The Kine Of My Father

The kine of my rather, they are straying from my keeping;
        The young goat’s at mischief, but little can I do:
For all through the night did I hear the Banshee keening;
        O youth of my loving, and is it well with you?

All through the night sat my mother with my sorrow;
        “Whisht, it is the wind, O one childeen of my heart!”
My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;
        Black head of my darling! too long are we apart.

Were your grave at my feet, I would think it half a blessing;
        I could herd then the cattle, and drive the goats away;
Many a Paternoster I would say for your safe keeping;
        I could sleep above your heart, until the dawn of day.

I see you on the prairie, hot with thirst and faint with hunger;
        The head that I love lying low upon the sand.
The vultures shriek impatient, and the coyote dogs are howling,
        Till the blood is pulsing cold within your clenching hand.

I see you on the waters, so white, so still forlorn,
        Your dear eyes unclosing beneath a foreign rain:
A plaything of the winds, you turn and drift unceasing,
        No grave for your resting; O mine the bitter pain!

All through the night did I hear the Banshee keening:
        Somewhere you are dying, and nothing can I do;
My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;
        Bitter is your trouble-and I am far from you.