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418 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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On a green bed of rushes
All last night I lay, And I flung it abroad
With the heat of the day.
And my love came behind me —
He came from the South;
His breast to my bosom.
His mouth to my mouth.
i
MY LOVE—OH ! SHE IS MY LOVE
From the Irish
S
HE casts a spell—oh ! casts a spell, Which haunts me more than I can tell, Dearer, because she makes me ill, Than who would will to make me well.
She is my store—oh ! she my store,' Whose gray eye wounded me so sore, Who will not place in mine her palm, Who will not calm me any more.
She is my pet—oh ! she my pet, Whom I can never more forget, Who would not lose by me one moan, Nor stone upon rfty cairn set.
She is my roon !—oh ! she my roon, Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon , Who would not lose by me one sigh, Were death and I within one room. |
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Ruin : secret treasure, love. |
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