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82 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Is heaven too high and saintly For her to hear, though faintly, One word of all my grieving on her grave beside Loch Finn? |
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THE PASSING OF THE GAEL
THEY are going, going, going from the valleys and the hills, They are leaving far behind them heathery moor and mountain rills, All the wealth of hawthorn hedges where the brown thrush sways and trills.
They are going, shy-eyed colleens and lads so straight
and tall, From the purple peaks of Kerry, from the crags of wild
Imaal, From the greening plains of Mayo and the glens of
Donegal.
They are leaving pleasant places, shores with snowy
sands outspread ; Blue and lonely lakes a-stirring when the wind stirs
overhead; Tender living hearts that love them, and the graves of
kindred dead.
They shall carry to the distant land a tear-drop in the eye,
And some shall go uncomforted—their days an endÂless sigh
For Kathaleen Ni Houlihan's sad face, until they die. |
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