Peggy Browne, by Turlough O'Carolan
(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
to hear,
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
cherished tree,
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.