Poetry Archives

The winter is past,
  And the summer’s come at last
And the blackbirds sing in every tree;
  The hearts of these are glad
  But my poor heart is sad,
Since my true love is absent from me.

  The rose upon the briar
  By the water running clear
Gives joy to the linnet and the bee;
  Their little hearts are blest
  But mine is not at rest,
While my true love is absent from me.

  A livery I’ll wear
  And I’ll comb out my hair,
And in velvet so green I’ll appear,
  And straight I will repair
  To the Curragh of Kildare
For it’s there I’ll find tidings of my dear.

  I’ll wear a cap of black
  With a frill around my neck,
Gold rings on my fingers I’ll wear:
  All this I’ll undertake
  For my true lover’s sake,
He resides at the Curragh of Kildare.

  I would not think it strange
  Thus the world for to range,
If I only get tidings of my dear;
  But here in Cupid’s chain
  If I’m bound to remain,
I would spend my whole life in despair.

  My love is like the sun
  That in the firmament does run,
And always proves constant and true;
  But he is like the moon
  That wanders up and down,
And every month is new.

  All ye that are in love
  And cannot it remove,
I pity the pains you endure;
  For experience lets me know
  That your hearts are full of woe,
And a woe that no mortal can cure.