  There's black grief on the plains, and a mist on the hills; There is fury on the mountains, and that is no wonder; I would empty the wild ocean with the shell of an egg, If I could be at peace with thee, my Ros geal dubh. Long is the course I travelled from yesterday to to-day, Without, on the edge of the hill, lightly bounding, as I know, I leapt Loch Erne to find her, though wide was the flood, With no light of the sun to guide my path, but the Ros geal dubh. If thou shouldst go to the Aonach to sell thy kine and stock, If you go, see that you stay not out in the darkness of the night; Put bolts upon your doors, and a heavy reliable lock, Or, in faith, the priest will be down on you, on my Ros geal dubh! O little Rose, sorrow not, nor be lamenting now, There is pardon from the Pope for thee, sent straight home from Rome, The friars are coming overseas, across the heaving wave, And Spanish wine will then be thine, my Ros geal dubh. Love tormenting, love lamenting, heavy love that wearies me, Love that left me without health, without a path, gone all astray, And for ever, ever, I did not get my Ros geal dubh! I would walk Munster with thee and the winding ways of the hills, In hope I would get your secret and a share of your love; O fragrant Branch, I have known it, that thou hast love for me, The flower-blossom of wise women is my Ros geal dubh. The sea will be red floods, and the skies like blood, Blood-red in war the world will show on the ridges of the hills; The mountain glens through Erinn and the brown bogs will be quaking Before the day she sinks in death, my Ros geal dubh! |
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