And my love came behind me—
He came from the south;
His breast to my bosom,
His mouth to my mouth.
Douglas Hyde
MY LOVE, O, SHE IS MY LOVE
From the Irish
She casts a spell, O, casts a spell,
Which haunts me more than I can tell.
Dearer because she makes me ill,
Than who would will to make me well.
She is my store, O, she my store,
Whose grey eye wounded me so sore,
Who will not place in mine her palm,
Who will not calm me any more.
She is my pet, O, she my pet,
Whom I can never more forget;
Who would not lose by me one moan,
Nor stone upon my cairn set,
She is my roon, O, she my roon,
Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon;
Who would not lose by me one sigh,
Were death and I within one room.
She is my dear, O, she my dear,
Who cares not whether I be here.
Who would not weep when I am dead,
Who makes me shed the silent tear.
Hard my case, O, hard my case,
How have I lived so long a space,
She does not trust me any more,
But I adore her silent face.