THE SAD YEARS
OURSELVES ALONE
One morning, when dreaming in deep meditation,
I met a sweet colleen a-making her moan.
With sighing and sobbing she cried and lamented:
“Oh where is my lost one, and where has he flown?”
My house it is small, and my field is but little,
Yet round flew my wheel as I sat in the sun.
He crossed the deep sea and went forth for my battle:
Oh, has he proved faithless—the fight is not won?
And then I said: “Kathleen, ah! do you remember
When you were a queen, and your castles were strong,
You cried for the love of a cold-hearted stranger,
And in your fair island you planted the wrong?”
“And oh,” I cried, “Kathleen, I once heard you weeping
And sighing and sobbing and making your moan.
You sang of a lost one, a dear one, a false one—
‘Oh, gone is my blackbird, and where has he flown?’
