Like swords of battle the scythes were plying,
The corn lay low in a yellow rout,
When down the stubble, dew-wet and glinting,
A golden shaft of the sun came out:
It was Moorloch Mary, the slender blossom,
Who smiled on me in the misty morn,
And since that hour I am lost with grieving,
Through sleepless nights, and through days forlorn.

Oh Moorloch lies in a world of heather
Where Mary's little brown feet go bare,
And many a shadowy peak divides us,
Yet I will journey to find her there;
I will climb the mountains and swim the rivers,

Er Papa ride? Male, amico! È sseggno
C'a mmomenti er zu' popolo ha da piaggne,
Le risatine de sto bbon padreggno
Pe nnoi fijjastri sò ssempre compaggne.

Ste facciacce che pporteno er trireggno
S'assomijjeno tutte a le castaggne:
Bbelle de fora, eppoi, pe ddio de leggno,
Muffe de drento e ppiene de magaggne.

Er Papa ghiggna? Sce sò gguai per aria:
Tanto ppiú cch'er zu' ride de sti tempi
Nun me pare una cosa nescessaria.

Fijji mii cari, state bbene attenti.
Sovrani in alegria sò bbrutti esempi.

Oh thinkin' long 's the weary work!
It breaks my heart from dawn
Till all the wee, wee, friendly stars
Come out at dayli'gone.
An' thinkin' long's the weary work,
When I must spin and spin,
To drive the fearsome fancies out,
An' hold the hopeful in!

Ah, sure my lad is far away!
My lad who left our glen
When from the soul of Ireland came
A call for fightin' men;
I miss his gray eyes glancin' bright,
I miss his liltin' song,
And that is why, the lonesome day,
I'm always thinkin' long.

May God's kind angels guard him

There is a way I am fain to go —
To the mystical land where all are young,
Where the silver branches have buds of snow,
And every leaf is a singing tongue.

It lies beyond the night and day,
Over shadowy hill, and moorland wide,
And whoso enters casts care away,
And wistful longings unsatisfied.

There are sweet white women, a radiant throng,
Swaying like flowers in a scented wind:
But between us the veil of earth is strong,
And my eyes to their luring eyes are blind.

A blossom of fire is each beauteous bird,

Do 'ee know a place they call Michaelstow,
Well 'twas there — a bravish long time ago,
A Chrissymas day,
So I've heard say.
The Church congregation, tho' not much to boast
On other occasions, that day was a host.
Mostly women it was, and I'll tell 'ee for why,
To every widow that chanced to come by,
'Pon a Chrissymas day,
There was gived away
A new petticoat,
Never cost 'em a groat.
And every maid,
Young woman, or staid,
And every wife,
So sure as you're life,
Was a widow that day,
With a crape flyaway,

A thousand books with patient art
Had lent him poise and power,
Yet love entangled brain and heart
In one brief hour!

Iss, there she is — so purty a craft
As ever there could be.
Smart as a lady, safe as a church
Stand any amount of sea.
Her name? Well, iss, I've thought about that —
Somebody said The Unique ,
I don't know, I'm sure, what language 'tis,
Latin, I s'pose, or Greek.

Old Michael do know some French, and so
I ask the meaning of he, —
He said I didn't pernounce it right
And called it U-ni-que.

Seven pleasant miles by wood, and stream, and moor,
Seven miles along the country road that wound
Uphill and downhill in a dusty line,
Then from the forehead of a hill, behold —
Lying below me, sparkling ruby-like —
The village! — quaint old gables, roofs of thatch,
The glimmering spire that peep'd above the firs,
The sunset lingering orange-red on all,
And nearer, tumbling thro' a mossy bridge,
The river that I knew! No wondrous peep
Into the fairy land of Oberon,
Its bowers, its glowworm-lighted colonnades
Where pigmy lovers wander two by two,

At the Well of the Branchy Trees, I lay awhile to rest,
Then God's hand shook the trouble down upon my breast,
For the girl I had never seen except in dreams came by,
And now my nights are sleepless grief, my days a sigh.

She is Mary of the Curls—the swan-white modest maid,
Grey pools of quiet are her eyes, like waters in the shade,
She moves as softly through the world as any whispered prayer,
And where she steps, the blossoms rise, and song haunts the air.

O Heartbreaker, will you come where my hut stands lone?

1.

O Lyre ! O Lyre!
Strung with celestial fire!
Thou living soul of sound that answereth
These fingers that have troubled thee so long,
With passion, and with music, and with breath
Of melancholy song, —
Answer, answer, answer me,
With thy withering melody!