The kine of my rather, 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 wind, 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 forlorn,
Your dear eyes unclosing beneath a foreign rain:
A plaything of the winds, you turn and drift unceasing,
No grave for your resting; O 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.