(Translated by Thomas Furlong)
From The Cabinet of Irish Literature, Volume 1 (1880), edited by Charles A. Read
Oh, dark, sweetest girl,
are my days doomed to be,
While my heart bleeds in silence and sorrow for thee:
In the green spring of life to the grave I go down,
Oh! shield me, and save me, my lov'd Peggy Browne.
I dreamt that at evening my
footsteps were bound
To yon deep spreading wood where the shades fall around,
I sought, midst new scenes, all my sorrows to drown,
But the cure of my grief rests with thee, Peggy Browne.
"Tis soothing, sweet maiden, thy accents
For, like wild fairy music they melt on the ear,
Thy breast is as fair as the swan's clothed in down,
Oh, peerless and perfect's my own Peggy Browne.
Dear, dear is the bark to its own
But dearer, far dearer, is my lov'd one to me:
In my dreams I draw near her, uncheck'd by a frown,
But my arms spread in vain to embrace Peggy Browne.