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A poem by George Borrow

The Dying Bard

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Title:     The Dying Bard
Author: George Borrow [More Titles by Borrow]

From the Gaelic.

O for to hear the hunter's tread
With his spear and his dogs the hills among;
In my aged cheek youth flushes red
When the noise of the chase arises strong.

Awakes in my bones the marrow whene'er
I hark to the distant shout and bay;
When peals in my ear; "We've kill'd the deer"--
To the hill-tops boundeth my soul away;

I see the slug-hound tall and gaunt,
Which follow'd me, early and late, so true;
The hills, which it was my delight to haunt,
And the rocks, which rang to my loud halloo.

I see Scoir Eild by the side of the glen,
Where the cuckoo calleth so blithe in May,
And Gorval of pines, renown'd 'mongst men
For the elk and the roe which bound and play.

I see the cave, which receiv'd our feet
So kindly oft from the gloom of night,
Where the blazing tree with its genial heat
Within our bosoms awak'd delight.

On the flesh of the deer we fed our fill--
Our drink was the Treigh, our music its wave;
Though the ghost shriek'd shrill, and bellow'd the hill,
'Twas pleasant, I trow, in that lonely cave.

I see Benn Ard of form so fair,
Of a thousand hills the Monarch proud;
On his side the wild deer make their lair,
His head's the eternal couch of the cloud.

But vision of joy, and art thou flown?
Return for a moment's space, I pray,--
Thou dost not hear--ohone, ohone--
Hills of my love, farewell for aye.

Farewell ye youths, so bold and free,
And fare ye well, ye maids divine!
No more I can see ye--yours is the glee
Of the summer, the gloom of the winter mine.

At noon-tide carry me into the sun,
To the bank by the side of the wandering stream,
To rest the shamrock and daisy upon,
And then will return of my youth the dream.

Place ye by my side my harp and shell,
And the shield, my fathers in battle bore;
Ye halls, where Oisin and Daoul {1} dwell,
Unclose--for at eve I shall be no more.


Footnote: {1} Ancient bards, to whose mansion, in the clouds, the speaker hopes that his spirit will be received.


[The end]
George Borrow's poem: Dying Bard

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