  Salutation to thee, O Seagull, who flew to my bosom, As the Maid of the West Winged her way o'er the waves of the sea; In wrath I will ravage the country Right up to the ridge of Roscuain; But when I turn home again, Back to my bird again, 'Tis I who am conquered then, Conquered by thee. Whiter thy neck, thousand loves, Than the swan that floats out on the billow; Redder thy cheek Than the rose-blossom dropped from the tree; Softer thy voice Than the cuckoo's low call from the willow, And smoother than silk, The fine silk of the silkworm, The silkworm in spinning, The fair locks of thee. Maid without spot, matchless maiden, How lovely the bloom of thy forehead! Where is the fortunate youth I would care to betroth to thee? The gloom of my soul I reveal it; The mists round me thicken, With death I am stricken, 'Twas the Red Man who smote When he stole thee from me. Blossom of beauty, my blossom, Ten thousand blessings before thee, Sick to the death is my heart For sorrowful lack of thee. If I could coax thee and tell thee How lonely I am and weary, Thy wild eyes would soften, Would soften in sorrow, At the pain of my loss, By the Red Man and thee. Though in a gaol I were fast, There below in the old Down quarter, Bolts on my wrist, and my waist Fastened tight under lock and key; Swift as the flight of the falcon Or the swan swooping down on the harbour, I'd find thee and bind thee, In my arms I'd entwine thee, Ere the Red Man could part us, Could part thee from me. FOOTNOTES: |
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