Page:Irish minstrelsy, vol 2 - Hardiman.djvu/87

Rh His curling locks in wavy grace,
 * Like beams on youthful Phœbus' brow;

Flit wild and golden o'er his speaking face.
 * And down his ivory shoulders flow.
 * Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.

Like Engus$3$ is he in his youthful days,
 * Or Mac Cein whose deeds all Erin knows;

Mac Dary's chiefs of deathless praise.
 * Who hung like fate on their routed foes.
 * Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.

Like Connall the beseiger, pride of his race!
 * Or Fergus son of a glorious sire;

Or blameless Connor son of courteous Nais,
 * The chief of the Red Branch—Lord of the Lyre.
 * Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.

The cuckoo's voice is not heard on the gale,
 * Nor the cry of the hounds in the nutty grove;

Nor the hunter's cheering through the dewy vale,
 * Since far—far away is the Youth of our love.
 * Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.