‘Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy
Stepping the mountain statelily—
Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet,
No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.
Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies—
Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes.
The child of a peasant—yet England’s proud Queen
Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien.
Her brow ‘neath her raven hair gleams, just as if
A breaker spread white ‘neath a shadowy cliff—
And love, and devotion, and energy speak
From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek.
But, pale as her cheek is, there’s fruit on her lip,
And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon’s tip,
And her form and her step like the red-deer’s go past—
As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast.
I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye,
And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by;
The saint of the wayside—she granted my prayer,
Though we spoke not a word, for her mother was there.
I never can think upon Bantry’s bright hills,
But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills;
And I whisper her softly, “Again, love, we’ll meet!
And I’ll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet.”