Ten Songs for Low Voice

Shall I forget on this side of the grave?
I promise nothing: you must wait and see
Patient and brave.
(O my soul, watch with him and he with me.)

Shall I forget in peace of Paradise?
I promise nothing: follow, friend, and see,
Faithful and wise.
(O my soul, lead the way he walks with me.)

Denny's daughter stood a minute in the field I be to pass,
All as quiet as her shadow lyin' by her on the grass;
In her hand a switch o' hazel from the nut tree's crooked root,
Well I mind the crown o' clover crumpled under one bare foot.
	For the look of her,
	The look of her,
	Comes back on me today,
	Wi' the eyes of her,
	The eyes of her
	That took me on the way.

Though I seen poor Denny's daughter white an' stiff upon her bed,
Yet I be to think there's sunlight fallin' somewhere on her head;
She'll be singin' Ave Mary where the flowers never wilt,
She, the girl my own hands covered wi' the narrow daisy-quilt.
	For the love of her,
	The love of her
	That would not be my wife;
	An' the loss of her,
	The loss of her
	Has left me lone for life.

Sure a terrible time I was out o' the way,
	Over the sea, over the sea,
Till I come back to Ireland one sunny day,
	Betther for me, betther for me.
The first time me foot got the feel o' the ground
	I was strollin' along in an Irish city,
That hasn't its aquil the world around
	For the air that is sweet an' the girls that are pretty.

Light on their feet now they pass'd me an' sped,
	Give ye me word, give ye me word,
Every girl wid a turn o' the head
	Just like a bird, just like a bird;
An' the lashes so thick round their beautiful eyes
	Shinin' to tell you it's fair time o' day wid them,
Back in my heart wid a kind o' surprise
	I think how the Irish girls has the way wid them!

Och man alive! But it's little ye know
	That never was there, never was there.
Look where ye like for them, long may ye go -
	What do I care? What do I care?
Plenty as blackberries where will ye find
	Rare pretty girls not by two nor by three o' them?
Only just there where they grow, d'ye mind
	Still like the blackberries, more than ye see o' them.

Long, long away an' no matther how far,
	'Tis the girls that I miss, the girls that I miss:
Women are round ye wherever ye are
	Not worth a kiss, not worth a kiss.
Over in Ireland many's the one -
	Well do I know, that has nothin' to say wid them -
Sweeter than anythin' undher the sun.
	Och, 'tis the Irish girls has the way wid them!

Sure an' maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush
Whistlin' bould in March,
Before there's a primrose peepin' out,
Or a wee red cone on the larch;

Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud,
An' the wind to come over the sea,
But for all he can whistle so clear and so loud,
He's never the bird for me.

Sure an maybe ye've seen the song-thrush
After and April rain
Slip from in under the drippin' leaves,
Wishful to sing again;

An low wi' love when he's near the nest,
An' loud from the top o' the tree,
But for all he can flutter the heard in your breast,
He's never the bird for me.

Sure an' maybe ye've heard the red-breast
Singin' his lone on a thorn,
Mindin' himself of the dear days lost,
Brave wid his heard forlorn.

The time is in dark November,
An' no spring hopes has he:
"Remember", he sings, "remember!"
Ay, thon's the wee bird for me.

'Tis the long blue Head o' Garron
	From the sea,
Och, we're sailin' past the Garron
	On the sea.
Now Glen Ariff lies behind,
Where the waters fall an' wind
By the willows o' Glen Ariff to the sea.

Ould Luirgedan rises green
	By the sea,
Ay, he stands between the Glens
	An' the sea.
Now we're past the darklin' caves,
Where the breakin' summer waves
Wander in wi' their trouble from the sea.

But Cushendun lies nearer
	To the sea,
An' thon's a shore is dearer
	Still to me,
For the land that I am leavin'
Sure the heart I have is grievin',
But the ship has set her sails for the sea.

Och, what's this is deeper
	Than the sea?
An' what's this is stronger
	Nor the sea?
When the call is "all or none",
An' the answer "all for one"
Then we be to sail away across the sea.

Darest thou now O Soul,
Walk out with me toward the Unknown Region,
Where neither ground is for the feet
   nor any path to follow?

No map there, nor guide,
Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,
Nor face with blooming flesh,
   nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.

I know it not O Soul;
Nor dost thou -- all is a blank before us;
All waits, undream'd of, in that region,
   [that inaccessible land]1.

Till when the [ties loosen]2,
All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,
Nor darkness, gravitation, sense,
   nor any bounds, [bound]3 us.

Then we burst forth -- we float,
In Time and Space, O Soul, prepared for them;
Equal, equipt at last, -- 
   (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil, O Soul.

A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
  A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
  And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier’s mien
  A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green —
  No more of me you knew
        My Love!
No more of me you knew.
 
‘This morn is merry June, I trow,
  The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow
  Ere we two meet again.’
He turn’d his charger as he spake
  Upon the river shore,
He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
  Said ‘Adieu for evermore
        My Love!
And adieu for evermore.’

      Stands Saint Kieran's city fair;
And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations
      Slumber there.
 
There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest
      Of the clan of Conn,
Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham
      And the sacred knot thereon.
 
There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,
      There the sons of Cairbrè sleep —
Battle-banners of the Gael that in Kieran's plain of crosses
      Now their final hosting keep.
 
And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,
      And right many a lord of Breagh;
Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,
      Kind in hall and fierce in fray.
 
Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter
      In the red earth lies at rest;
Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,
      Many a swan-white breast.

Brave iron, brave hammer, from your sound
The art of music has her ground;
On the anvil thou keep'st time,
Thy knick-a-knock is a smith's best chime.
Yet thwick-a-thwack, thwick, thwack-a-thwack, thwack,
Make our brawny sinews crack:
Then pit-a-pat, pat, pit-a-pat, pat,
Till thickest bars be beaten flat.

We shoe the horses of the sun,
Harness the dragons of the moon;
Forge Cupid's quiver, bow, and arrows,
And our dame's coach that's drawn with sparrows.
Till thwick-a-thwack, etc.

Jove's roaring cannons and his rammers
We beat out with our Lemnian hammers;
Mars his gauntlet, helm and spear,
And Gorgon shield are all made here.
Till thwick-a-thwack, etc.

The grate which, shut, the day outbars,
Those golden studs which nail the stars,
The globe's case and the axle-tree,
Who can hammer these but we?
Till thwick-a-thwack, etc.

A warming-pan to heat earth's bed,
Lying i' th' frozen zone half-dead;
Hob-nails to serve the man i' th' moon,
And sparrowbills to clout Pan's shoon,
Whose work but ours?
Till thwick-a-thwack, etc.

Venus' kettles, pots and pans
We make, or else she brawls and bans;
Tongs, shovels, andirons have their places,
Else she scratches all our faces.

Of all the birds on bush or tree,
Commend me to the owl;
Since he may best ensample be
To those the cup that trowl.
For when the sun hath left the west
He chooses the tree that he loves best,
And he whoops out his song, and he laughs at his jest.
Though hours be late and weather foul,
We'll drink to the health of the bonny owl.

The lark is but a bumpkin fowl,
He sleeps in his nest till morn;
But my blessing upon the jolly owl,
That all night blows his horn
Then up wi' your cup till you stagger in speech,
And match me this catch till you swagger and screech
And drink till you wink, my merry men each.
Though hours be late and weather foul,
We'll drink to the health of the bonny owl.