It is entitled Cean Dubh Deelish--The Dear Black Head. Put your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above; Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance, Who with heart in breast could deny you love? Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining, Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free, For me the foremost of our gay young fellows; But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee: Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above; Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love? The verses entitled The Fair Hair'd Girl express with great sweetness the sense of woe and sorrow which forms the burden of so much of the Celtic poetry, and which is only relieved by occasional flashes of intoxicated merriment with the glass of whiskey for its stimulus and inspiration. THE FAIR HAIR'D GIRL. The sun has set, the stars are still, The red moon hides behind the hill; The tide has left the brown beach bare, The birds have fled the upper air; Upon her branch the lone cuckoo Is chanting still her sad adieu; And you, my fair hair'd girl, must go Across the salt sea under woe. I through love have learned three things, Sorrow, sin, and death it brings, Yet day by day my heart within Dares shame and sorrow, death and sin; Maiden, you have aim'd the dart Rankling in my ruin'd heart; Maiden, may the God above Grant you grace to grant me love. Sweeter than the viol's string, And the notes that blackbirds sing; Brighter than the dewdrops rare Is the maiden, wondrous fair; Like the silver swans at play Is her neck, as bright as day; Woe is me, that e'er my sight Dwelt on charms so deadly bright. Among the sweetest and most famous of the old Irish airs is that entitled The Coolun or Head of Clustering Tresses, one of the charming personifications of female beauty of which Irish poetry is full. Several sets of words remain to this air of which Ferguson has translated the following:-- THE COOLUN. Oh, had you seen the Coolun, Walking down by the cuckoo's street, With the dew of the meadow shining On her milk-white twinkling feet, My love she is and my _cooleen oge_, And she dwells at Bal'nagar; And she bears the palm of beauty bright From the fairest that in Erin are. In Bal'nagar is the Coolun, Like the berry on the bough her cheek; Bright beauty dwells forever On her fair neck and ringlets sleek; Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft music Than the lark or thrush at dawn, Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing Farewell to the setting sun.