The kine of my rather, they are straying from my keeping; The young goat’ s at mischief, but little can I do: For all through the night did I hear the Banshee keening; O youth of my loving, and is it well with you?
All through the night sat my mother with my sorrow; “Whisht, it is the wind, O one childeen of my heart!” My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish; Black head of my darling! too long are we apart.
Were your grave at my feet, I would think it half a blessing; I could herd then the cattle, and drive the goats away; Many a Paternoster I would say for your safe keeping; I could sleep above your heart, until the dawn of day.
I see you on the prairie, hot with thirst and faint with hunger; The head that I love lying low upon the sand. The vultures shriek impatient, and the coyote dogs are howling, Till the blood is pulsing cold within your clenching hand.
I see you on the waters, so white, so still forlorn, Your dear eyes unclosing beneath a foreign rain: A plaything of the winds, you turn and drift unceasing, No grave for your resting; O mine the bitter pain!
All through the night did I hear the Banshee keening: Somewhere you are dying, and nothing can I do; My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish; Bitter is your trouble — and I am far from you.
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