Poetry Archives

I grieve when I think on the dear happy days of my youth,
When all the bright dreams of this faithless world seem’d truth;
When I stray’d thro’ the green wood, as gay as a mid-summer bee,
In brotherly love with my Draherin O Machree!

Together we lay in the sweet-scented meadows to rest,
Together we watch’d the gay lark as he sung o’er his nest,
Together we plucked the red fruit of the fragrant hawthorn tree,
And I loved as a sweetheart, my Draherin O Machree!

His form was straight as a hazel that grows in the glen,
His manners were courteous, and social, and gay amongst men;
His bosom was white as the lily on summer’s green lea—
He’s God’s brightest image was Draherin O Machree!

Oh! sweet were his words as the honey that falls in the night,
And his young smiling face like the May-bloom was fresh, and as bright;
His eyes were like dew on the flower of the sweet apple tree;
My heart’s spring and summer was Draherin O Machree!

He went to the wars when proud England united with France;
His regiment was first in the red battle-charge to advance;
But when night drew its veil o’er the gory and life-wasting fray,
Pale, bleeding, and cold lay my Draherin O Machree!

Now I’m left to weep, like the sorrowful bird of the night;
This earth and its pleasures no more shall afford me delight.
The dark, narrow grave is the only sad refuge for me,
Since I lost my heart’s darling—my Draherin O Machree!