Subject: Lyr Add: THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT
From:
GUEST,kilshannig
Date: 18 Mar 03 - 02:12 PM
Great Martin! Indeed a good man you are, like Mick says. Fast delivery, man! The only trouble is that the Mary Margill of Antrim song does not fit in the pace and the structure of the (Bohola) song as I know it (for instance: 4 lines per verse). It's puzzling, because some of the lines are familiar to the Bohola-version. The link to "The Irish Emigrant's Lament" was a good one. I already had another version of the song (or poem, 'cause I don't know a tune to go along with it).
Looking at the structure of the THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S LAMENT by Mrs. Blackwood it compares quite well with the Bohola version. Only, this version (see below) is a very sad one, and the Bohola song is too lively and too cheerful to go along with such a text. (It makes me wonder if there is a tune at all to these lyrics...)
Now Mick, if you have access to Pat, you're gonna make one Dutch boy quite happy.
Kilshannig
I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side,
On a bright May morning, long ago, when first you were my bride;
The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary. The day is bright as then-
The lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'ning for the words you never more may speak.
'Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near-
The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here;
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest,
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends,
But, O, they love the better still the few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride-
There's nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary died!
Yours was the brave good heart, Mary, that still keeps hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arms' young stretch had gone;
There was a comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same, though you can't hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile, when your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my sake;
I bless you for the pleasant word, when you heart was sad and sore-
O! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, where the grief can't reach you more.
I'm bidding you a long farewell, my Mary- kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling, in the land I'm going to.
They say there's bread and wear for all, and the sun shines always there,
But I'll not forget old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair.
And often in those grand old woods, I'll sit and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile, where we sat side by side,
And the springing corn and bright May morn when first you were my bride.
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sj
