CHARLES P. O’CONOR
III.
Maura du of Ballyshannon,
Maura du, the day is drear!
Ah, the night is long and weary,
Far away from you, my dear!
Maura du, my own, my honey!
Still let winds blow high or low,
I must sing to you the old song,
That I sung you long ago,
And you mind, love, how it ran on—
“In your eyes asthore machree!
All my Heaven there I see,
And that’s true!
Maura du!
Maura du of Ballyshannon!”
IV.
Maura du of Ballyshannon!
Maura du, when winds blow south,
I will with the birds fly homeward,
There to kiss your Irish mouth.
Maura du, my own, my honey!
When time is no longer foe,
By your side I’ll sing the old song,
That I sung you long ago,
And you mind, love, how it ran on—
“In your eyes asthore machree!
All my Heaven there I see,
And that’s true!
Maura du!
Maura du of Ballyshannon!”
A Spinning Song.
JOHN FRANCIS O’DONNELL
My love to fight the Saxon goes,
And bravely shines his sword of steel,
A heron’s feather decks his brows,
And a spur on either heel;
His steed is blacker than a sloe,
And fleeter than the falling star;
Amid the surging ranks he’ll go
And shout for joy of war.
Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle,
Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel.
Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties
To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.
My love is pledged to Ireland’s fight;
My love would die for Ireland’s weal,
To win her back her ancient right,
And make her foemen reel.
Oh, close I’ll clasp him to my breast
When homeward from the war he comes;
The fires shall light the mountain’s crest,
The valley peal with drums.