Poetry Archives

At the Yellow Bohereen
  Is my heart’s secret queen,
Alone on her soft bed a-sleeping;
  Each tress of her hair,
  Than the King’s gold more fair,
The dew from the grass might be sweeping.

  I’m a man of Teig’s race,
  Who has watched her fair face;
And away from her ever I’m sighing,
  And, oh, my heart’s store,
  Be not grieved ever more,
That for you a young man should be dying!

  Should my love with me come
  I would build her a home,
The finest e’er told of in Eirinn;
  And ’tis then she would shine,
  And her fame ne’er decline,
For beauty o’er all the palm bearing.

  For in your bosom bright
  Shines the pure, sunny light,
As on your smooth brow graceful ever;
  And, oh, could I say
  You’re my own from this day,
Death’s contest would frighten me never!