The scene is beside where the Avonmore* flows— 'Tis the spring of the year, and the day's near its close; And an old woman sits with a boy on her knee— She smiles like the evening, but he like the lea! Her hair is as white as the flax ere it's spun— His brown as yon tree that is hiding the sun ! Beside the bright river— The calm, glossy river, That's sliding and gliding all peacefully on.
"Come, granny," the boy says, "you'll sing me, I know, The beautiful Coolun, so sweet and so low; For I love its soft tones more than blackbird or thrush, Though often the tears in a shower will gush From my eyes when I hear it. Dear granny, say why, When my heart's full of pleasure, I sob and I cry To hear the sweet Coolun— The beautiful Coolun— An angel first sang it above in the sky?"
And she sings and he listens; but many years pass, And the old woman sleeps 'neath the chapel-yard grass; And a couple are seated upon the same stone, Where the boy sat and listened so oft to the crone— 'Tis the boy—'tis the man, and he says while he sighs, To the girl at his side with the love-streaming eyes, "Oh ! sing me, sweet Oonagh, My beautiful Oonagh, Oh! sing me the Coolun," he says and he sighs.
"That air, mo stór**, brings back the days of my youth, That flowed like a river there, sunny and smooth! And it brings back the old woman, kindly and dear— If her spirit, dear Oonagh, is hovering near, 'Twill glad her to hear the old melody rise Warm, warm, on the wings of our love and our sighs— Oh! sing me the Coolun, The beautiful Coolun!" Is't the dew or a tear-drop is moistening his eyes?
There's a change on the scene, far more grand, far less fair— By the broad rolling Hudson are seated the pair; And the dark hemlock-fir waves its branches above, As they sigh for their land, as they murmur their love; Hush!—the heart hath been touched, and its musical strings Vibrate into song—'tis the Coolun she sings— The home-sighing Coolun, The love-breathing Coolun— The well of all memory's deep-flowing springs.
They think of the bright stream they sat down beside, When he was a bridegroom and she was his bride; The pulses of youth seem to throb in the strain— Old faces, long vanished, look kindly again— Kind voices float round them, and grand hills are near, Their feet have not touched, ah, this many a year— And, as ceases the Coolun, The home-loving Coolun, Not the air, but their native land faints on the ear.
Long in silence they weep, with hand clasped in hand— Then to God send up prayers for the far-off old land; And while grateful to Him for the blessings He's sent— They know 'tis His hand that withholdeth content— For the exile and Christian must evermore sigh For the home upon earth and the home in the sky— So they sing the sweet Coolun, The sorrowful Coolun, That murmurs of both homes—they sing and they sigh.
Heaven bless thee, old bard, in whose bosom were nurst Emotions that into such melody burst! Be thy grave ever green!—may the softest of showers And brightest of beams nurse its grass and its flowers— Oft, oft, be it moist with the tear-drop of love, And may angels watch round thee, for ever above! Old bard of the Coolun, The beautiful Coolun, That's sobbing, like Eirè, with sorrow and love.