  From the Irish From the cold sod that's o'er you I never shall sever; Were my hands twined in yours, Love, I'd hold them for ever. We may now sleep together! I've the cold earth's damp odour, And I'm worn from the weather. This heart filled with fondness Is wounded and weary; A dark gulf beneath it Yawns jet-black and dreary. When death comes, a victor, In mercy to greet me, On the wings of the whirlwind In the wild wastes you'll meet me. When the folk of my household Suppose I am sleeping, On your cold grave till morning The lone watch I'm keeping. My grief to the night wind For the mild maid to render, Who was my betrothed Since infancy tender. Remember the lone night I last spent with you, Love, When the icy wind blew, Love. High praise to thy Saviour No sin-stain had found you, That your virginal glory Shines brightly around you. The priests and the friars Are ceaselessly chiding, That I love a young maiden In life not abiding. O! I'd shelter and shield you If wild storms were swelling! And O, my wrecked hope, That the cold earth's your dwelling. Edward Walsh |
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