A HUNDRED men think I am theirs when with them I <br />drink ale, <br />But their presence fades away from me and their high spirits fail <br />When I think upon your converse kind by the meadow <br />and the linn, <br />And your form smoother than the silk on the Mountain of O'Flynn. <br /> <br />Oh, Paddy, is it pain to you that I'm wasting night and day, <br />And, Paddy, is it grief to you that I'll soon be in the clay? <br />My first love with the winning mouth, my treasure you'll abide, <br />Till the narrow coffin closes me and the grass grows through my side. <br /> <br />The man who strains to leap the wall, we think him <br />foolish still, <br />When to his hand is the easy ditch to vault across at will; <br />The rowan tree is fine and high, but bitter its berries grow, <br />While blackberries and raspberries are on shrubs that blossom low. <br /> <br />Farewell, farewell, forever, to yon town amongst the trees; <br />Farewell, the town that draws me on mornings and on <br />eves. <br />Oh, many's the ugly morass now, and many's the crooked <br />road, <br />That lie henceforth between me and where my heart's <br />bestowed. <br /> <br />And Mary, Ever Virgin, where will I turn my head! <br />I know not where his house is built, nor where his fields are spread. <br />Ah, kindly was the counsel that my kinsfolk gave to me, <br />'The hundred twists are in his heart, and the thousand tricks has he.'<br /><br />Padraic Colum<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-drinaun-donn/
