Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
James Clarence Mangan. 18031849664. Dark Rosaleen
O MY Dark Rosaleen, | |
Do not sigh, do not weep! | |
The priests are on the ocean green, | |
They march along the deep. | |
There ‘s wine from the royal Pope, | 5 |
Upon the ocean green; | |
And Spanish ale shall give you hope, | |
My Dark Rosaleen! | |
My own Rosaleen! | |
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, | 10 |
Shall give you health, and help, and hope, | |
My Dark Rosaleen! | |
Over hills, and thro’ dales, | |
Have I roam’d for your sake; | |
All yesterday I sail’d with sails | 15 |
On river and on lake. | |
The Erne, at its highest flood, | |
I dash’d across unseen, | |
For there was lightning in my blood, | |
My Dark Rosaleen! | 20 |
My own Rosaleen! | |
O, there was lightning in my blood, | |
Red lightning lighten’d thro’ my blood. | |
My Dark Rosaleen! | |
All day long, in unrest, | 25 |
To and fro, do I move. | |
The very soul within my breast | |
Is wasted for you, love! | |
The heart in my bosom faints | |
To think of you, my Queen, | 30 |
My life of life, my saint of saints, | |
My Dark Rosaleen! | |
My own Rosaleen! | |
To hear your sweet and sad complaints, | |
My life, my love, my saint of saints, | 35 |
My Dark Rosaleen! | |
Woe and pain, pain and woe, | |
Are my lot, night and noon, | |
To see your bright face clouded so, | |
Like to the mournful moon. | 40 |
But yet will I rear your throne | |
Again in golden sheen; | |
‘Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, | |
My Dark Rosaleen! | |
My own Rosaleen! | 45 |
‘Tis you shall have the golden throne, | |
‘Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, | |
My Dark Rosaleen! | |
Over dews, over sands, | |
Will I fly, for your weal: | 50 |
Your holy delicate white hands | |
Shall girdle me with steel. | |
At home, in your emerald bowers, | |
From morning’s dawn till e’en, | |
You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers, | 55 |
My Dark Rosaleen! | |
My fond Rosaleen! | |
You’ll think of me through daylight hours, | |
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, | |
My Dark Rosaleen! | 60 |
I could scale the blue air, | |
I could plough the high hills, | |
O, I could kneel all night in prayer, | |
To heal your many ills! | |
And one beamy smile from you | 65 |
Would float like light between | |
My toils and me, my own, my true, | |
My Dark Rosaleen! | |
My fond Rosaleen! | |
Would give me life and soul anew, | 70 |
A second life, a soul anew, | |
My Dark Rosaleen! | |
O, the Erne shall run red, | |
With redundance of blood, | |
The earth shall rock beneath our tread, | 75 |
And flames wrap hill and wood, | |
And gun-peal and slogan-cry | |
Wake many a glen serene, | |
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, | |
My Dark Rosaleen! | 80 |
My own Rosaleen! | |
The Judgement Hour must first be nigh, | |
Ere you can fade, ere you can die, | |
My Dark Rosaleen! |