When once I rose at morning The summer
sun was shining, I heard the horn awinding And the bird's merry songs; There were badger and weasel, Woodcock
and plover, And echo repeating The music of the guns. The hunted fox was flagging, The horsemen followed shouting; Counting
her geese on the highway Some woman's heart was sore; But now the woods are falling We must go over the water- Sean
O'Dwyer of the Valley Your pleasure is no more.
There's cause enough for grieving, All the woodlands falling, The
north wind comes freezing With death in the sky; My merry hound's tied tightly From sporting and chasing That
would life a young lad's sorrows In noondays gone by. The stag is up in Carrick, His antlers high as ever; He
can enjoy the heather, But our day is o'er; Let the townsmen cease they prying, And I'll take ship from Galway- Sean
O'Dwyer of the Valley, Your pleasure is no more.
The homes of Coomasrohy Have neither roof nor gable, In Strade
where birds are silent No man recites its praise; From Clonmel along the river There is no shade or shelter, And
hares amid the clearings Run safe all their days. What is this thud of axes, Trees creaking and falling, The sweet
thrust and the blackbird In silence everywhere? And - certain sign of trouble - Priest and their people Flying
to mountain valleys To raise the word of prayer?
My only wish on waking Is that I had ceased from caring Before
my own demesne lands Were cause for my grief; For through long days of summer I rambled through their orchards And
oakwoods all green With the dew on the leaf; And now that I have lost them And lonesome among strangers I sleep
among the bushes Or mountain caves alone, Either I'll find some quiet To live as best contents me Or leave them
all behind me For other men to own.
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