As lily grows up easily, In modest, gentle dignity To sweet perfection, So grew she, As easily.
Or as the rose that takes no care Will open out on sunny air Bloom after bloom, fair after fair, Sweet after sweet; Just so did she, As carelessly.
She is our torment without end, She is our enemy and friend, Our joy, our woe; And she will send Madness or glee To you and me, And endlessly.
I, without bite or sup, If thou wert fated for me, I would up And would go after thee Through mountains.
A thousand thanks from me To God have gone, Because I have not lost my senses to thee, Though it was hardly I escaped from thee, O ringleted one!
Then she arose And walked in the valley In her fine clothes.
After great fire Great frost Comes following.
Turgesius was lost By the daughter of Maelsheachlin The King.
By Grainne, Of high Ben Gulbain in the north, Was Diarmuid lost.
The strong sons of Ushna, Who never submitted, They fell by Deirdre.
It is not on her gown She fears to tread; It is her hair Which tumbles down And strays About her ways That she must care.
And she lives nigh this place: The dead would rise If they could see her face; The dead would rise Only to hear her sing: But death is blind, and gives not ear nor eye To anything.
We would leave behind Both wife and child, And house and home; And wander blind, And wander thus, And ever roam, If she would come to us In Erris.
Softly she said to me-- Be patient till the night comes, And I will go with thee.
Since your limbs were laid out The stars do not shine, The fish leap not out In the waves. On our meadows the dew Does not fall in the morn, For O'Daly is dead: Not a flower can be born, Not a word can be said, Not a tree have a leaf; Anthony, after you There is nothing to do, There is nothing but grief.
The sky-like girl whom we knew! She dressed herself to go to the fair In a dress of white and blue; A white lace cap, and ribbons white She wore in her hair; She does not hear in the night Her mother crying for her, Where, Deep down in the sea, She rolls and lingers to and fro Unweariedly.
The Protecting Tree Of the men of the land of Fál! What aileth thee, And why is it that all About thee grieves?
Alas, O Tree of the Leaves! Here is thy rhyme: Thy bloom is lightened; And if thy fruit be withered Thy root hath not tightened At the same time.