THE LAKE OF COOLFIN
To the Lake of Coolfin the companions soon came,
And the first man they met was the keeper of
game:—
"Turn back Willy Leonard, return back again;
There is deep and false water in the Lake of
Coolfin!"
Young Willy plunged in, and he swam the lake
round;
He swam to an island—'twas soft marshy ground:
"O, comrade, dear comrade, do not venture in;
There is deep and false water in the Lake of
Coolfin!"
'Twas early that morning his sister arose;
And up to her mother's bed-chamber she goes:—
"O, I dreamed a sad dream about Willy last
night;
He was dressed in a shroud—in a shroud of
snow-white!"
'Twas early that morning his mother came there;
She was wringing her hands—she was tearing
her hair.
O, woful the hour your dear Willy plunged in:—
There is deep and false water in the Lake of
Coolfin!
And I saw a fair maid, standing fast by the shore;
Her face it was pale—she was weeping full sore;
In deep anguish she gazed where young Willy
plunged in:—
Ah! there's deep and false water in the Lake of
Coolfin!
Old Ballad. Recomposed by P. W. Joyce.
BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE
By that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Skylark never warbles o'er,
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
"Here, at least," he calmly said,
"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.
'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,—
Eyes of most unholy blue!
She had lov'd him well and long,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.
On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.
Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.
Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, "Heav'n rest her soul!"
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide.
——T. Moore.