The Cold Night of Innisfail

Cold, cold,

Chill, this night, is Lure's wide wold;
Foodless now the gaunt deer goes,
High o'er hills the snows are rolled.

Cold to death

Sweeps the broad'ning tempest's breath;
Round the fords the whirlpools roar,
Rills through ridges pour in wrath.

Each loch now a sea doth make,
And a great lake is each pond;
No steed wins the ford of Ross,
No foot dares to cross beyond.

Fishes Innisfail must flee,
Since there's neither sea nor strand;
Bells are dumb, no herons call
Land is none in all the Land.

In their Cuan cove no hound
Yet has found repose or rest;
Nor may wren of Leiter Lone
Shelter in its own round nest.

On the small bird-comrades beat
Icy darts and sleety winds;
Not one nook in Cuan's grove,
As 'twould love, the blackbird finds.

Cheerful is our cauldron here,
Cold and drear is Leiter Lone;
Staff in hand, what toil to go,
Climbing snow where tempests moan.

Even the ancient eagle chief
Shakes in grief 'neath Rigi's peak;

Pierced with pain, the bitter breeze
Soon may freeze with ice her beak.

From soft down for snows to part,
Hearken heart! — 'twere madly bold;
Ice-heaps cumber every ford,
Hence each word I cry is cold.