THE BELLE OF CLONMACATE by Moses Teggart, Springfield, Mass. U.S.A. |
||
***** |
||
You cannot see her colour now, But sure as this I sing, The locks around her lily brow Are like the raven's wing. The rose that blossoms on her cheek, If it e'er kissed has been, Would tell us - if it could but speak, Love's sweet at seventeen. An' so it is, O so it is. God knows it's so of late, Yet where's the lad can call her his - The Belle of Clonmacate. |
Light-hearted, too, she is the girl, A maid who loves the moon, A blue-eyed lass, a blushing pearl Some lad will gather soon. Yet rest from toil she seldom takes, For even in July, From early morn till night, she makes The yellow shuttle fly. She with her web on passin' day, The dear, is never late, She has no time to spend at play - The Belle of Clonmacate. |
The curleys grow, the roses blow, Her mother's place is small, The rent, too, must be paid, ye know, But Mary's all in all. An' though for higher things she years - The desk, the scholar's pen, 'Tis on her linen loom she earns The needed two pound ten. Avaunt, avaunt, ye worldly cares! She's leanin' o'er the gate, And Love and Song have crowned her theirs - The Belle of Clonmacate. |