The Grief of a Girl's Heart
O Donall Oge, if you will go across the sea,Bring myself with you, and do not forget it;There will be a "faring" for thee on fine days and market-days,And the daughter of the King of Greece as your bedfellow at night.
If you go over seas, there is a token I have of you,Your bright top-knot and your two grey eyes,Twelve ringlets on your yellow curling head,Like the cowslip or the rose-leaf in the garden.
You promised me, but you spoke a lie to me,That you would be before me at the fold of the sheep;I let a whistle out and three hundred shouts for you,But I found nothing in it but a lamb a-bleating.
You promised me, a thing that was hard for you,A ship of gold under a mast of silver,Twelve great towns of the world's market-towns,And a fine white court beside the sea.
You promised me, a thing that was not possible,You would give me gloves of fishes' skin,You would give me shoes of the feathers of birds,And gowns of silk the richest in Erinn.
O Donall Oge, it were better for thee I to be with thee,Than a high-born, arrogant, wasteful lady;I would milk your cows and I would churn for you,And if it went hard with you, I would strike a blow with you.
Och, ochone, it is not the hunger,Nor want of food and drink, nor want of sleep,That has left me wasting and weary;The love of a young man it is that has sickened me.
Early in the morning I saw the young manOn the back of his horse going along the road;He did not move over to me nor take any heed of me,And on my coming home, it is I who wept my fill.
When I myself go to the Well of LonelinessI sit down and I go through my trouble,When I see the world and I see not my lad;There was the shadow of amber upon his hair.
It was a Sunday that I gave my love to you,The Sunday before Easter Sunday exactly;I myself on my knees a-reading the Passion,My two eyes giving love to you ever after.
Oye, little mother, give myself to him,And give him what is yours of goods entirely,Out with yourself a-begging almsAnd do not be going East and West seeking me.
My little mother said to me not to speak with youTo-day or to-morrow or on Sunday,It is in the bad hour she gave me that choice,It is "shutting the door after the theft."
And you passed me by, dark and late,And you passed me by, and the light of the day in it;If you would come in yourself and see meNever a word at all would I have with you.
Words in this poem
- bedfellow n.
- One who lies with another in the same bed; a person who shares one's couch.
- cowslip n.
- A common flower in England (Primula veris) having yellow blossoms and appearing in early spring. It is often cultivated in the United States. [AS. c, c, prob. orig., cow's droppings. Cf. Slop, n.]
- spoke n.
- The radius or ray of a wheel; one of the small bars which are inserted in the hub, or nave, and which serve to support the rim or felly. [OE. spoke, spake, AS, spaca; akin to D. speek, LG. speke, OHG. speihha, G. speiche. sq. root170. Cf. Spike a nail.]
- erinn n.
- An early, and now a poetic, name of Ireland. [Ir. Cf. Aryan.]
- churn n.
- A vessel in which milk or cream is stirred, beaten, or otherwise agitated (as by a plunging or revolving dasher) in order to separete the oily globules from the other parts, and obtain butter. [OE. chirne, cherne, AS. ceren, cyrin; akin to D. karn, Dan. kierne. See Churn, v. t.]
- went n.
- Course; way; path; journey; direction.
- loneliness n.
- The condition of being lonely; solitude; seclusion.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
The Grief of a Girl's Heart is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Poem-Book of the Gael Translations from Irish Gaelic Poetry into English Prose and Verse, Project Gutenberg ebook #46917; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Eleanor Hull, The Grief of a Girl's Heart, in The Poem-Book of the Gael (1912), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #46917, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/hull-gael/the-grief-of-a-girl-s-heart.html, id L11781.
