  At the dance in the village thy white foot was fleetest; Thy voice in the concert of maidens was sweetest; The swell of thy white breast made rich lovers follow; And thy raven hair bound them, young MairgrÉad ni Chealleadh. Thy neck was, lost maid, than the ceanabhan whiter, And the glow of thy cheek than the monadan brighter; That shone like a sunburst, young MairgrÉad ni Chealleadh. No more shall mine ear drink thy melody swelling; Nor thy beamy eye brighten the outlaw's dark dwelling; Or thy soft heaving bosom my destiny hallow, When thine arms twine around me, young MairgrÉad ni Chealleadh. The moss couch I brought thee to-day from the mountain, Has drank the last drop of thy young heart's red fountain— For this good scian beside me stuck deep and run hollow In thy bosom of treason, young MairgrÉad ni Chealleadh. With strings of rich pearls thy white neck was laden, And thy fingers with spoils of the Sassanach maiden: Such rich silks enrob'd not the proud dames of Mallow— Alas! that my loved one her outlaw would injure— Alas! that he e'er proved her treason's avenger! That this right hand should make thee a bed cold and hollow, When in Death's sleep it laid thee, Young MairgrÉad ni Chealleadh! And while to this lone cave my deep grief I'm venting, The Saxon's keen bandog my footstep is scenting, But true men await me afar in Duhallow, Farewell, cave of slaughter, and MairgrÉad ni Chealleadh. Edward Walsh |
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