Roisin Dubh

O my sweet little rose, cease to pine for the past,
For the friends that came eastward shall see thee at last ;
They bring blessings and favours the past never knew,
To pour forth in gladness on my Roisin Dubh.

Long, long, with my dearest, through strange scenes I've gone,
O'er mountains and broad valleys I still have toiled on ;
O'er the Erne I have sailed as the rough gales blew,
While the harp poured its music for my Roisin Dubh.

Though wearied, O my fair one ! do not slight my song,
For my heart dearly loves thee, and hath loved thee long ;
In sadness and in sorrow I still shall be true,
And cling with wild fondness round my Roisin Dubh.

There's no flower that e'er bloomed can my rose excel,
There's no tongue that e'er moved half my love can tell ;
Had I strength, had I skill the wide world to subdue,
O the queen of that wide world should be Roisin Dubh.

Had I power, O my loved one, but to plead thy right,
I should speak out in boldness for my heart's delight ;
I would tell to all round me how my fondness grew,
And bid them bless the beauty of my Roisin Dubh.

The mountains, high and misty, through the moors must go ;
The rivers shall run backward, and the lakes overflow ;
And the wild waves of old ocean wear a crimson hue,
Ere the world sees the ruin of my Roisin Dubh.