The Orphan

My father and my mother died and left me young and poor,
  But I would never mind bad luck if I had my good name;
What sort of comfort in this world or mercy at the end
  Can any hope for, having brought the like of me to
	shame?

By the mountain’s edge he lives who put my wits astray,
  The laughter on his cheek and his gold hair blown
	behind;
He said he’d marry me, he said my mouth was like a rose—
  How can I see the path for the tears that make me blind?

Meadow lands and ploughed lands lie in valleys far away
  Where apple-trees and sloe-bushes grow thickly as at
	home;
If my love say nothing, what matter what all say?
  And if your mother slight me, her blood on the
	hearth-stone!


Source: O'Connor, Frank (tr); Kings, Lords, & Commons: An
Anthology from the Irish; 1962; London; Macmillan & Co; p.130