A HUNDRED men think I am theirs when with them I
drink ale,
But their presence fades away from me and their high spirits fail
When I think upon your converse kind by the meadow
and the linn,
And your form smoother than the silk on the Mountain of O'Flynn.
Oh, Paddy, is it pain to you that I'm wasting night and day,
And, Paddy, is it grief to you that I'll soon be in the clay?
My first love with the winning mouth, my treasure you'll abide,
Till the narrow coffin closes me and the grass grows through my side.
The man who strains to leap the wall, we think him
foolish still,
When to his hand is the easy ditch to vault across at will;
The rowan tree is fine and high, but bitter its berries grow,
While blackberries and raspberries are on shrubs that blossom low.
Farewell, farewell, forever, to yon town amongst the trees;
Farewell, the town that draws me on mornings and on
eves.
Oh, many's the ugly morass now, and many's the crooked
road,
That lie henceforth between me and where my heart's
bestowed.
And Mary, Ever Virgin, where will I turn my head!
I know not where his house is built, nor where his fields are spread.
Ah, kindly was the counsel that my kinsfolk gave to me,
"The hundred twists are in his heart, and the thousand tricks has he."
