Cushla Ma Chree
B
efore the sun rose at yesterdawn,
I met a fair maiden adown the lawn;
The berry and snow
To her cheek gave its glow,
And her bosom was fair as the sailing swan;
Then, Pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine?
Her beautiful voice more hearts hath won
Than Orpheus' lyre of old hath done;
Her ripe eyes of blue
Were crystals of dew
On the grass of the lawn before the sun;
And, Pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine?
Edward Walsh.