Friday, October 19, 2007

Poetry Friday

The Wind that Shakes the Barley
by Robert Dwyer Joyce

I sat within the valley green, I sat me with my true love.
My sad heart strove the two between, the old love and the new love.
The old for her, the new that made me think on Ireland dearly,
While soft the wind blew down the glen and shook the golden barley.

'Twas hard the woeful words to frame to break the ties that bound us,
But harder still to bear the shame of foreign chains around us.
And so I said, "The mountain glen I'll seek at morning early
And join the bold united men," while soft winds shake the barley.

While sad I kissed away her tears, my fond arms round her flinging
A yeoman's shot burst on our ears from out the wildwood ringing.
A bullet pierced my true love's side in life's young spring so early,
And on my breast in blood she died while soft winds shook the barley.

I bore her to some mountain stream, and many's the summer blossom
I placed with branches soft and green about her gore-stained bosom.
I wept and kissed her clay-cold corpse then rushed o'er vale and valley
My vengeance on the foe to wreak while soft wind shook the barley.

But blood for blood without remorse I've taken at Oulart Hollow,
And laid my true love's clay cold corpse where I full soon may follow,
As round her grave I wander drear, noon, night and morning early
With breaking heart when e'er I hear the wind that shakes the barley.

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