THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY

Robert Dwyer Joyce (1830-1883)

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 of Ireland dearly.
While soft the wind blew down the glade,
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 brave United Men"
While soft winds shook the barley.

While sad I kissed away her tears
My fond arms round her flinging,
The foeman's shot burst on our ears,
From out the wildwood ringing;
The bulIet pierced my true love's side,
In life's young spring so early,
And on my breast in blood she died,
When 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;
l've placed my true love's clay-cold corpse
Where I full soon will follow;
And round her grave I wander drear,
Noon, night and morning early,
With breaking heart when o'er I hear
The wind that shakes the barley !


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