Classic Poem

Denny's daughter stood a minute in the field I be to pass,
All as quiet as her shadow lyin' by her on the grass;
In her hand a switch o' hazel from the nut tree's crooked root,
Well I mind the crown o' clover crumpled undher one bare foot.
For the look of her,
The look of her
Comes back on me to-day, —
Wi' the eyes of her,
The eyes of her
That took me on the way.

Though I seen poor Denny's daughter white an' stiff upon her bed,
Yet I be to think there's sunlight fallin' somewhere on her head:
She'll be singin' Ave Mary where the flowers never wilt,
She, the girl my own hands covered wi' the narrow daisy-quilt.
For the love of her,
The love of her
That would not be my wife:
An' the loss of her,
The loss of her
Has left me lone for life.