And that yon sea, like a tired warrior, By the ebbing tide left shining. Vernal bower Wave-worn in the rock, where children stoop for shells, A VI. THE SOLITUDES OF MALBAY. ND O ye solitudes of rocks and waters, And medicinable gales and sounds Lethean, And yearned to gaze while your white-throated surges DARK ROSALEEN. THIS impassioned ballad, entitled in the original Roisin Duh (or The Black Little Rose), was written in the reign of Elizabeth by one of the poets of the celebrated Tirconnellian chieftain, Hugh the Red O'Donnell. It purports to be an allegorical address from Hugh to Ireland, on the subject of his love and struggles for her, and his resolve to raise her again to the glorious position she held as a nation before the irruption of the Saxon and Norman spoilers. MY Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! They march along the deep. And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Over hills and through dales Have I roamed for your sake; All yesterday I sailed with sails On river and on lake. The Erne, at its highest flood, For there was lightning in my blood, My own Rosaleen! O, there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lightened through my blood, My Dark Rosaleen! All day long, in unrest, To and fro, do I move. The very soul within my breast To think of you, my queen, My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, "T is you shall reign, shall reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! 'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen! Over dews, over sands, Will I fly, for your weal; Your holy delicate white hands At home, in your emerald bowers, You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen ! You'll think of me through daylight's hours, I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, And one beamy smile from you My fond Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, My Dark Rosaleen ! O, the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood; And gun-peal and slogan cry Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, |