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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 53 |
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THE FETCH'
T
HE mother died when the child was born, And left me her baby tp keep; I rocked its cradle the night and morn, And silent hung o'er it to weep.
'Twas a sickly child through its infancy,
Its cheeks were so ashy pale, Till it broke from my arms to walk in glee
Out in the sharp, fresh gale.
And then my little girl grew strong,
And laughed the hours away; Or sung me the merry lark's mountain song,
Which he taught her at break of day.
When she wreathed her hair in thicket bovvers, With the hedge-rose and harebell blue,
I called her my May in her crown of flowers, With her smile so soft and new.
And the rose, I thought, never shamed her cheek,
But rosy and rosier made it; And her eye of blue did more brightly break
Through the bluebell that strove to shade it.
One evening I left her asleep in her smiles, And walked through the mountains lonely; .
I was far from my darling, ah ! many long miles, And I thought of her, and her only.
1 The Fetch is the apparition of a person doomed to death. |
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