MAIRE BHAN ASTOR

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W. B. Yeats
In a valley far away,
 With my Maire bhan astÓr,
 Short would be the summer-day,
 Ever loving more and more;
 Winter days would all grow long,
 With the light her heart would pour,
 With her kisses and her song,
 And her loving mait go leÓr.
 Fond is Maire bhan astÓr,
 Fair is Maire bhan astÓr,
 Sweet as ripple on the shore,
 Sings my Maire bhan astÓr.
O! her sire is very proud,
 And her mother cold as stone;
 But her brother bravely vowed
 She should be my bride alone;
 For he knew I loved her well,
 And he knew she loved me too,
 So he sought their pride to quell,
 But 'twas all in vain to sue.
 True is Maire bhan astÓr,
 Tried is Maire bhan astÓr,
 Had I wings I'd never soar
 From my Maire bhan astÓr.
There are lands where manly toil
 Surely reaps the crop it sows,
 Glorious woods and teeming soil,
 Where the broad Missouri flows:
 Through the trees the smoke shall rise,
 From our hearth with mait go leÓr,
 There shall shine the happy eyes
 Of my Maire bhan astÓr.
 Mild is Maire bhan astÓr,
 Mine is Maire bhan astÓr,
 Saints will watch about the door
 Of my Maire bhan astÓr.

Thomas Davis

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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