O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen, That came not of stream or malt,--like the brewing of men. My bed was the ground; my roof, the green-wood above, And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my love. Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field, That I was not near from terror my angel to shield. She stretched forth her arms; her mantle she flung to the wind, And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find. O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep, And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep; I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or a pinnace, to save-- With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave. 'Tis down by the lake where the wild-tree fringes its sides, The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;-- I think, as at eve she wanders its mazes among, The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.
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Published in 1999 by Dennis McCarthy
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