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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 235 |
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The rich have spurned me from their door,
Because I'd make thee free; Yet still I love thee more and more,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe !
I've run the outlaw's wild career,
And borne his load of ill; His rocky couch—his dreamy fear —
With fixed, sustaining will; And should his last dark chance befall,
Even that shall welcome be; In death I'd love thee best of all,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe I
'Twas told of thee the world around,
'Twas hoped for thee by all, That with one gallant sunward bound
Thou'dst burst long ages' thrall; Thy faith was tied, alas ! and those
Who periled all for thee Were cursed and branded as thy foes,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe !
What fate is thine, unhappy Isle,
When even the trusted few Would pay thee back with hate and guile,
When most they should be true ! 'Twas not my strength or spirit quailed,
Or those who'd die for thee — Who loved thee truly have not failed,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe I |
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