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On that morning Tadhg Ó Muiris, 1999 |
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When the chains of ice are sundered, and the heaving rivers run And the ancient pines that slumbered wake to greet the April sun And the spell of snow is banished by the cheery robins’ song On that morning to you, dear, I’ll be returning. But we’ve still a season’s timber to drive down the swollen stream Where the waters seethe and writhe and where the deadly boulders gleam Till we make the mills in Bytown where the waters flow serene On that morning to you, dear, I’ll be returning. When the summer hay grows lushly on the sun-bedizened leas And the blossoms raise their faces to the courtship of the bees And the laughter of the maidens wafts along the gentle breeze On that morning to you, dear, I’ll be returning. But the wages of the springtime have all run out like the sands And the farmers down to Nickabaw are seeking idle hands Oh, but when the haying’s over and the stubble blights the land On that morning, to you dear, I’ll be returning. When the mountains bathe the valleys in autumnal crimson floods And the fog is rising from the lake in tendrils through the woods And the tang of snow lies heavy on the breeze and on the blood On that morning, to you dear, I’ll be returning. But the echoes of the axes are enough to wake the dead And to drown the gentle music of your voice inside my head And my campfire’s glowing embers as I lie here in my bed Tell me never, to you dear, I’ll be returning. |