Words of the Coulin

O Lov'd Maid of Broka!

From a literal translation of the original Irish,

by Hector MacNeill, Esq.

O lov'd maid of Broka, each fair one excelling!
The blush on thy cheek shames the apple's soft bloom,
More sweet that the rose-buds that deck thy lov'd dwelling,
Thy lips shame their beauties, thy breath their perfume.

Come, bird of the evening, sweet thrush, void of sorrow,
Come greet her approach to thy flower-scented thorn,
And teach her fond warbler, thy lov'd notes to borrow,
To banish her coldness and soften her scorn.

O perch'd on thy green bough, each lov'd note delighting,
How blest, happy bird! could I change lots with thee!
But, alas! while fast fetter'd, each prospect is blighting,
I would rather than Ireland again I were free!

But, adieu! though my hopes, by thy coldness and scorning,
Fall faded like blossoms half brown on the tree,
May love bless your eve, though it blighted my morning,
I would rather than Ireland once more I were free!


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