Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Ireland: Vol. V. 1876–79.
Sir Turlough, or the Churchyard Bride
By William Carleton (1794–1865)
T
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And her step was light as the breezy air
When it bends the morning flowers so fair,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
As she longed for the dawn of to-morrow’s light,
Her bridal vows of love to plight,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
To receive from his Eva her virgin vow;
“Why tarries the bride of my bosom now?”
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
“Your bride is asleep—she has not awoke;
And the sleep she sleeps will be never broke,”
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And his cheek became like the marble stone—
“O, the pulse of my heart is forever gone!”
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And rises sad from the funeral train,
As in sorrow it winds along the plain,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed,
The fairest corpse among the dead,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
By virgin hands, o’er the spotless maid;
And the flowers are strewn, but they soon will fade
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Let us feel that life is near our clay,”
The long-departed seem to say,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And beneath each cold forgotten stone,
The mouldering dead sleep all alone,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
The fresh green sod with his tears is wet,
And his heart in the bridal grave is set,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Should bend him o’er that bridal grave,
And to his death-bound Eva rave,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
“Should youth and valor thus despair,
And pour their vows to the empty air?”
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Such beauty—bright, and warm, and young—
Was never seen the maids among,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The charm is strong upon Turlough’s eye,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
His faithless tears are already dry,
And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
“I pledge that love o’er my buried bride;
O, come, and in Turlough’s hall abide,”
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
The passing breeze, as it wailed before,
And streams of mournful music bore,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
One month from hence thou wilt meet me here,
Where lay thy bridal Eva’s bier,”
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And his banshee’s wail—now far and broken—
Murmured “Death,” as he gave the token,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy;
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And she slowly passed like a thing of light,
Or a morning cloud, from Sir Turlough’s sight,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And there ’s fear and grief o’er his wide domain,
And gold for those who will calm his brain,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The leech has failed, and the hoary priest,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
With pious shrift his soul released,
And the smoke is high of his funeral feast,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And the songs of praise, in Sir Turlough’s hall,
To the sorrowing harp’s dark music fall,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom,
O’ershadows the Irish chieftain’s tomb,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Is married to death—and, side by side,
He slumbers now with his churchyard bride,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.