This heart filled with fondness Is wounded and weary; A dark gulf beneath it Yawns jet-black and dreary. When death comes, a victor, In mercy to greet me, On the wings of the whirlwind In the wild wastes you'll meet me. When the folk of my household Suppose I am sleeping, On your cold grave till morning The lone watch I'm keeping. My grief to the night wind For the mild maid to render, Who was my betrothed Since infancy tender. Remember the lone night I last spent with you, Love, Beneath the dark sloe-tree When the icy wind blew, Love. High praise to thy Saviour No sin-stain had found you, That your virginal glory Shines brightly around you. The priests and the friars Are ceaselessly chiding, That I love a young maiden In life not abiding. O! I'd shelter and shield you If wild storms were swelling! And O, my wrecked hope, That the cold earth's your dwelling. _Edward Walsh_ THE FAIRY NURSE Sweet babe! a golden cradle holds thee, And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee; In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping. Shuheen sho, lulo lo When mothers languish broken-hearted, When young wives are from husbands parted, Ah! little think the keeners lonely, They weep some time-worn fairy only. Shuheen sho, lulo lo! Within our magic halls of brightness, Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness; Stolen maidens, queens of fairy-- And kings and chiefs a sluagh shee airy. Shuheen sho, lulo lo! Rest thee, babe! I love thee dearly, And as thy mortal mother nearly; Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest, That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest. Shuheen sho, lulo lo! Rest thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers Shall flee at the magic koelshie's numbers; In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping. Shuheen sho, lulo lo! _Edward Walsh_ A CUISLE GEAL MO CHROIDHE The long, long wished-for hour has come, Yet come, astor, in vain; And left thee but the wailing hum Of sorrow and of pain: My light of life, my lonely love! Thy portion sure must be Man's scorn below, God's wrath above-- A cuisle geal mo chroidhe! I've given thee manhood's early prime, And manhood's teeming years; I've blessed thee in my merriest time, And shed with thee my tears; And, mother, though thou cast away The child who'd die for thee, My fondest wishes still should pray For cuisle geal mo chroidhe!