He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me,
His hand is like that of the giant Balor;
But I fear his kiss, and his beard affrights me,
And the great stone dragon above his door.
Had I daughters nine, with me they should tarry;
They should sing old songs; they should dance at my door;
They should grind at the quern;—no need to marry;
O when will this marriage-day be o'er?
Had I buried, like Moirín, three mates already,
I might say: 'Three husbands! then why not four?'
But my hand is cold and my foot unsteady,
Because I never was married before!
Aubrey de Vere
THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE
The Little Black Rose shall be red at last;
What made it black but the March wind dry,
And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?
It shall redden the hills when June is nigh.
The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;
What drove her forth but the dragon-fly?
In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,
With her mild gold horn and her slow, dark eye.
The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!
The pine long bleeding, it shall not die!
This song is secret. Mine ear it passed
In a wind o'er the plains at Athenry.
Aubrey de Vere