The Mountainy Singer

My little dark love is a wineberry,
As swarth and as sweet, I hold;
But as the dew on the wineberry
Her heart is a-cold.

I would her love were as warm as the light
That lives in her eye of grey,
And then my heart would know the peace
It dreams in the hills away.

I would her love were as red as the rose
That blows on her cheek of brown,
And then my sunless soul would laugh
At the woe that weighs it down.

She dwells in the valley, my little dark love,
Where the river sings to the sea,
And an ogham-stone sits by her door,
And nigh to it hazels three.

And oft when the purple twilight comes,
And the blind bats flit in the air,
I wander down from the quiet hills
To seek my sweetheart there.

But she comes never – she loves not me,
Nor ever will love, I hold;
For tho’ my heart is a peat of fire,
Her heart is a-cold!

I HEARD A PIPER PIPING

I heard a piper piping
The blue hills among —
And never did I hear
So plaintive a song.

It seemed but a part
Of the hills’ melancholy:
No piper living there
Could ever be jolly!

And still the piper piped
The blue hills among,
And all the birds were quiet
To listen to his song.

THE CLOUDS GO BY AND BY

The clouds go by and by,
The heron sings in the blue —
And I lie dreaming, dreaming
Ever of you.

The stag on the hill is free,
And the wind is blowing sweet —
But I lie bound a prisoner
At your feet.

DAVY DAW

Woa! are you there my bonny mare?
Your whinny seems to say —
“By Bealach forge and Creagach fair
We’ll gallop hard to-day!”
You champ your snaffle all to foam,
And fleck your counter bright;
But now we bid adieu to home
Until the fall of night.
Davy Daw, Davy Daw, with his early horn,
His hunting-crop and bag of corn —
His heart’s as merry as a mottle-thrush
That sings all day in the hawthorn bush.

Come hither, Bran of ancient seed,
And lick your master’s hand;
I swear no dog of purer breed
Is found in all the land.
Brave scion of Cuchullain’s branch,
Well do you, hound, uphold
The prowess and the courage staunch
That marked your line of old.
Davy Daw, Davy Daw, my merry man,
I love toast crab in a pewter can.
Our tastes are like as like can be —
But a measure of ale in the can for me!

The wind is low and scent is good,
And Mada’s on the green:
He hid his head in Cratla Wood
Since early yestere’en.
You beat the bush from peep of light,
And set the whins afire;
And now the tory is in sight,
You’ve got your heart’s desire.
Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a crab well-browned
In the smiling flood of a cruiscin drowned.
Give me, sirree, my crab and ale,
And bog or batter, my heart won’t fail!