his harp, and runs over the strings;And there among strangers, his grief to discover,A fair maiden's falsehood he bitterly sings.
'Now here is the token of gold that was broken;Seven long years it was kept for your sake;You gave it to me as a true lover's token;No longer I'll wear it, asleep or awake.'
She sat in her place by the head of the table,The words of his ditty she mark'd them right well:To sit any longer this bride was not able,So down at the bridegroom's feet she fell.
'O one, one request, my lord, one and no other,O this one request will you grant it to me?To lie for this night in the arms of my mother,And ever, and ever thereafter with thee.'
Her one, one request it was granted her fairly;Pale were her cheeks as she went up to bed;And the very next morning, early, early,They rose and they found this young bride was dead.
The bridegroom ran quickly, he held her, he kiss'd her,He spoke loud and low, and listen'd full fain;He call'd on her waiting-maids round to assist herBut nothing could bring the lost breath back again.
O carry her softly! the grave is made ready;At head and at foot plant a laurel-bush green;For she was a young and a sweet noble lady,The fairest young bride that I ever have seen.
Seek up and down, both fair and brown,We've purty lasses many, O;But brown or fair, one girl most rare,The Flow'r o' Belashanny, O.As straight is she as poplar-tree(Tho' not as aisy shaken, O,)And walks so proud among the crowd,For queen she might be taken, O.From top to toe, where'er you go,The loveliest girl of any, O,—Ochone! your mind I find unkind,Sweet Kate o' Belashanny, O!One summer day the banks were gay,The Erne in sunshine glancin' there,The big cascade its music play'dAnd set the salmon dancin' there.Along the green my Joy was seen;Some goddess bright I thought her there;The fishes, too, swam close, to viewHer image in the water there.From top to toe, where'er you go,The loveliest girl of any, O,—Ochone! your mind I find unkind,Sweet Kate o' Belashanny, O!My dear, give ear!—the river's near,And if you think I'm shammin' now,To end my grief I'll seek reliefAmong the trout and salmon, now;For shrimps and sharks to make their marks,And other watery vermin there;Unless a mermaid saves my life,—My wife, and me her merman there.From top to toe, where'er you go,The loveliest girl of any, O,—Mavrone! your mind I find unkind,Sweet Kate o' Belashanny, O!'Tis all in vain that I complain;No use to coax or chide her there;As far away from me as Spain,Although I stand beside her there.O cruel Kate! since that's my fate,I'll look for love no more in you;The seagull's screech as soon would reachYour heart, as me implorin' you.Tho' fair you are, and rare you are,The loveliest flow'r of any, O,—Too proud and high,—good-bye, say I,To Kate o' Belashanny, O!
Seek up and down, both fair and brown,We've purty lasses many, O;But brown or fair, one girl most rare,The Flow'r o' Belashanny, O.As straight is she as poplar-tree(Tho' not as aisy shaken, O,)And walks so proud among the crowd,For queen she might be taken, O.From top to toe, where'er you go,The loveliest girl of any, O,—Ochone! your mind I find unkind,Sweet Kate o' Belashanny, O!
One summer day the banks were gay,The Erne in sunshine glancin' there,The big cascade its music play'dAnd set the salmon dancin' there.Along the green my Joy was seen;Some goddess bright I thought her there;The fishes, too, swam close, to viewHer image in the water there.From top to toe, where'er you go,The loveliest girl of any, O,—Ochone! your mind I find unkind,Sweet Kate o' Belashanny, O!
My dear, give ear!—the river's near,And if you think I'm shammin' now,To end my grief I'll seek reliefAmong the trout and salmon, now;For shrimps and sharks to make their marks,And other watery vermin there;Unless a mermaid saves my life,—My wife, and me her merman there.From top to toe, where'er you go,The loveliest girl of any, O,—Mavrone! your mind I find unkind,Sweet Kate o' Belashanny, O!
'Tis all in vain that I complain;No use to coax or chide her there;As far away from me as Spain,Although I stand beside her there.O cruel Kate! since that's my fate,I'll look for love no more in you;The seagull's screech as soon would reachYour heart, as me implorin' you.Tho' fair you are, and rare you are,The loveliest flow'r of any, O,—Too proud and high,—good-bye, say I,To Kate o' Belashanny, O!
