ERIN.
"Come, sing a new song to her here while we listen!"
They cry to her sons who sing;
And one sings: "Mavourneen, it makes the eyes glisten
To think how the sorrows cling,
Like the clouds on your mountains, wreathing
Their green to a weeping gray!"
And the bard with his passionate breathing
Has no other sweet word to say.
"Come sing a new song!" and their eyes, while they're speaking,
Are dreaming of far-off things;
And their hearts are away for the old words seeking.
Unheeding of him who sings.
(55)
