O HURRY to the water amid the trees, For there the tall deer and his leman sigh When they have but looked upon their images, O that none ever loved but you and I!
Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed, Pale silver-proud queen-woman of the sky, When the sun looked out of his golden hood, O that none ever loved but you and I!
O hurry to the hollow wood, for there I will drive out the deer and moon and cry— O my share of the world, O yellow hair, No one has ever loved but you and I!
SWEETHEART, do not love too long: I loved long and long, And grew to be out of fashion Like an old song.
All through the years of our youth Neither could have known Their own thought from the other’s, We were so much at one.
But, O in a minute she changed— O do not love too long, Or you will grow out of fashion Like an old song.
THE PLAYERS ASK FOR A BLESSING ON THE PSALTERIES AND ON THEMSELVES
HURRY to bless the hands that play, The mouths that speak, the notes and strings, O masters of the glittering town! O! lay the shrilly trumpet down, Though drunken with the flags that sway Over the ramparts and the towers, And with the waving of your wings.
Maybe they linger by the way. One gathers up his purple gown; One leans and mutters by the wall— He dreads the weight of mortal hours.
O no, O no! they hurry down Like plovers that have heard the call.
O kinsmen of the Three in One, O kinsmen bless the hands that play. The notes they waken shall live on When all this heavy history’s done; Our hands, our hands must ebb away.
The proud and careless notes live on, But bless our hands that ebb away.
THERE’S many a strong farmer Whose heart would break in two, If he could see the townland That we are riding to; Boughs have their fruit and blossom At all times of the year; Rivers are running over With red beer and brown beer. An old man plays the bagpipes In a golden and silver wood; Queens, their eyes blue like the ice, Are dancing in a crowd.
The little fox he murmured, ‘O what of the world’s bane?’ The sun was laughing sweetly, The moon plucked at my rein; But the little red fox murmured, ‘O do not pluck at his rein, He is riding to the townland That is the world’s bane.’
When their hearts are so high That they would come to blows, They unhook their heavy swords From golden and silver boughs; But all that are killed in battle Awaken to life again: It is lucky that their story Is not known among men. For O, the strong farmers That would let the spade lie, Their hearts would be like a cup That somebody had drunk dry.