The Three Roads

There is a town in Ireland,
A little town I know;
Its girls have tender Irish eyes
Beneath their brows of snow;
And in the field around it
The Fairy Hawthorns grow.

O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
The sweet brown thrushes sing.

And from that little city
Three roads forever run
And on those roads the people,
The father and the son,
The mother and the daughter,
Walk till the day is done.

O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
The thrushes sadly sing.

One road runs to the seaport
Where stately vessels lie
American, Australian
The weeping exiles cry,
Farewell to Grave and Hearthstone!
Dear Ireland - good-bye!

O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
"Farewell!" the thrushes sing.

One road it is a red, red road
That road to England goes;
The battle-drums are sounding,
The trump of battle blows;
And Ireland's sons go forth to fight
Against Red England's foes.

O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And within her heart of green
The mournful thrushes sing.

One road it is a quiet road;
They travel it full slow,
Their eyes are filled with sorrow,
The silent folk who go
To where the Stones of Silence
Are shining, row on row.

O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And a Lady fair and grand,
And the thrushes sing the keen
Of the Dead - in Ireland.

Victor James Daley

Victor James Daley, born on 5 September 1858, was an Australian poet noted for his lyrical works. Daley’s publications, including his collection of poems

Victor James Daley

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Victor James Daley, Simple Poetry

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Victor James Daley, Simple Poetry

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Victor James Daley, Simple Poetry

English

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By the road, near her fathers dwelling,
There groweth a hawthorn tree:
Its blossoms are fair and fragrant
As the love that I cast from me.

It is all a-bloom this morning
In the sunny silentness,
And grows by the roadside, radiant
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A Bird From The West

At the grey dawn, amongst the felling leaves,
        A little bird outside my window swung,
High on a topmost branch he trilled his song,
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Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,
    Down thy valleys green and sad,
Still thy spirit wanders wailing,
    Wanders wailing, wanders mad.

Long ago that anguish took thee,
    Ireland, Ireland, green and fair,
Spoilers strong in darkness took thee,
    Broke thy heart and left thee there.

Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland,
    Still thy spirit wanders mad;
All too late they love that wronged thee,
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The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare,
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The Song Of O'Ruark, Prince Of Breffni.[1]

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