|
Bridget O' |
|
Malley, you've left my heart shaken |
|
With a hopeless desolation, |
|
I'll have you to know |
|
It's the wonders of adoration your quiet face has taken |
|
And your beauty will haunt me, wherever |
|
I go. The white moon above the pale sands, the pale stars above the thorn tree |
|
Are cold beside my darling, but no purer than she |
|
I gaze upon the cold moon til the stars drown in the warm sea |
|
And the bright eyes of my darling are never on me. |
|
My Sunday it is weary, my |
|
Sunday it is grey now |
|
My heart is a cold thing, my heart is a stone |
|
All joy is dead within me, my life has gone away now |
|
Another has taken my love for his own. |
|
The day it is approaching when we were to be married |
|
But it's rather |
|
I would die than live only to grieve |
|
Oh, meet me my darling ere the sun sets o'er the barley |
|
And I'll meet you there, on the road to |
|
Drumslieve. |
|
Bridget O' |
|
Malley, you've left my heart shaken |
|
With a hopeless desolation, |
|
I'll have you to know it's the wonders of adoration youre quiet face has taken and your beauty will haunt me, wherever |
|
I go. |