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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 293 |
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And I'd rather face snowdrift, and winter-wind there, Than lie among daisies and sunshine elsewhere.
My Owen Bawn Quinn is a bold fisherman, He tracks the dun quarry with arrow and spear — Where wild woods are waving, and deep waters flow, Oh, there goes my love with the dun-dappled roe.
My Owen Bawn Quinn is a bard of the best, He spears the strong salmon in midst of the Bann ; And rocked in the tempest on stormy Lough Neagh, Draws up the red trout through the bursting of spray.
My Owen Bawn Quinn is a hunter of deer, He wakes me with singing, he sings me to rest; And the emit1 'neath his fingers rings up with a sound, As though angels harped o'er us, and fays underground.
They tell me the stranger has given command, That crommeals and coolun shall cease in the land, That all our youths' tresses of yellow be shorn, And bonnets, instead, of a new fashion worn.
That mantles like Owen Bawn's shield us no more, That hunting and fishing henceforth we give o'er, That the net and the arrow aside must be laid, For hammer and trowel, and mattock and spade.
That the echoes of music must sleep in their caves, That the slave must forget his own tongue for a slave's, That the sound of our lips must be strange in our ears, And our bleeding hands toil in the dew of our tears.
• Cruit, a small harp. ' Crommeal, mustache. |
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