DONALD DUBH.

“Donald Dubh! Donald Dubh!” Ah! for pity’s sake
Cry no more upon his name, lest my heart should break,
Listen!—“Donald! Donald Dubh!”—how the curlews call,
Winging low upon the moor where the shadows fall.

“Donald Dubh! Donald Dubh!”—Cold and stark his clay,
Cold the earth lies on his breast, where my kisses lay.
I have sought you, Donald Dubh, over hill and plain,
And I find you here, at last, in the wind and rain.

Donald Dubh, Donald Dubh, I have wandered wide,
Weary now I lay me down at your lone grave side.
Out upon the windy moor, by the sobbing sea,
Where you’re sleeping, Donald Dubh, is there room for me?

                                                                        Lina Marston.