  From the Irish She casts a spell, O, casts a spell, Dearer because she makes me ill, Than who would will to make me well. She is my store, O, she my store, Whose grey eye wounded me so sore, Who will not place in mine her palm, Who will not calm me any more. She is my pet, O, she my pet, Whom I can never more forget; Who would not lose by me one moan, Nor stone upon my cairn set, She is my roon, O, she my roon, Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon; Who would not lose by me one sigh, Were death and I within one room. She is my dear, O, she my dear, Who cares not whether I be here. Who would not weep when I am dead, Who makes me shed the silent tear. Hard my case, O, hard my case, She does not trust me any more, But I adore her silent face. She is my choice, O, she my choice, Who never made me to rejoice; Who caused my heart to ache so oft, Who put no softness in her voice. Great is my grief, O, great my grief, Neglected, scorned beyond belief, By her who looks at me askance, By her who grants me no relief. She's my desire, O, my desire, More glorious than the bright sun's fire; Who more than wind—blown ice more cold, Had I the boldness to sit by her. She it is who stole my heart, But left a void and aching smart, But if she soften not her eye, Then life and I shall surely part. Douglas Hyde |
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