I go to knit two clans together; Our clan and this clan unseen of yore:-- Our clan fears nought! but I go, O whither? This day I go from my mother's door. Thou, red-breast, singest the old song over, Though many a time thou hast sung it before; They never sent thee to some strange new lover:-- I sing a new song by my mother's door. I stepped from my little room down by the ladder, The ladder that never so shook before; I was sad last night; to-day I am sadder, Because I go from my mother's door. The last snow melts upon bush and bramble; The gold bars shine on the forest's floor; Shake not, thou leaf! it is I must tremble Because I go from my mother's door. From a Spanish sailor a dagger I bought me; I trailed a rose-tree our grey bawn o'er; The creed and my letters our old bard taught me; My days were sweet by my mother's door. My little white goat that with raised feet huggest The oak stock, thy horns in the ivies frore, Could I wrestle like thee--how the wreaths thou tuggest!-- I never would move from my mother's door. O weep no longer, my nurse and mother! My foster-sister, weep not so sore! You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother-- Alone I go from my mother's door. Farewell, my wolf-hound that slew MacOwing As he caught me and far through the thickets bore: My heifer, Alb, in the green vale lowing, My cygnet's nest upon Lorna's shore! He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me, His hand is like that of the giant Balor; But I fear his kiss, and his beard affrights me, And the great stone dragon above his door. Had I daughters nine, with me they should tarry; They should sing old songs; they should dance at my door; They should grind at the quern;--no need to marry; O when will this marriage-day be o'er? Had I buried, like Moirín, three mates already, I might say: 'Three husbands! then why not four?' But my hand is cold and my foot unsteady, Because I never was married before! _Aubrey de Vere_ THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE The Little Black Rose shall be red at last; What made it black but the March wind dry, And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast? It shall redden the hills when June is nigh. The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last; What drove her forth but the dragon-fly? In the golden vale she shall feed full fast, With her mild gold horn and her slow, dark eye. The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last! The pine long bleeding, it shall not die! This song is secret. Mine ear it passed In a wind o'er the plains at Athenry. _Aubrey de Vere_ SONG