Four ducks on a pond,A grass-bank beyond,A blue sky of spring,White clouds on the wing;What a little thingTo remember for years—To remember with tears!
Four ducks on a pond,A grass-bank beyond,A blue sky of spring,White clouds on the wing;What a little thingTo remember for years—To remember with tears!
What is it that is gone, we fancied ours?Oh what is lost that never may be told?—We stray all afternoon, and we may grieveUntil the perfect closing of the night.Listen to us, thou gray Autumnal Eve,Whose part is silence. At thy verge the cloudsAre broken into melancholy gold;The waifs of Autumn and the feeble flow'rsGlimmer along our woodlands in wet light;Within thy shadow thou dost weave the shroudsOf joy and great adventure, waxing cold,Which once, or so it seemed, were full of might.Some power it was, that lives not with us now,A thought we had, but could not, could not hold.O sweetly, swiftly pass'd:—air sings and murmurs;Green leaves are gathering on the dewy bough;O sadly, swiftly pass'd:—air sighs and mutters;Red leaves are dropping on the rainy mould.Then comes the snow, unfeatured, vast, and white.O what is gone from us, we fancied ours?—
What is it that is gone, we fancied ours?Oh what is lost that never may be told?—We stray all afternoon, and we may grieveUntil the perfect closing of the night.Listen to us, thou gray Autumnal Eve,Whose part is silence. At thy verge the cloudsAre broken into melancholy gold;The waifs of Autumn and the feeble flow'rsGlimmer along our woodlands in wet light;Within thy shadow thou dost weave the shroudsOf joy and great adventure, waxing cold,Which once, or so it seemed, were full of might.Some power it was, that lives not with us now,A thought we had, but could not, could not hold.O sweetly, swiftly pass'd:—air sings and murmurs;Green leaves are gathering on the dewy bough;O sadly, swiftly pass'd:—air sighs and mutters;Red leaves are dropping on the rainy mould.Then comes the snow, unfeatured, vast, and white.O what is gone from us, we fancied ours?—
When the spinning-room was hereCame Three Damsels, clothed in white,With their spindles every night;One and Two and three fair Maidens,Spinning to a pulsing cadence,Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;Till the eleventh hour was toll'd,Then departed through the wold.Years ago, and years ago;And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.Three white Lilies, calm and clear,And they were loved by every one;Most of all, the Pastor's Son,Listening to their gentle singing,Felt his heart go from him, clingingRound these Maids of Elfin-Mere.Sued each night to make them stay,Sadden'd when they went away.Years ago, and years ago;And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.Hands that shook with love and fearDared put back the village clock,—Flew the spindle, turn'd the rock,Flow'd the song with subtle rounding,Till the false 'eleven' was sounding;Then these Maids of Elfin-MereSwiftly, softly, left the room,Like three doves on snowy plume.Years ago, and years ago;And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.One that night who wander'd nearHeard lamentings by the shore,Saw at dawn three stains of goreIn the waters fade and dwindle.Never more with song and spindleSaw we Maids of Elfin-Mere,The Pastor's Son did pine and die;Because true love should never lie.Years ago, and years ago;And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
When the spinning-room was hereCame Three Damsels, clothed in white,With their spindles every night;One and Two and three fair Maidens,Spinning to a pulsing cadence,Singing songs of Elfin-Mere;Till the eleventh hour was toll'd,Then departed through the wold.Years ago, and years ago;And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
Three white Lilies, calm and clear,And they were loved by every one;Most of all, the Pastor's Son,Listening to their gentle singing,Felt his heart go from him, clingingRound these Maids of Elfin-Mere.Sued each night to make them stay,Sadden'd when they went away.Years ago, and years ago;And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
Hands that shook with love and fearDared put back the village clock,—Flew the spindle, turn'd the rock,Flow'd the song with subtle rounding,Till the false 'eleven' was sounding;Then these Maids of Elfin-MereSwiftly, softly, left the room,Like three doves on snowy plume.Years ago, and years ago;And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.
One that night who wander'd nearHeard lamentings by the shore,Saw at dawn three stains of goreIn the waters fade and dwindle.Never more with song and spindleSaw we Maids of Elfin-Mere,The Pastor's Son did pine and die;Because true love should never lie.Years ago, and years ago;And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow.