O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,
Girl of my choice, Maureen!
Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy sweet mouth denies,
Maureen!
Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,
White rose of the West, Maureen;
For it’s pale you are, and the fear that’s on you is over me too,
Maureen!
Sure it’s our complaint that’s on us, asthore, this day,
Bride of my dreams, Maureen;
The smart of the bee that stung us, his honey must cure, they say,
Maureen!
I’ll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,
Mavourneen, my own Maureen,
When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arms’ embrace,
Maureen!
O where was the King o’ the World that day—only me,
My one true love, Maureen,
And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree,
Maureen!
The Sunburst.
JOHN TODHUNTER
Through the midnight of despair, I heard one making moan
For her dead, her victors fall’n to gain all battles but her own;
I heard the voice of Ireland, wailing for her dead
With wailing unavailing, and sobbing as she said:
“In vain in many a battle have my heroes fought and bled,
Like water, in vain slaughter, my sons’ best blood been shed,
For my house is desolate, discrowned my head!
“In vain my daughters bear their babes—babes with the mournful eyes
Of children without father that hear strange lullabies,
Rocked in their lonely cradles by mothers crooning low,
And weeping o’er their sleeping, sad songs of long ago;
Whose eyes, as they remember, while the wailing night-winds blow,
Their nation’s desolation, in their singing overflow
With the overflowing of an ancient woe!”
O Mother, mournful Mother, turn from wailing for thy dead,
Grey Sibyl, still unvanquished, lift up thy dauntless head,
O thou Swan among the nations, enchanted long, so long
That the story of thy glory is a half-forgotten song,
Lift thy voice and bless the living, thy sons who round thee throng!
In the hour of their power they shall right thine ancient wrong;
In thyself is thy salvation, let thy heart be strong!