40. Draherin O Machree

I GRIEVE when I think on the dear happy days of my youth,

When all the bright dreams of this faithless world seem’d truth;

When I stray’d thro’ the green wood, as gay as a mid-summer bee,

In brotherly love with my Draherin O Machree!

Together we lay in the sweet-scented meadows to rest,

Together we watch’d the gay lark as he sung o’er his nest,

Together we plucked the red fruit of the fragrant hawthorn tree,

And I loved as a sweetheart, my Draherin O Machree!

His form was straight as a hazel that grows in the glen,

His manners were courteous, and social, and gay amongst men;

His bosom was white as the lily on summer’s green lea—

He’s God’s brightest image was Draherin O Machree!

Oh! sweet were his words as the honey that falls in the night,

And his young smiling face like the May-bloom was fresh, and as bright;

His eyes were like dew on the flower of the sweet apple tree;

My heart’s spring and summer was Draherin O Machree!

He went to the wars when proud England united with France;

His regiment was first in the red battle-charge to advance;

But when night drew its veil o’er the gory and life-wasting fray,

Pale, bleeding, and cold lay my Draherin O Machree!

Now I’m left to weep, like the sorrowful bird of the night;

This earth and its pleasures no more shall afford me delight.

The dark, narrow grave is the only sad refuge for me,

Since I lost my heart’s darling—my Draherin O Machree!