| The Hidden Love |
| Irish; Unknown |
| There is no sickness so woeful as secret love; och, long have I thoght it! I shall refrain from declaring it no longer, my secret love for my slender gentle girl. I have fallen in love and I cannot hide it, with her spreading hair, with her calm mind, with her narrow eyebrow, her blue-grey eye, her even teeth, her soft face. I have given also, though I do not admit it, the love of my soul to her smooth throat, to her melodious voice, to her sweet-tasting lips, to her snowy bosom, to her pointed breast. Och, my grief! I cannot forget my melancholy love for her white body, for her straight smooth foot, for her narrow sole, for her smile, for her soft hand. Though there has not been known before devotion like mine to her beyond all, there is not, there will not be, and there has not been a woman who more cruelly stole my love. |