POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
"I'll sing the song, sir."
To-night you see my face—
Maybe nevermore you'll gaze
On the one that for you left his friends and kin;
For by the hard commands
Of the lord that rules these lands
On a ship I'll be borne from Cruckaunfinn!
Oh, you know your beauty bright
Has made him think delight
More than from any fair one he will gain;
Oh, you know that all his will
Strains and strives around you till
As the hawk upon his hand you are as tame!
Then she to him replied:
I'll no longer you deny,
And I'll let you have the pleasure of my charms;
For to-night I'll be your bride,
And whatever may betide
It's we will lie in one another's arms!
"You should not sing
With body doubled up and face aside—
There is a climax here—'It's we will lie'—
Hem—passionate! And what does your daughter sing?"
"A song I like when I do climb bare hills—
'Tis all about a hawk."
No bird that sits on rock or bough
Has such a front as thine;
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