English

As I came in by Fiddich-side,
In a May morning,
I met Willie Mackintosh,
An hour before the dawning.

"Turn again, turn again,
Turn again, I bid ye;
If ye burn Auchindown,
Huntly he will head ye.'

"Head me, hang me,
That sall never fear me;
I'll burn Auchindown
Before the life leaves me.'

As I came in by Auchindown,
In a May morning,
Auchindown was in a bleeze,
An hour before the dawning.

Crawing, crawing,
For my crowse crawing,
I lost the best feather i my wing

I SHALL not see the faces of my friends,
Nor hear the songs the rested reapers sing
After the labors of the harvesting,
In those dark nights before the summer ends;
Nor see the floods of spring, the melting snow,
Nor in the autumn twilight hear the stir
Of reedy marshes, when the wild ducks whir
And circle black against the afterglow.
My mother died; she shall not have to weep;
My wife will find another home; my child,
Too young, will never grieve or know; but I
Have found my brother, and contentedly

O! the rose is like her ruby lip,
And the lilly like her skin;
And her mouth like a faulded violet,
Wi' the scented breath within;
And her een are like yon bonnie flower
When the dew is in its cup;—
As the bee frae it its honey draws,
I love frae them maun sip.

O! her voice is like yon little bird's
That sits in the cherry-tree:
For the air o' the sky and the heart o' man
It fills wi' its melodie.
Her hand is soft as the downy peach
Upon yon branch that hings!
An' her hair its gloss sae rich has stown

CXCIII

Since that my language without eloquence
Is plain, unpainted, and not unknown,
Dispatch answer with ready utterance:
The question is ‘yours?’ or else ‘mine own?’
To be upholden and still to fawn,
I know no cause of such obedience.
To have such corn as seed was sown,
That is the worst. Therefore give sentence.

But if your will be in this case
To uphold me still, what needeth that?
Sith ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ my question was,
So long delay it needeth not.
If I have ‘yea’ then have I that

No man takes the farm,
Nothing grows there;
The ivy's arm
Strangles the rose there.

Old Farmer Kyrle
Farmed there the last;
He beat his girl
(It 's seven years past).

After market it was
He beat his girl;
He liked his glass,
Old Farmer Kyrle.

Old Kyrle's son
Said to his father:
“Now, dad, you ha' done,
I'll kill you rather!

“Stop beating sister,
Or by God I'll kill you!”
Kyrle was full of liquor—
Old Kyrle said: “Will you?”

Kyrle took his cobb'd stick

They robed the Christian's daughter;
From high embowered room
In dusky robe they brought her
Down, down into a tomb—
And oh, her dress had often been
Gay as a peacock's plume.

My journeyings lead me on through many places,
But none of them the home I could desire;
And in the streets I meet a thousand faces
Without one to admire.

But make our home in any place—each day
Does everything within its bounds or near it,
Assume a homely beauty, as if they
Put out their inner spirit.

Approach the most forbidding face so near
That we can see the truer face behind,
And in some brightening feature will appear
The beauty of a friend.

The secret of all love for friends and homes

Oh, how long, how long was the night!
And I spent it in passion and tears,
Thinking only of you, of you,
At the night-bird's song, at the dawn and the dew,
Love, how long, how long, was the night!

This is a fair in Magh Eala of the king: the fair of Liffey with its brilliancy: happy for each one that goes thither, he is not like Guaire the Blind.
Guaire the Blind was not in truth my name when I used to be in the king's house, in the house of excellent Fearghus on the strand over Bearramhain.
The horses of the Fiana would come to the race, and the horses of the Munstermen of the great races: they once held three famous contests on the green of the sons of Muiridh.

O love, that you and I might wing our way
Far from the restlessness of earth and sea,
Past the fresh well-heads of the springing day,
To where grey hills sleep everlastingly!

They through the lapse of ages sleep unchanged
(From the primeval deeps they never burst)
In that sweet land where yet unborn we ranged,
By those swift rivers where I loved you first.