When all were dreaming
But Pastheen Power,
A light came streaming
Beneath her bower:
A heavy foot
At her door delayed,
A heavy hand
On the latch was laid.
“Now who dare venture,
At this dark hour,
Unbid to enter
My maiden bower?”
“Dear Pastheen, open
The door to me,
And your true lover
You’ll surely see.”
“My own true lover,
So tall and brave,
Lives exiled over
The angry wave.”
“Your true love’s body
Lies on the bier,
His faithful spirit
Is with you here.”
“His look was cheerful,
His voice was gay;
Your speech is fearful,
Your voice is gray;
And sad and sunken
Your eye of blue,
But Patrick, Patrick,
Alas ’tis you!”
Ere dawn was breaking
She heard below
The two cocks shaking
Their wings to crow.
“Oh, hush you, hush you,
Both red and gray,
Or you will hurry
My love away.”
“Oh, hush your crowing,
Both gray and red,
Or he’ll be going
To join the dead;
Or, cease from calling
His ghost to the mould,
And I’ll come crowning
Your combs with gold.”
When all were dreaming
But Pastheen Power,
A light went streaming
From out her bower;
And on the morrow,
When they awoke,
They knew that sorrow
Her heart had broke.[2]
Works Referenced
Graves, Alfred Perceval. “Song of the Ghost.” Anthology of Irish Verse. Ed. Padraic Colum. New York: Boni and Liveright, 1922. 62-63.
“Obituary: Mr. Alfred Percival Graves.” The Spectator, January 2, 1932.
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[1] “Obituary,” 19.
[2] Graves, 62-63.
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