Molly Asthore.
O Mary dear! O Mary fair!
O branch of generous stem!
White blossom of the banks of Nair,
Though lilies grow on them;
You’ve left me sick at heart for love,
So faint I cannot see;
The candle swims the board above,
I’m drunk for love of thee!
O stately stem of maiden pride,
My woe it is and pain
That I thus severed from thy side
The long night must remain.
Through all the towns of Innisfail
I’ve wandered far and wide,
But from Downpatrick to Kinsale,
From Carlow to Kilbride,
Many lords and dames of high degree
Where’er my feet have gone,
My Mary, one to equal thee
I never looked upon:
I live in darkness and in doubt
When’er my love’s away;
But were the gracious sun put out,
Her shadow would make day.
’Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss,
As gentle as she’s fair.
Though lily-white her bosom is,
And sunny bright her hair,
And dewy azure her blue eye,
And rosy red her cheek,
Yet brighter she in modesty,
Most beautifully meek:
The world’s wise men from north to south
Can never cure my pain;
But one kiss from her honey mouth
Would make me well again.
The Fair Hills of Ireland.
(From the Irish.)
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,
Uileacan dubh O!
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;
Uileacan dubh O!
There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curled is he and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,
Uileacan dubh O!
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;
Uileacan dubh O!
And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,
For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;
Uileacan dubh O!
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,
Uileacan dubh O!
The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,
And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland,
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forest grand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES