Poem Hunter
The Mountain Maid
DSS (1866-1918 / Ireland)

The Mountain Maid

Half seated on a mossy crag,
Half crouching in the heather;
I found a little Irish maid,
All in June's golden weather.
Like some fond hand that loved the child,
The wind tossed back her tresses;
The heath-bells touched her unclad feet
With shy and soft caresses.
A mountain linnet flung his song
Into the air around her;
But all in vain the splendid hour,
For deep in woe I found her.
'Ahone! Ahone! Ahone!' she wept,
The tears fell fast and faster;
I sat myself beside her there,
To hear of her disaster.
Like dew on roses down her cheek
The diamond drops were stealing;
She laid her two brown hands in mine,
Her trouble all revealing.
Alas! Alas! the tale she told
In Gaelic low and tender;
A plague upon my Saxon tongue,
I could not comprehend her.

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