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140 THE GOLDEN TREASURr OF |
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No man alive has seen me,
But women hear me play Sometimes at door or window,
Fiddling the souls away — The child's soul and the colleen's —
Out of the covering clay.
None of my fairy kinsmen Make music with me now :
Alone the raths I wander,
Or ride the whitethorn bough ;
But the wild swans they know me, And the horse that draws the plow. |
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THE GRAY FOG
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HERE'S a gray fog over Dublin of the curses, It blinds my eyes, mavrone; and stops my breath, And I travel slow that once could run the swiftest, And I fear ere I meet Mauryeen I'll meet Death.
There's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses, And a gray fog dogs my footsteps as they go,
And its long and sore to tread, the road to Connaught. Is it fault of brogues or feet I fare so slow ?
There's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses,
But the Connaught wind will blow it from my way,
And a Connaught girl will kiss it from my memory If the Death that walks beside me will delay. |
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