Classic Poem

Although long I am listless,
'Tis time for my stirring;
Why has my song ceased,
Since I used to be merry?
Wherefore should I be sad
'Bout a maid me despises,
Although caught in her love-noose
By Cupid's surprises?

Any man who'll be asking
How love-smitten was I,
His choice to the news-monger,
Since his bent is to pry;
Tardily I will own it,
And her no more I'll free,
Comes my tale from Apollo,
As the Nine inspire me.

But thus Cormack his stave sang,
His first love forgetting,
And his harp taking to him
With the key for its setting;—
“Since fair Finne has flouted
My suit and my honour,
In the organ's voice pealing
I'll drown my love for her.”

When arose Colin Cormack,
Braced up for departing,
The young heir made enquiry
What folly was starting—
“Since there's many a maid, red-lipped,
Of as modest good breeding
As Finne, at the fair
Who attention is needing.”

(When the impassioned youth heard,
His love not to be extinguished
He imagined to retard,
If his home he relinquished.
But the facts demonstrated
That while struggling with pain,
He his harp grasped and played it
With sweet music again.)

'Twas a blast on the organ
Cormack used, loud refrains,
Lest famed Finne should dominate
A song or harp strains.
But for me I've found no theme
In Gaelic or English
That would tell me how I could
That passion extinguish.

Oh! a plague on that passion
The which I could ne'er shed!
And 'tis this has outworn me
To think of thee, fair maid.
'Twas the love in thy sweet face
Me to sickness depressed,
So that no leech will cure me,
Oh! extinction were best.

Of thy love I'm a prisoner,
Thy beauty attesting,
For me no sleep at night time,
And daytime no resting.
In my life I've seen nothing
And I'll never get news,
O thou maid of the white palms,
For thy love what I'd choose.

Methinks sweeter thy talking
Than the grove merle sings,
Or the cuckoo at Maytide,
Or than harp of the strings,
Or the Bishop on Sunday,
While the great host list round,
Or than wealth of all Europe
Were to me counted down.

Why, why was not I blind born,
Speech or vision not any,
Ere I saw thy fine face
That made havoc of many?
Ever since I first saw thee,
Oh! thy manners were gay,
It is to me worse than death
To be there, thou away.

But alas! that thy love is
So hard me pursuing,
My heart within bearing it
Wherever I'm going.
Be I sleeping or waking,
In sport, conversation,
That chases me always,
Me exposed, no salvation.

But I'll leave my country,
Till I'll forget what distresses,
How fondly I have cherished
Thy yellow curled tresses.
Though beyond ken I travel
In spite of my friends,
There's an arrow borne by me
That earthward me bends.

And now since thou art gone
Caring nought for my story,
For that I had no riches
Or any great glory:
But although that was lacking,
At my parts nought will ail me,
Fruitful, pure is my nature
That never will fail me.

But and if thou go shortly
To the place of the great sails,
Staying not with thy kindred
Thy kin or thy mates else,
In the skies be fair weather,
On the sea no alarm,
With fair wind to restore thee
To the port with no harm.

Just like this as he sang it,
Such was Cormack's story
Of himself and his young friends,
They for him right sorry;
With a kiss taking leave of her,
No talk to entreat her,
He has pledged his word to her
He'll come back to meet her.