word was audible and expressive, as the words in a song were always, as I think, before music grew too proud to be the garment of words, flowing and changing with the flowing and changing of their energies.  The poem is not as natural as the best Irish poetry of the last century, for the thoughts are arranged in a too obviously traditional form, so the old poor half-blind man who made it has to speak as if he were a rich farmer offering the best of everything to the woman he loves, but it has naive and tender phrases.  The friend that was with me has made some of the translation, but some of it has been made by the country people themselves.  I think it has more of the simplicity of the Irish verses than one finds in most translations.

    Going to Mass by the will of God,
    The day came wet and the wind rose;
    I met Mary Hynes at the cross of Kiltartan,
    And I fell in love with her then and there.

    I spoke to her kind and mannerly,
    As by report was her own way;
    And she said, “Raftery, my mind is easy,
    You may come to-day to Ballylee.”

    When I heard her offer I did not linger,
    When her talk went to my heart my heart rose. 
    We had only to go across the three fields,
    We had daylight with us to Ballylee.

    The table was laid with glasses and a quart measure,
    She had fair hair, and she sitting beside me;
    And she said, “Drink, Raftery, and a hundred welcomes,
    There is a strong cellar in Ballylee.”

    O star of light and O sun in harvest,
    O amber hair, O my share of the world,
    Will you come with me upon Sunday
    Till we agree together before all the people?

    I would not grudge you a song every Sunday evening,
    Punch on the table, or wine if you would drink it,
    But, O King of Glory, dry the roads before me,
    Till I find the way to Ballylee.

    There is sweet air on the side of the hill
    When you are looking down upon Ballylee;
    When you are walking in the valley picking nuts and blackberries,
    There is music of the birds in it and music of the Sidhe.

    What is the worth of greatness till you have the light
    Of the flower of the branch that is by your side? 
    There is no god to deny it or to try and hide it,
    She is the sun in the heavens who wounded my heart.

    There was no part of Ireland I did not travel,
    From the rivers to the tops of the mountains,
    To the edge of Lough Greine whose mouth is hidden,
    And I saw no beauty but was behind hers.

    Her hair was shining, and her brows were shining too;
    Her face was like herself, her mouth pleasant and sweet. 
    She is the pride, and I give her the branch,
    She is the shining flower of Ballylee.

    It is Mary Hynes, this calm and easy woman,
    Has beauty in her mind and in her face. 
    If a hundred clerks were gathered together,
    They could not write down a half of her ways.