Doreen le Poer

'Tis woe-smit I've been,
And mournful my mien,

Through true love,

For you, Love,
My soft, stately queen.

None deems it disgrace
To pine for that face, —

The fairest,

The rarest,
Of all Adam's race!

Thy small teeth to me
Seem pearls of Tralee,

Thy white breast

The bright breast
Of swan on the sea.

No hand this may know
Nor thy neck of snow —

Their gladness

Brings sadness
And causes my woe.

I start, I awake
Ere birds in the brake,
Lest never

I'd ever
Win worth for her sake.

I grieve, I repine
The maid is not mine,

With palace,

In valleys,
And walls jewelled fine.

The world will not meet
Such beauty to greet —

Glance tender

In splendour,
And mouth music-sweet.

How lovely her mien —
The kind, gentle queen!

The berry

On merry
Bright white cheek is seen.

How peerless her grace!
How priceless each tress!

All Munster

Can't once stir
When seen her sweet face.