I gather three ears of corn, And the Black Earl from over the sea Sails across in his silver ships, And takes two out of the three.
I might build a house on the hill And a barn of the speckly stone, And tell my little stocking of gold, If the Earl would let me alone.
But he has no thought for me-- Only the thought of his share, And the softness of the linsey shifts His lazy daughters wear.
There is a God in heaven, And angels, score on score, Who will not see my hearthstone cold Because I'm crazed and poor.
My childer have my blood, And when they get their beards They will not be content to run As gillies to their herds!
The day will come, maybe, When we can have our own, And the Black Earl will come to us Begging the bacach's bone!
"One _ciarog_ knows another _ciarog_, And why shouldn't I know you, you rogue?" "They say a stroller will never pair Except with one of his kind and care . . ." So talked two tinkers prone in the shough-- And then, as the fun got a trifle rough, They flitted: he with his corn-straw bass, She with her load of tin and brass: As mad a match as you would see In a twelvemonth's ride thro' Christendie. He roared--they both were drunk as hell: She danced, and danced it mighty well! I could have eyed them longer, but They staggered for the Quarry Cut: That half-perch seemed to trouble them more Than all the leagues they'd tramped before. Some'll drink at the fair the morrow, And some'll sup with the spoon of sorrow; But whether _they_'ll get as far as Droichid The night--well, who knows that but God?
As I came over the grey, grey hills And over the grey, grey water, I saw the gilly leading on, And the white Christ following after.
Where and where does the gilly lead? And where is the white Christ faring? They've travelled the four grey sounds of Orc, And the four grey seas of Eirinn.
The moon it set and the wind's away, And the song in the grass is dying, And a silver cloud on the silent sea Like a shrouding sheet is lying.
But Christ and the gilly will follow on Till the ring in the east is showing, And the awny corn is red on the hills, And the golden light is glowing!
Brigidin Ban of the lint-white locks, What was it gave you that flaxen hair, Long as the summer heath in the rocks? What was it gave you those eyes of fire, Lip so waxen and cheek so wan? Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban, Little white bride of my heart's desire.