Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Dermot's Parting
Dermot's Parting.
Oh, waken up, my darlin'—my Dermot, it is day,—The day, when from the mother's eyes the real light dies away;For what will daylight be to me, that never more will seeThe fair face of my Dermot come smiling back to me?Arise, my son—the morning red is wearing fast away,And through the grey mist I can see the masts rock in the bay.Before the sea-fog clears the hill, my darlin' must depart—But oh! the cloud will never lift that wraps the mother's heart!
Sure, then, I'm old and foolish: what's this I'm saying now?Will I see my fair son leave me with a shadow on his brow?Oh, no! we'll bear up bravely, and make no stir, nor moan;There will be time for weeping when my fair son shall be gone.I've laid the old coat ready, dear; my pride this day has beenThat on your poor apparel shall no rent nor stain be seen.And let me tie that kerchief, too; it's badly done, I fear,For my old hands tremble sadly, with the hurry, Dermot, dear.
And are you ready, darlin'? Turn round, and bid farewellTo the roof-tree of the cabin that hag sheltered us so well;Leave a blessing on the threshold, and on the old hearth-stone—'Twill be a comfort to my heart when I sit there alone.And often at the twilight hour, when day and work are done,I'll dream the old times back again, when you were there, my son—When you were there, a little thing that prattled at my knee,Long ere the evil days had come to part my child and me.
The dear arm is still round me, the dear hand guides me still;'Tis but a little step to go—see, now we've gained the hill;Is that the vessel, Dermot, dear?—the mist my eyesight dims—Oh! shame upon me now! what means this trembling in my limbs?My child! my child! oh, let me weep a while upon your breast;Would I were in my grave! for then, my heart would be at rest;But now the hour is come, and I must stand upon the shore,And see the treasure of my soul depart for evermore!
I know, my child!—I know it, the folly and the sin,But oh! I think my heart would burst to keep this anguish in—To think how in yon sleeping town such happy mothers be,Who keep their many sons at home, while I—I had but thee!But I have done; I murmur not; I kiss the chastening rod,Upon this hill—as Abraham did—I give my child to God!But not, like him, to welcome back the precious thing once given,I'll see my fair son's face again—but not on this side Heaven!