I learned this song several years ago from Cliff Haslam, who, I believe, learned it from the singing of Martin earthy. (ET) Robert Dwyer Joyce (1830-1883), a poet of the Fenian movement, wrote the song. (SP) Ed Trickett; vocal Gordon Bok: 'Bokwhistle'
I sat within a valley green,
Sat there with my true love,
And my fond heart strove to choose between
The old love and the new love.
The old for her, the new that made
Me think on Ireland dearly,
While soft the wind blew down the glade
And shook the golden barley.
'Twas hard the mournful words to frame,
To break the ties that bound us.
Ah, but harder still to bear the shame
Of foreign chains around us.
And so I said, "The mountain glen
I'll seek at morning early,
And join the brave United Men,"
While soft wind shook the barley
'Twas sad I kissed away her tears,
Her arms around me clinging,
When to my ears that fateful shot
Come out the wild wood ringing.
The bullet pierced my true love's breast,
In life's young spring so early,
And there upon my breast she died,
While soft wind shook the barley.
I bore her to some mountain stream,
And many's the summer blossom
I placed with branches soft and green
About her gore-stained bosom.
I wept and kissed her clay-cold corpse,
Then rushed o'er vale and valley
My vengeance on the foe to wreak
While soft wind shook the barley.
'Twas blood for blood, without remorse,
I took at Ourlet (Oulart) Hollow.
I placed my true love's clay-cold corpse
Where mine full soon may follow.
Around her grave I wandered drear,
Noon, night, and morning early,
With aching heart whene'er I hear
The wind that shakes the barley.