| There was a green branch hung with many a bell |
| When her own people ruled this tragic Eire; |
| And from
its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery, |
| A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell. |
|
|
|
|
| It charmed away the merchant
from his guile, |
| And turned the farmer’s memory from his cattle, |
| And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of
battle: |
| And all grew friendly for a little while. |
|
|
|
|
| Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas, |
| And planning,
plotting always that some morrow |
| May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow! |
| I also bear a bell-branch full
of ease. |
|
|
|
|
| I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed |
| Until the sap of summer had grown weary! |
| I
tore it from the barren boughs of Eire, |
| That country where a man can be so crossed; |
|
|
|
|
| Can be so battered,
badgered and destroyed |
| That he’s a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter |
| That shakes a mouldering
cobweb from the rafter; |
| And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed. |
|
|
|
|
| Gay bells or sad, they bring you
memories |
| Of half-forgotten innocent old places: |
| We and our bitterness have left no traces |
| On Munster
grass and Connemara skies. |