A stalwart and handsome young bouchaill was Brian

As blithe as a lavrock, as brave as a lion;
He lived with his parents, and tilled the rich clay
Of his father’s snug farm by the banks of Lough Neagh.

And sweet Maire og was of colleens the rarest,
The happiest, tenderest, winsomest, fairest;
Her presence illuminated by night and by day,
Her mother’s nice cot near the banks of Lough Neagh.

Now Brian and Maire from earliest childhood
Were playmates, on highland, in valley, and wildwood;
Together at school, and together at play –
They oft’ roamed together the banks of Lough Neagh.

In years they advanced, and Dan Cupid (no wonder)
Discovered the pair; they grew fonder and fonder.
Ah! bright shone the sun o’er the waters the day
They plighted their troth by the banks of Lough Neagh.

Alas! Happy moments too soon have departed –
Too soon came the day when our hero sad-hearted,
Was forced by hard fortune in exile to stray,
And leave Maire in sorrow to pine by Lough Neagh.

Now Maire the haunts of her childhood would wander,
Alone o’er past hours of enjoyment to ponder,
And pray for her Brian, and sigh for the day
When he would come back to his home by Lough Neagh.

Oh, black was the day, for the true-hearted maiden
When came the dread news that her Brian was laid in
A cold alien grave from his friends far away;
To never – o never, return to Lough Neagh.

Not one tear was shed, not one bitter word spoken
By her when she heard – yet her heart, it was broken;
She quickly and silently faded away; –
Her grave is now green near the banks of Lough Neagh

Year after year together we have wandered
O’er life’s stern battlefield, in storm and shine;
Your love unfurled above me as a standard
To show the world I’m yours and you are mine.

Your love is my warm mantle when it freezes,
Your love to me is the bright sun on high,
Your love’s the fresh and ventilating breezes
Through heaven’s cloudless corridors that fly.

Your love is a majestic tree, outflinging
Protecting arms that make a canopy,
Where dreams of youth, like happy birds, are singing
To both of us love’s deathless melody.

We’ve climbed some steep hills, braved some stormy weather,
But still, aroon, your love made short the road,
And now we pray that we may be together
While climbing the remaining hills to God.

In the doorway of her cottage
She was framed a cailin shy:
Embodying all the beauty
Of the earth and of the sky.

‘Twas a simple little cottage;
‘Twas a quiet scene and quaint;
Which a bard would love to sing of,
And an artist love to paint.

Though she was not quite in fashion,
With her long and wavy hair,
And that feminine appearance
Which our fathers thought so fair.

Though her home was poor and humble;
And her hands were rough with toil;
There was grace in face and figure,
And the sun shone in her smile.

As the snows among the beeches
Were her skin and wavy curls;
And her teeth and lips and blushes
Were as rubies, and as pearls.

Just a cailin in a doorway
Of her quiet cot, and quaint; –
Where’s the poet who could sing her?
Where’s the artist who could paint?