I AM a wandering minstrel man, And Love my only theme, I've strayed beside the pleasant Bann, And eke the Shannon's stream; I've piped and played to wife and maid By Barrow, Suir, and Nore, But never met a maiden yet Like Brighidin ban mo stor. My girl hath ringlets rich and rare, By Nature's fingers wove -- Loch-Carra's swan is not so fair As is her breast of love; And when she moves, in Sunday sheen, Beyond our cottage door, I'd scorn the high-born Saxon queen For Brighidin ban mo stor. It is not that thy smile is sweet, And soft thy voice of song -- It is not that thou fliest to meet My comings lone and long! But that doth rest beneath thy breast A heart of purest core, Whose pulse is known to me alone, Brighidin ban mo stor. |