The Irish Wife

I would not give my Irish wife
For all the dames of the Saxon land ;
I would not give my Irish wife
For the Queen of France's hand ;
For she to me is dearer
Than castles strong, or lands, or life —
An outlaw — so I'm near her,
To love till death my Irish wife.

O what would be this home of mine?
A ruined, hermit-haunted place,
But for the light that nightly shines
Upon its walls from Kathleen's face !
What comfort in a mine of gold,
What pleasure in a royal life,
If the heart within lay dead and cold,
If I could not wed my Irish wife ?

I knew the law forbade the banns —
I knew my king abhorred her race-
Who never bent before their clans
Must bow before their ladies' grace.
Take all my forfeited domain,
I cannot wage with kinsmen strife—
Take knightly gear and noble name,
And I will keep my Irish wife.

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes,
My heaven by day, my stars by night—
And twin-like, truth and fondness lie
Within her swelling bosom white.
My Irish wife has golden hair —
Apollo's harp had once such strings—
Apollo's self might pause to hear
Her bird-like carol when she sings.

I would not give my Irish wife
For all the dames of the Saxon land ;
I would not give my Irish wife
For the Queen of France's hand ;
For she to me is dearer
Than castles strong, or lands, or life —
In death I would lie near her,
And rise beside my Irish wife.