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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 107 |
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Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exile's brand, But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.
Think not her a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen; Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen ; Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned
a queen, Were the king's son at home here with Kathaleen
Ny-Houlahan.
Sweet and mild would look her face—Oh! none so
sweet and mild — Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled ; Woolen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk
her child, If the king's son were living here with Kathaleen
Ny-Houlahan.
Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of thrones Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless bones ! Bitter anguish wrings our souls—with heavy sighs and groans We wait the Young Deliverer of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.
Let us pray to him who holds life's issues in his hands, Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its thousand lands: Girding them with sea and mountains, rivers deep, and strands, To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan. |
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