My grief on the sea, How the waves of it roll! For they heave between me And the love of my soul!
Abandoned, forsaken, To grief and to care, Will the sea ever waken Relief from despair?
My grief, and my trouble! Would he and I wear, In the province of Leinster, Or County of Clare.
Were I and my darling-- O, heart-bitter wound!-- On the board of the ship For America bound.
On a green bed of rushes All last night I lay, And I flung it abroad With the heat of the day.
And my love came behind me-- He came from the South; His breast to my bosom His mouth to my mouth.
A honey mist on a day of frost, in a dark oak wood, And love for thee in my heart in me, thou bright, white, and good; Thy slender form, soft and warm, thy red lips apart, Thou hast found me, and hast bound me, and put grief in my heart.
In fair-green and market, men mark thee, bright, young, and merry, Though thou hurt them like foes with the rose of thy blush of the berry: Her cheeks are a poppy, her eye it is Cupid’s helper, But each foolish man dreams that its beams for himself are.
Whoe’er saw the Cooleen in a cool, dewy meadow On a morning in summer in sunshine and shadow; All the young men go wild for her, my childeen, my treasure, But now let them go mope, they’ve no hope to possess her.
Let us roam, O my darling, afar through the mountains, Drink milk of the goat, wine and bulcaun in fountains; With music and play every day from my lyre, And leave to come rest on my breast when you tire.
’Tis the Breedyeen I love, All dear ones above, Like a star from the start Round my heart she did move. Her breast like a dove, Or the foam in the cove, With her gold locks apart, In my heart she put love.
’Tis not Venus, I say, Who grieved me this day, But the white one, the bright one, Who slighted my stay. For her I shall pray-- I confess it--for aye, She’s my sister, I missed her, When all men were gay.
To the hills let us go, Where the raven and crow In dark dismal valleys Croak death-like and low; By this volume I swear, O bright Cool of fair hair, That though solitude shrieked I should seek for thee there.
To the hills let us go, Where the raven and crow In the dark dismal valleys Wing silent and slow. There’s no Joy in men’s fate But Grief grins in the gate; There’s no Fair without Foul, Without Crooked no Straight.