I NEVER dance as in days of yore,
Caroll O'Daly! Caroll O'Daly!
The banquet hall knows my mirth no more,
My song is silent, my wheel at rest;
My desolate heart hath grief for guest;
Bran at my feet sits wistful-eyed,
I am too weary to cheer or chide–
And my maidens repine for the joy that was mine,
Caroll, my lover!

The birds still trill at my window, Dear!
Caroll O'Daly! Caroll O'Daly!
Why are they happy and you not here?
Once while the thrush sang his lay for us,
His little heart's phantasy tremulous–
On a bough of roses swayed to and fro,
You told me the story I yearned to know;
Now the bloom's on the thorn and I wander forlorn,
Caroll, my lover!

To-night of all nights, if you were nigh,
Caroll O'Daly! Caroll O'Daly!
You and your good steed prancing by;
Vainly my maids on the marriage dawn,
Might seek the pale bride in bower and bawn,
There would be sorrow and wild surprise,
And flashings of ire in my bridegroom's eyes–
But no succour is near for my grieving and fear,
Caroll, my lover!

They say you have wedded a lady fair,
Caroll O'Daly! Caroll O'Daly!
In that southern land of the perfumed air–
Beauteous as she who Diarmuid wooed
From a perilous court to the solitude;
Gentle as Deirdre, whom poets sing,
And I dream and dream that your kisses cling
To my lips grown white for the lost delight,
Caroll, my lover!

: : : : : : :

O harper grey, did you ever meet,
Caroll O'Daly! Caroll O'Daly!
In forest glade, or in crowded street,
In banquet chamber, or cloister dim?
Heard you the warring world's praise of him
For chivalrous daring, in danger's face;
For generous spirit and knightly grace,
Or do sighing winds sweep o'er his lonely last sleep?
(Carol!, my lover!)

O harper, chant me your saddest strain!
Caroll O'Daly! Caroll O'Daly!
Cometh no more to soothe my pain.
Sing me of Lir, and the swans that toil
Broken and soul-wrung through waves of Moyle,
Sing of the lovers whose dead hearts grew
Into tall trees of the apple and yew–
While I mourn for my woe and the heavy tears flow,
(Carol!, my lover!)

'Eibhlín, Eibhlín, Eibhlín, a rúin,
(Caroll O'Daly! Caroll O'Daly!
This minstrel playeth the old-time tune);
'A hundred thousand welcomings, Sweet,
Thy dear dark eyes from my soul I greet,
Thy rose-red lips and each dusky curl'–
The lights grow dim in a wildering whirl,
And I look on your face from my canopied place,
Caroll, my lover!

'Eibhlín, Eibhlín, Eibhlín, a rúin,'
Caroll O'Daly! Caroll O'Daly!
(The clear notes die in a plaintive croon);
Wilt thou be mine, who hath loved thee long,
Crossed the broad seas lest thou do this wrong,
Dared thy stern sire and his clan for thee–
Pulse of my heart, wilt thou fly with me?'
Through the echoing hall rings your passionate call,
Caroll, my lover!

: : : : : : :

Over the border and far away,
Caroll O'Daly! Caroll O'Daly!
Your voice as a spell, could I answer 'Nay?'
Let the grim chief seek him another bride,
But into the starlight we ride, we ride,
Your sheltering arm close round me pressed,
And my happy head on your faithful breast,
And before us dew-pearled, the awakening world,
Caroll, my lover!