Читать книгу A Book of Irish Verse - Various - Страница 9

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My love, still I think that I see her once more,

But, alas! she has left me her loss to deplore—

My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,

My Kathleen O'More!

Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,

Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new—

So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,

My Kathleen O'More!

She milked the dun cow, that ne'er offered to stir;

Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her—

So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,

My Kathleen O'More!

She sat at the door one cold afternoon,

To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon,

So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,

My Kathleen O'More!

Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower,

It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour:

And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen,

My Kathleen O'More.

Bird of all birds that I love the best,

Is the Robin that in the churchyard builds his nest;

For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er Kathleen,

My Kathleen O'More.

James Nugent Reynolds