John Keegan Casey

Song of Golden-Headed Niamh

Oh! Come with me to Tirnan-og;

            There fruit and blossoms bend each tree.

Red sparkling wine and honey flow,

            And beauty smiles from sea to sea.

Your flowing locks will ne’er turn gray,

Nor burning pain nor grim decay

            Across the threshold of your home.

                        So haste away to Tirnan-og,

                                    My white steed waits in golden sheen;

                        A diadem shall crown thy brow,

                                    And I will be thy bridal queen.

The feast is spread, within the hall

            Flash drinking cups with gold encrowned;

The harp leans lightly ‘gainst the wall

            To strike for thee the welcome sound.

A hundred sword-blades for thy hand,

            A hundred of the swiftest steeds,

A hundred hounds, a matchless band

            Where’er the hunted quarry leads.

                        So haste away to Tirnan-og,

                                    My white steed waits in golden sheen;

                        A diadem shall crown thy brow,

                                    And I will be thy bridal queen.

A hundred robes of precious silk,

            And gems from an enchanted mine,

A hundred kine of sweetest milk,

            And armour of the brightest shine.

And thou shalt wear that wondrous sword

            Of keenest edge, whose flash is death;

The summer wind will hear thy word,

            And gently pour its tender breath.

                        So haste away to Tirnan-og,

                                    My white steed waits in golden sheen;

                        A diadem shall crown thy brow,

                                    And I will be thy bridal queen.

Young virgins, sweetest in the song,

            And beauteous as the morning sun.

Around thy noble steps will throng,

            To make thy path a joyous one;

And heroes, in the combat stern,

            In speed and boldness unsurpassed,

Before whose prowess Fionn would learn,

            To bow his haughty head at last.

                        So haste away to Tirnan-og,

                                    My white steed waits in golden sheen;

                        A diadem shall crown thy brow,

                                    And I will be thy bridal queen.

O Oisin of the powerful hand!

            First in the chase, first in the war,

Over our sweet and glorious land

            Thy gallant deeds were borne afar.

Loch Leine is deep, but deeper still

            In Niamh’s soul thy image dwells;

Then turn thee westward from this hill

            To where the sun-hued billow swells.

                        So haste away to Tirnan-og,

                                    My white steed waits in golden sheen;

                        A diadem shall crown thy brow,

                                    And I will be thy bridal queen.