| lyric | There's a colleen fair as May.
For a year and for a day.
I have sought by ev’ry way
her heart to gain.
There’s no art of tongue or eye.
Fond youths with maidens try.
But I’ve treid with ceaselesss sigh,
yet tried in vain.
If to France or faroff Spain.
She’d cross the wat’ry main.
To see her face again
the seas I’d brave.
And if ’tis heav’ns decree.
That mine she may not be.
May the Son of Mary me
in mercy save.
Oh, thou blooming milk—white dove
To whom I’ve given my love,
Do not ever thus reprove
My constancy.
There are maidens would be mine
With wealth in land and kine,
If my heart would but incline
To turn from thee.
But a kiss with welcome bland
And touch of thy fair hand,
Is all that I demand,
Would’st thou not Spurn.
For if not mine, dear girl,
Oh, snowy—breasted pearl,
May I never from the fair
With life return. |