Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Three Irish Spinning SongsPadraic Colum
The Lannan Shee
Watched the young man Brian
Cross over the stile towards his father’s door,
And she said, “No help,
For now he’ll see
His byre, his bawn and his threshing floor!
And oh, the swallows
Forget all wonders
When walls with the nests rise up before.”
My strand is knit.
Of me, into
The round of his labor he will grow;
To spread his fields
In the winds of Spring,
And tramp the heavy glebe and sow;
And cut and clamp
And rear the turf
Until the season when they mow.”
My wheel runs smooth.
In field and bog
He will be anxious in his mind—
About the thatch
Of barn and rick
Against the reiving autumn wind,
And how to make
His gap and gate
Secure against the thieving kind.”
My wool is fine.
And I’ll see no more
Mine image in his deepening eyes;
Then I’ll lean above
The Well of the Bride,
And with my beauty peace will rise!
O autumn star
In a hidden lake,
Fill up my heart and make me wise!”
My quick brown wheel!
Their pitchers here
At the time when the stir of the house is o’er;
They’ll see my face
In the well-water,
And they’ll never lift their vessels more.
For each will say
‘How beautiful—
Why should I labor any more!
Indeed I come
Of so fair a race
’Twere waste to labor any more!’”
My thread is spun.
One came before her and said beseeching,
“I have fortune and I have lands,
And if you’ll share in the goods of my household
All my treasure’s at your commands.”
Are far from my mind as the silk of the sea!
The arms of him, my young love, round me
Is all the treasure that’s true for me!”
But beauty’s a flower will soon decay;
The fairest flowers they bloom in the Summer,
They bloom one Summer and they fade away.”
That must so wither where fair it grew—
He who has my heart in keeping,
I would he had my body too.”
There was an oul’ trooper went riding by
On the road to Carricknabauna,
And sorrow is better to sing than cry
On the way to Carricknabauna!
And as the oul’ trooper went riding on
He heard this sung by a crone, a crone
On the road to Carricknabauna!
Were it only the breadth of a farthen’
And if your mind was as good as your word,
In troth, it’s you I’d rather!
In dread of any jealousy,
And before we go any farther
Carry me up to the top of the hill
And show me Carricknabauna!”
Would you show me Carricknabauna?
I lost a horse at Cruckmoylinn—
At the Cross of Bunratty I dropped a limb—
But I left my youth on the crown of the hill
Over by Carricknabauna!”
Girls, young girls, the rush-light is done.
What will I do when my thread is spun?