The little Yellow Road by Seosamh Mac Cathmhaoil

Taken down in Co. Mayo from Michael Mac Rudhraighe.

I am sick, sick,
No part of me sound;
The heart in my middle
Dies of its wound,
Pining the time
When she did stand
With me shoulder to shoulder
And hand in hand.
I travelled west
By the little yellow road
In the hope I might see
Where my Secret abode.
White were her two breasts,
Red her hair,
Guiding the cow
And the weaned calf, her care.
Until wind flows
From this stream west,
Until a green plain spreads
On the withered crest,
 And white fields grow
The heather above,
My heart will not find
Kindness from my love.
There's a flood in the river
Will not ebb till day,
And dread on me
That my love is away.
Can I live a month
With my heart's pain
Unless she will come
And see me again?
I drink a measure
And I drink to you,
I pay, I pay,
And I pay for two.
Copper for ale
And silver for beer—
And do you like coming
Or staying here?