THE kine of my father, 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 storm, 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, forsaken, Your dear eyes unclosing beneath a foreign rain: A plaything of the winds, you turn and drift unceasing; No grave for your resting; oh 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. |