In the wild sky, where he is lain,
Nor voices of the sweeter birds,
Above the wailing of the rain.
Nor shall he know when loud March blows
Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill,
Blowing to flame the golden cup
Of many an upset daffodil.
But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor,
And pastures poor with greedy weeds,
Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn,
Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2017/12/12 - 13:05
Sa spéir fhiáin, is é ina luí,
Ná cantain shéimh na n-éan binn
Os cionn ghol na báistí.
Ná nuair a shéidfidh Márta garbh
A bhlosc garg trí shneachta mín
Is lasair curtha aige cheana
Faoi lusanna an chromchinn.
Ach nuair nach insan riasc níos mó
A bheidh an Bhó ach ar thalamh slán
Sea cloisfidh sé a géimneach fós
A hadharc ag lonrú ar an mbán.
Contributed by Gabriel Rosenstock - 2018/8/2 - 14:18
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