  I WOULD wed you, dear, without gold or gear, or counted kine; My wealth you’ll be, would your friends agree, and you be mine. My grief, my gloom! that you do not come, my heart’s dear hoard! To Cashel fair, though our couch were there but a soft deal board. Oh, come, my bride, o’er the wild hill-side to the valley low! A downy bed for my love I’ll spread where waters flow, And we shall stray where streamlets play, the groves among, Where echo tells to the listening dells the blackbird’s song. Love tender, true, I gave to you, and secret sighs, In hope to see upon you and me one hour arise, If wife you be, love, to one but me, love, in grief I’ll die! A neck of white has my heart’s delight, and breast like snow, And flowing hair whose ringlets fair to the green grass flow, Alas! that I did not early die, before the day That saw me here, from my bosom’s dear, far, far away! |
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