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8o THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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And while my wheel goes whirring,
It taps on my window-pane, Till I open wide to the Dead outside,
And the sea-salt misty rain.
The brown wind of Connacht
With women wailed one day (The brown wind of Connacht)
For a wreck in Gal way Bay j And many the dark-faced fishers
That gathered their nets in fear, But one sank straight to the Ghostly Gate —
And he was my Dermot Dear.
The brown wind of Connacht,
Still keening in the dawn (The brown wind of Connacht)
For my true love that's gone. Oh, cold green wave of danger,
Drift him a restful sleep — O'er his young black head on its lowly bed,
While his weary wake I keep. |
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THE COLD SLEEP OF BRIGHIDIN1
THERE'S a sweet sleep for my love by yon glimmering blue wave, But alas ! it is a cold sleep in a green-happed narrow grave. |
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1 In the light of after-events, this song—even in the very particulars of season and month—proves to have been the singer's own inspired death lament. |
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