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22 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.
The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all
before, No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the
floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was
gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart
away.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so
complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so
much praised, But blessed his luck to not be deaf when once her
voice she raised.
And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung, Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside
my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on
both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger
stands.
Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in
town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. |
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