My love has kissed me on the lips an’ sailed beyond the sea,
An’, sooth, that was a sorry day for Terrence an’ for me,
An’ yet I whispered him “God speed” his fortune for to win,
For there’s little gold in Ireland save that upon the whin!
Like weary feet the days drag by; the heart o’ me is sad;
The keenin’ o’ the wind at night, it nearly drives me mad;
The cries o’ children in the street, they quaver lorn an’ thin,
For there’s little gold in Ireland save that upon the whin!
But when my own lad comes again, ah, colleen, ‘t will be sweet;
There ‘ll be the peal o’ weddin’ bells across the fields o’ peat;
Faith, I can hear him sayin’ it, with his shy sort o’ grin,
“There’s more gold now in Ireland than that upon the whin!”
(Clinton Scollard)
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