Form and metre
The Grief of a Girl's Heart is 52 lines in 13 verse paragraphs. It is unrhymed, as far as the pronouncing dictionary can tell. 93% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 11.3 syllables. 13 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 10% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 5 -A-A possible · skinA · birds · erinnA
- 6 --AA thee · lady · youA · youA
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| O Donall Oge, if you will go across the sea, | 12 | ········˘/·· |
| Bring myself with you, and do not forget it; | 11 | ··/·····˘/· |
| There will be a "faring" for thee on fine days and market-days, | 15 | ····/˘······/˘· |
| And the daughter of the King of Greece as your bedfellow at night. | 16 | ··/˘·······/·˘·· |
| If you go over seas, there is a token I have of you, | 14 | ········/˘···· |
| Your bright top-knot and your two grey eyes, | 9 | ········· |
| Twelve ringlets on your yellow curling head, | 10 | ·····/˘/˘· |
| Like the cowslip or the rose-leaf in the garden. | 12 | ··/˘······/˘ |
| You promised me, but you spoke a lie to me, | 11 | ·/˘········ |
| That you would be before me at the fold of the sheep; | 13 | ············· |
| I let a whistle out and three hundred shouts for you, | 13 | ···/˘···/˘··· |
| But I found nothing in it but a lamb a-bleating. | 13 | ···/˘······/˘ |
| You promised me, a thing that was hard for you, | 11 | ·/˘········ |
| A ship of gold under a mast of silver, | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| Twelve great towns of the world's market-towns, | 9 | ······/˘· |
| And a fine white court beside the sea. | 9 | ·····˘/·· |
| You promised me, a thing that was not possible, | 11 | ·/˘······/˘ |
| You would give me gloves of fishes' skin, | 9 | ······/˘· |
| You would give me shoes of the feathers of birds, | 11 | ·······/˘·· |
| And gowns of silk the richest in Erinn. | 10 | ·····/˘·/˘ |
| O Donall Oge, it were better for thee I to be with thee, | 15 | ······/˘······· |
| Than a high-born, arrogant, wasteful lady; | 10 | ····/˘/˘/˘ |
| I would milk your cows and I would churn for you, | 11 | ··········· |
| And if it went hard with you, I would strike a blow with you. | 14 | ·············· |
| Och, ochone, it is not the hunger, | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| Nor want of food and drink, nor want of sleep, | 10 | ·········· |
| That has left me wasting and weary; | 9 | ····/˘·/˘ |
| The love of a young man it is that has sickened me. | 13 | ··········/˘· |
| Early in the morning I saw the young man | 11 | /˘··/˘····· |
| On the back of his horse going along the road; | 11 | ······/˘/·· |
| He did not move over to me nor take any heed of me, | 14 | ·········/˘··· |
| And on my coming home, it is I who wept my fill. | 13 | ···/˘········ |
| When I myself go to the Well of Loneliness | 11 | ···/·····/˘ |
| I sit down and I go through my trouble, | 10 | ········/˘ |
| When I see the world and I see not my lad; | 11 | ··········· |
| There was the shadow of amber upon his hair. | 12 | ···/··/˘···· |
| It was a Sunday that I gave my love to you, | 12 | ···/········ |
| The Sunday before Easter Sunday exactly; | 12 | ·/···/˘/·˘/˘ |
| I myself on my knees a-reading the Passion, | 12 | ··/····/˘·/˘ |
| My two eyes giving love to you ever after. | 11 | ···/˘···/·· |
| Oye, little mother, give myself to him, | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/·· |
| And give him what is yours of goods entirely, | 11 | ········˘/˘ |
| Out with yourself a-begging alms | 8 | ··˘/·/˘· |
| And do not be going East and West seeking me. | 11 | ····/···/˘· |
| My little mother said to me not to speak with you | 13 | ·/˘/˘········ |
| To-day or to-morrow or on Sunday, | 10 | ····/˘··/· |
| It is in the bad hour she gave me that choice, | 11 | ·····/····· |
| It is "shutting the door after the theft." | 10 | ··/˘······ |
| And you passed me by, dark and late, | 8 | ········ |
| And you passed me by, and the light of the day in it; | 13 | ············· |
| If you would come in yourself and see me | 10 | ·····˘/··· |
| Never a word at all would I have with you. | 10 | /········· |
Notes from the edition 1
Eleanor Hull's notes to The Poem-Book of the Gael (1912; Project Gutenberg #46917).
- Stanza 13, line 4 This last stanza is from Dr. Hyde's "Breed Astore" (Love Songs, p. 77), where the third stanza is also found.
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.