Cormac Og

At home the doves are sporting, the Summer is nigh —
Oh, blossoms of April set in the crowns of the trees ! —
On the streams the cresses, clustering, knotted, lie,
And the hives are bursting with spoil of the honey bees.

Rich there in worth and in fruit is a forest fine;
A winsome, lithe, holy maiden — oh, fair to see !
A hundred brave horses, lambs and a hundred kine
By Lee of the trout — and I an exile from thee!

The birds their dear voices are turning all to song,
The calves are bleating aloud for their mother's side,
The fish are leaping high where the midges throng —
And I alone with young Cormac here must abide !