Oh, have you seen or have you heard, my treasure of bright faces,
Some dark glen roving, while in gloom I pine here day and night?
Far from her voice, far from her eyes, my cloud of woe increases—
My blessing on that glen and her, for aye and aye alight.
'Tis many's the time they've put in print, to beauty doing homage,
Her figure tall, her eyebrows small, her thin-lipped mouth of truth,
Her snowy hands, as fair and fine as silk on wild bird's plumage—
My bitter sigh to think that I am here, a lonely youth!
One little glance, once at her face, a flame lit in my bosom,
Oh, snowy-hearted, white-toothed one, whose ringlets are of gold,
More dear art thou than Deirdre, leaving lovers mourning woesome,
Or Blanaid, meshing thousands with her winning eyes of old!
Oh, bloom of women! spurn me not for this rich suitor hoary—
This boorish, noisy, songless man, who comes between us twain;
It's I would sweetly sing beneath the harvest moon's gold glory,
For thee full many a Fenian lay and bold Milesian strain!