A Broadside: No. 5 Sixth Year
Title
A Broadside: No. 5 Sixth Year
Subject
Ireland
Cuala Press
A Broadside
Irish Literary Revival
The Gaelic Revival
Description
PUBLISHED MONTHLY BY E. C. YEATS AT THE CUALA PRESS, CHURCHTOWN, DUNDRUM, COUNTY DUBLIN. SUBSCRIPTION TWELVE SHILLINGS A YEAR POST FREE.
300 copies only.
300 copies only.
The woodcut on page [3] has caption: "THE FIRST TIME ROUND". Signed by Jack B. Yeats.
Creator
E. C. Yeats
Jack B. Yeats
Thomas Dermody
Publisher
Cuala Press
Date
October, 1913
Text
THE DRINAUN DONN
'By road and by river the wild birds do sing;
Over mountains and valleys the daisy leaves spring;
the gay leaves are shining, gilt o'er by the sun,
And how sweet smell the blossoms of the Drinaun Donn.
'It's well I remember the soft spring's day,
When I sat by her side, under the sweet-scented spray;
The day she had told me her heart I had won,
Beneath the sweet blossoms of the Drinaun Donn.
'It's my prayer in the morning, and my dream through the night
For to sit there again with my own heart's delight;
Her blue eye of gladness and her hair like the sun,
And the sweet melting kisses, by the Drinaun Donn.
A BALLAD
'Twas early in the morning and passing sweet to view,
The glist'ning Sun had kist off cold April's falling dew,
I heard a lonely Virgin, all by a river side,
Lament this for her lost Love, who in the battle died.
She wrung her hands more white than snow, she tore her yellow hair,
And though in sorrow sunk, alas! methought look'd wonderous fair,
For ever as the trembling tear stood bursting in her eye,
Her pretty bosom swelled to sight and gave a piteous sigh.
'Why would'st thou go, my own love, the cruel wars to brave,
Was not this bosom softer than Ocean's troubled wave?
Oh! did you on the damp ground enjoy such sweet repose,
Or, could those smiles that conquered me appease your deadly foes?
When round your comely temples where curling tresses grew,
The bloody falchions glittered, the whistling bullets flew,
Could you no pitying angel, o'erhead, to save you see,
And when I thought of you, love, did you still think of me?'
'The green sod where we lay, love, I've covered o'er with flowers,
And there I've prest the cold earth, for many silent hours,
A willow plant I planted, which you would joy to see,
But the flowers they are all long withered, though the willow grows for me!
Ungrateful flowers they were, for morn and evening here,
I gently op'd their little leaves, and watered with a tear,
And though the drooping willow-slip had least of all my care,
Behold you, how it springs up, as fast as my despair.
'My father is a hard one, his heart is made of stone,
My mother, too, is hard, and my sisters mock my moan,
they talk to me of sweethearts, of gold and jest and glee,
They little think my poor heart is in the grave with thee!
But they nor all the world, my thoughts of thee shall know,
And in this nook I'll hide up the treasure of woe.
Till Grief and Sorrow tired out, I'll steal off bye and bye,
And here upon the green sod I'll lay me down and die!
Thomas Dermody.
'By road and by river the wild birds do sing;
Over mountains and valleys the daisy leaves spring;
the gay leaves are shining, gilt o'er by the sun,
And how sweet smell the blossoms of the Drinaun Donn.
'It's well I remember the soft spring's day,
When I sat by her side, under the sweet-scented spray;
The day she had told me her heart I had won,
Beneath the sweet blossoms of the Drinaun Donn.
'It's my prayer in the morning, and my dream through the night
For to sit there again with my own heart's delight;
Her blue eye of gladness and her hair like the sun,
And the sweet melting kisses, by the Drinaun Donn.
A BALLAD
'Twas early in the morning and passing sweet to view,
The glist'ning Sun had kist off cold April's falling dew,
I heard a lonely Virgin, all by a river side,
Lament this for her lost Love, who in the battle died.
She wrung her hands more white than snow, she tore her yellow hair,
And though in sorrow sunk, alas! methought look'd wonderous fair,
For ever as the trembling tear stood bursting in her eye,
Her pretty bosom swelled to sight and gave a piteous sigh.
'Why would'st thou go, my own love, the cruel wars to brave,
Was not this bosom softer than Ocean's troubled wave?
Oh! did you on the damp ground enjoy such sweet repose,
Or, could those smiles that conquered me appease your deadly foes?
When round your comely temples where curling tresses grew,
The bloody falchions glittered, the whistling bullets flew,
Could you no pitying angel, o'erhead, to save you see,
And when I thought of you, love, did you still think of me?'
'The green sod where we lay, love, I've covered o'er with flowers,
And there I've prest the cold earth, for many silent hours,
A willow plant I planted, which you would joy to see,
But the flowers they are all long withered, though the willow grows for me!
Ungrateful flowers they were, for morn and evening here,
I gently op'd their little leaves, and watered with a tear,
And though the drooping willow-slip had least of all my care,
Behold you, how it springs up, as fast as my despair.
'My father is a hard one, his heart is made of stone,
My mother, too, is hard, and my sisters mock my moan,
they talk to me of sweethearts, of gold and jest and glee,
They little think my poor heart is in the grave with thee!
But they nor all the world, my thoughts of thee shall know,
And in this nook I'll hide up the treasure of woe.
Till Grief and Sorrow tired out, I'll steal off bye and bye,
And here upon the green sod I'll lay me down and die!
Thomas Dermody.
Original Format
Broadside
Files
Collection
Citation
E. C. Yeats, Jack B. Yeats, and Thomas Dermody, “A Broadside: No. 5 Sixth Year,” Linda Lear Center Digital Collections and Exhibitions, accessed November 21, 2024, https://lc-digital.conncoll.edu/items/show/1411.