Dead love
F. Hart
From the Gaelic
(Heard sung by an old woman of
The Island of Tiree)
It is the grey rock I am,
And the grey rain on the rock:
It is the grey wave...
That grey hound.
What (is it) to be old:
(It is to be as) the grey moss in winter:
Alasdair-mo-ghaol,
It is long since my laughter.
Alasdair-mo-ghaol,
The breast is shrivelled
That you said was white
As canna in the wind.