A CONNAUGHT LAMENT
I will arise and go hence to the west,And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;But oh, were I dead, were I dust, the fallOf my own love’s footstep would break my rest!My heart in my bosom is black as a sloe!I heed not cuckoo, nor wren, nor swallow:Like a flying leaf in the sky’s blue hollowThe heart in my breast is, that beats so low.Because of the words your lips have spoken,(O dear black head that I must not follow)My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,As ice on the water my heart is broken.O lips forgetful and kindness fickle,The swallow goes south with you: I go westWhere fields are empty and scythes at rest.I am the poppy and you the sickle;My heart is broken within my breast.Nora Chesson
I will arise and go hence to the west,And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;But oh, were I dead, were I dust, the fallOf my own love’s footstep would break my rest!My heart in my bosom is black as a sloe!I heed not cuckoo, nor wren, nor swallow:Like a flying leaf in the sky’s blue hollowThe heart in my breast is, that beats so low.Because of the words your lips have spoken,(O dear black head that I must not follow)My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,As ice on the water my heart is broken.O lips forgetful and kindness fickle,The swallow goes south with you: I go westWhere fields are empty and scythes at rest.I am the poppy and you the sickle;My heart is broken within my breast.Nora Chesson
I will arise and go hence to the west,And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;But oh, were I dead, were I dust, the fallOf my own love’s footstep would break my rest!
I will arise and go hence to the west,
And dig me a grave where the hill-winds call;
But oh, were I dead, were I dust, the fall
Of my own love’s footstep would break my rest!
My heart in my bosom is black as a sloe!I heed not cuckoo, nor wren, nor swallow:Like a flying leaf in the sky’s blue hollowThe heart in my breast is, that beats so low.
My heart in my bosom is black as a sloe!
I heed not cuckoo, nor wren, nor swallow:
Like a flying leaf in the sky’s blue hollow
The heart in my breast is, that beats so low.
Because of the words your lips have spoken,(O dear black head that I must not follow)My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,As ice on the water my heart is broken.
Because of the words your lips have spoken,
(O dear black head that I must not follow)
My heart is a grave that is stripped and hollow,
As ice on the water my heart is broken.
O lips forgetful and kindness fickle,The swallow goes south with you: I go westWhere fields are empty and scythes at rest.I am the poppy and you the sickle;My heart is broken within my breast.
O lips forgetful and kindness fickle,
The swallow goes south with you: I go west
Where fields are empty and scythes at rest.
I am the poppy and you the sickle;
My heart is broken within my breast.
Nora Chesson