| |
| WE sit by the fire, | |
| My poor old wife and I; | |
| The fire burns slow, our hearts are low, | |
| And the tear stands in the eye. | |
| For our daughters three who are over the sea, | 5 |
| Far, far, in the wooded west; | |
| One after one, our darlings are gone; | |
| But our Mary we loved the best. | |
| |
| My brother’s son | |
| Sits in the chimney by us; | 10 |
| The staff of our age,—hard, hard is the page | |
| Of the lesson that keeps him by us. | |
| For he longs to be free, to go over the sea, | |
| Where his kindred have found their rest. | |
| One after one, our darlings are gone, | 15 |
| But our Mary he loved the best. | |
| |
| Welcome, Margaret! | |
| Dear Margaret, have you come? | |
| Draw nigh to the fire, and tighten the wire, | |
| And sing us a song of home. | 20 |
| For though heaven denies the light to your eyes, | |
| Yet never were expressed | |
| By the Harper King such strains as you sing, | |
| And our Mary loved them best. | |
| |
| Sit by me, Margaret, | 25 |
| Dear Margaret, sit by my side; | |
| For you loved my dearest daughter, far o’er the worldwide water, | |
| Who should have been our Patrick’s bride. | |
| O, sing me her songs, for my poor heart longs | |
| To clasp her to my breast; | 30 |
| Though tears it will bring, yet my darling must sing | |
| What our Mary loved the best. | |
| |
| You are there, Patrick! | |
| I feel your breathing soft upon my cheek; | |
| A tear is in your eye, and well your heart knows why; | 35 |
| You are there I say, although you do not speak. | |
| I have been to pleasant Meath, and to rich Fingal beneath, | |
| And homeward I am going to the west; | |
| And I thought as I did pass I would sing the “Colleen Dhas,” | |
| That one you loved so well, and best. | 40 |
| |
| Hark! she sings. | |
| Tremblingly over the strings her fingers stray; | |
| And the light that heaven denies to her clear but darkened eyes, | |
| Her wreathed smiles and dimpling cheeks betray. | |
| O, it is our “Colleen Dhas,” as her pleasant days did pass, | 45 |
| Loudly lilting at the milking with the rest; | |
| Soon, soon, alas! in sighs and tears, she leaves our longing eyes: | |
| The Mary we all loved the best. | |
| |
| No more, my dearest Margaret,— | |
| Sing the “Colleen Dhas” no more; | 50 |
| For her father and her mother loved her more than any other, | |
| And her parting grieves them sore. | |
| You have been to pleasant Meath, and to rich Fingal beneath, | |
| And homeward you are going to the west; | |
| Tell us all the country news, the merriest you can choose, | 55 |
| To pleasure the old couple we love best. | |
| |
| I have been to pleasant Meath, and to rich Fingal beneath, | |
| And homeward I am going to the west; | |
| I will tell the country news, the merriest I can choose, | |
| To pleasure the old couple we love best. | 60 |
| Your Mary has come home,—your loved and loving one, | |
| And here she comes to tell you all the rest! | |
| Now, Patrick, fill your glass, while I sing the “Colleen Dhas,” | |
| With a welcome home to Mary, you love best. | |
| |
