  A Girl's Babble I go to knit two clans together; Our clan and this clan unseen of yore:— Our clan fears nought! but I go, O whither? This day I go from my mother's door. Thou, red-breast, singest the old song over, Though many a time thou hast sung it before; They never sent thee to some strange new lover:— I sing a new song by my mother's door. I stepped from my little room down by the ladder, The ladder that never so shook before; I was sad last night; to-day I am sadder, The last snow melts upon bush and bramble; The gold bars shine on the forest's floor; Shake not, thou leaf! it is I must tremble Because I go from my mother's door. From a Spanish sailor a dagger I bought me; I trailed a rose-tree our grey bawn o'er; The creed and my letters our old bard taught me; My days were sweet by my mother's door. My little white goat that with raised feet huggest The oak stock, thy horns in the ivies frore, Could I wrestle like thee—how the wreaths thou tuggest!— I never would move from my mother's door. O weep no longer, my nurse and mother! My foster-sister, weep not so sore! You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother— Alone I go from my mother's door. Farewell, my wolf-hound that slew MacOwing As he caught me and far through the thickets bore: My heifer, Alb, in the green vale lowing, He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me, His hand is like that of the giant Balor; But I fear his kiss, and his beard affrights me, And the great stone dragon above his door. Had I daughters nine, with me they should tarry; They should sing old songs; they should dance at my door; They should grind at the quern;—no need to marry; O when will this marriage-day be o'er? Had I buried, like MoirÍn, three mates already, I might say: 'Three husbands! then why not four?' But my hand is cold and my foot unsteady, Because I never was married before! Aubrey de Vere |
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