A Broadside: No. 10 Fourth Year
300 copies only.
THE BARD ON THE BODACH
Translated from the Irish Seumas O'Kelly,
May a messenger come from the high place of God
To bear up your soul to a throne,
But a robber be robbing him on his way back,
And your fall be as dead as a stone.
May your tables be laden with gold and with jewels,
And your hands be upon them for proof;
When the devil whips in by your beggarly door
And tears your red soul through the roof.
SHE MOVED THROUGH THE FAIR
My young love said to me, 'My parents won't mind
And my brothers won't slight you for your lack of kind;'
And she went away from me, and this she did say,
'It will not be long, love, till our marriage-day.'
She stepped away from me and she moved through the fair,
And fondly I watched her move here and move there;
She went her way homewards with one star awake,
As the swan in the evening moves over the lake.
The people were saying, no two were e'er wed,
But one had a sorrow that never was said;
And I smiled as she passed with her goods and her gear,
And that was the last that I saw of my dear.
I dreamt that last night my young love came in,
So softly she entered her feet made no din;
And she came close beside me and this she did say,
It will not be long, love, till our marriage-day.'