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The Kine Of My Father

The kine of my rather, they are straying from my keeping;

The young goat's at mischief, but little can I do:

For all through the night did I hear the Banshee keening;

O youth of my loving, and is it well with you?

All through the night sat my mother with my sorrow;

'Whisht, it is the wind, O one childeen of my heart!'

My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;

Black head of my darling! too long are we apart.

Were your grave at my feet, I would think it half a blessing;

I could herd then the cattle, and drive the goats away;

Many a Paternoster I would say for your safe keeping;

I could sleep above your heart, until the dawn of day.

I see you on the prairie, hot with thirst and faint with hunger;

The head that I love lying low upon the sand.

The vultures shriek impatient, and the coyote dogs are howling,

Till the blood is pulsing cold within your clenching hand.

I see you on the waters, so white, so still forlorn,

Your dear eyes unclosing beneath a foreign rain:

A plaything of the winds, you turn and drift unceasing,

No grave for your resting; O mine the bitter pain!

All through the night did I hear the Banshee keening:

Somewhere you are dying, and nothing can I do;

My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;

Bitter is your trouble-and I am far from you.