Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Ireland: Vol. V. 1876–79.
Kate of Arraglen
By Denny LaneW
That summer evening late,
Down at the orchard gate
Of Arraglen,
I felt I ’d ne’er before
Seen one so fair, asthore,
I feared I ’d never more
See thee again,—
I stopped and gazed at thee,
My footfall luckily
Reached not thy ear, though we
Stood there so near;
While from thy lips a strain,
Soft as the summer rain,
Sad as a lover’s pain,
Fell on my ear.
The harp’s wild plaintive tune,
The thrush, that aye too soon
Gives o’er his strain,—
I ’ve heard in hushed delight
The mellow horn at night,
Waking the echoes light
Of wild Loch Lene;
But neither echoing horn,
Nor thrush upon the thorn,
Nor lark at early morn,
Hymning in air,
Nor harper’s lay divine,
E’er witched this heart of mine,
Like that sweet voice of thine,
That evening there.
Fell on thy listening ear,
You thought your brother near,
And named his name,
I could not answer, though,
As luck would have it so,
His name and mine, you know,
Were both the same,—
Hearing no answering sound,
You glanced in doubt around,
With timid look, and found
It was not he;
Turning away your head,
And blushing rosy red,
Like a wild fawn you fled
Far, far from me.
The wild rose in the brake,
The golden clouds that make
The west their throne,
The wild ash by the stream,
The full moon’s silver beam,
The evening star’s soft gleam,
Shining alone,
The lily robed in white,
All, all are fair and bright;
But ne’er on earth was sight
So bright, so fair,
As that one glimpse of thee,
That I caught then, machree,
It stole my heart from me
That evening there.
That heart is all my own,—
That heart that ne’er hath known
A flame before.
That form of mould divine,
That snowy hand of thine,
Those locks of gold, are mine
Forevermore.
Was lover ever seen
As blest as thine, Kathleen?
Hath lover ever been
More fond, more true?
Thine is my every vow!
Forever, dear, as now!
Queen of my heart be thou!
Mo cailin ruadh!