She is my choice, O, she my choice,
Who never made me to rejoice;
Who caused my heart to ache so oft,
Who put no softness in her voice.
Great is my grief, O, great my grief,
Neglected, scorned beyond belief,
By her who looks at me askance,
By her who grants me no relief.
She's my desire, O, my desire,
More glorious than the bright sun's fire;
Who more than wind—blown ice more cold,
Had I the boldness to sit by her.
She it is who stole my heart,
But left a void and aching smart,
But if she soften not her eye,
Then life and I shall surely part.
Douglas Hyde
I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE
From the Irish
For thee I shall not die,
Woman high of fame and name;
Foolish men thou mayest slay,
I and they are not the same.
Why should I expire
For the fire of any eye,
Slender waist, or swan-like limb,
Is't for them that I should die?
The round breasts, the fresh skin,
Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;
Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,
Please God, not I, for any such.