| |
| THE winter is past, | |
| And the summer’s come at last | |
| And the blackbirds sing in every tree; | |
| The hearts of these are glad | |
| But my poor heart is sad, | 5 |
| Since my true love is absent from me. | |
| |
| The rose upon the briar | |
| By the water running clear | |
| Gives joy to the linnet and the bee; | |
| Their little hearts are blest | 10 |
| But mine is not at rest, | |
| While my true love is absent from me. | |
| |
| A livery I’ll wear | |
| And I’ll comb out my hair, | |
| And in velvet so green I’ll appear, | 15 |
| And straight I will repair | |
| To the Curragh of Kildare | |
| For it’s there I’ll find tidings of my dear. | |
| |
| I’ll wear a cap of black | |
| With a frill around my neck, | 20 |
| Gold rings on my fingers I’ll wear: | |
| All this I’ll undertake | |
| For my true lover’s sake, | |
| He resides at the Curragh of Kildare. | |
| |
| I would not think it strange | 25 |
| Thus the world for to range, | |
| If I only get tidings of my dear; | |
| But here in Cupid’s chain | |
| If I’m bound to remain, | |
| I would spend my whole life in despair. | 30 |
| |
| My love is like the sun | |
| That in the firmament does run, | |
| And always proves constant and true; | |
| But he is like the moon | |
| That wanders up and down, | 35 |
| And every month is new. | |
| |
| All ye that are in love | |
| And cannot it remove, | |
| I pity the pains you endure; | |
| For experience lets me know | 40 |
| That your hearts are full of woe, | |
| And a woe that no mortal can cure. | |
