The Cailin Deas

The gold rain of eve was descending,
Bright purple robed mountain and tree,
As I through Glenmornein was wending
A wanderer from o'er the blue sea.
'Twas the lap of a west-looking mountain,
Its woody slope bright with the glow,
Where sang by a murmuring fountain,
An cailin deas cruidhte na m-bo A
Dark clouds where a gold tinge reposes
But picture her brown wavy hair ;
And her teeth looked as if in a rose's
Red bosom a snow-flake gleamed fair.
As her tones down the green dell went ringing,
The listening thrush mimicked them low,
And the brooklet harped soft to the singing
Of cailin deas cruidhte na m-bo.

" At last, o'er thy long night, dear Erin,
Dawns the Sun of thy Freedom ! " sang she ;
" But thy mountaineers still are despairing —
Ah, he who 'mid bondmen was free,
Ah, my Diarmid, the Patriot-hearted,
Who would fire them with hope for the blow,
Far, Erin ! from thee is he parted,
Far from cailin deas cruidhte na m-bo"
Her tears on a sudden brimmed over,
Her voice trembled low and less clear ;
To listen, I stepped from my cover,
But the bough-rustle broke on her ear :
She started — she reddened — "A Stoirin
My Diarmid ! — O can it be so ? "
And I clasped to my glad heart sweet Moirin,
Mo cailin deas cruidhte na m-bo.