Chapter I: Am Watching My Young Calves Sucking

Douglas Hyde.

I am watching my young calves sucking;
Who are you that would put me out of my luck?
Can I not be walking, can I not be walking,
Can I not be walking on my own farm-lands?

I will not for ever go back before you,
If I must needs be submissive to thee, great is my grief;
If I cannot be walking, if I cannot be walking,
If I cannot be walking on my own farm-lands.

Little heed I pay, and 'tis little my desire,
Thy fine blue cloak and thy bright bird's plumes,
If I cannot be walking, if I cannot be walking,
If I cannot be walking on my own farm-lands!

There is a day coming, it is plain to my eyes,
When there will not be amongst us the mean likes of you;
But each will be walking, each will be walking,
Wherever he will on his own farm-lands.

THE NARROW ROAD

Douglas Hyde.

Once I was happy,
And joyous with that,
Now I am sorrowful
Weary and sick.

Thinking on the colleen
By night and by day,
Hurt by the colleen,
Wounded with love.

The sight of her eyes,
The sweetness of her voice,
It is these that have stricken me
And left me without guidance.

A colleen like she is
Is not in this life,
And she herself has left
Myself without sense.

A colleen like she is
Is not in this world;
Vein of my own heart
Whom I have chosen.

Little hand of my love--
It is whiter than snow;
She hath left us with wounds
And with wandering of the mind.

Three long months
Almost, am I lying;
I am pierced with her arrows
And my heart in torment.

O God of Graces,
Listen to my prayer,
Give death to me
Or give me her.

Look on my lamentations,
Look on my tears;
Were not my thoughts on thee, Storeen,
All these years?

Look on my lamentations,
Listen to me, Aroon,
I am as a sheep,
A sheep without its lamb!

Wilt thou be hard,
Colleen, as thou art tender?
Wilt thou be without pity
On us for ever?

Listen to me, Noireen,
Listen, Aroon;
Put some word of healing
From thy quiet mouth.

I am in the pathway
That is dark and narrow,
The little path that has guided
Thousands to slumber.

FORSAKEN

Douglas Hyde.

Oh, if there were in this wide world
One little place at all,
To be my own, my own alone,
My own over all;
Great were the joy, the comfort great,
And me so lone,
With no place in the world to say
"This is my own."

Sad it is to be knowing this,
For any man, and woe,
That there is not in life for him
Liking or love below;
That there is not in the world for him
A hand or a head
That would be doing a turn for him
Alive or dead.

Sharp it is and sorrowful,
And bitter is the grief,
Sad it is and sorrowful
Past all belief.
'Tis all the same how you are
To the passer-by,
'Tis all the same to you, at last,
To live or die.