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Acushla

I NAMED her twice, I named her thrice,
I named her ten times over;
The wind heard, and the singing bird,
And the bee in the creamy clover.
Acushla! Acushla!
The cushat dove is cooing;
It's little that a man may do,
Whose heart is hot with wooing.
I left the field, the harvest yield —
The grain was ripe to falling —
And ran, and ran, a crazy man,
And I the whole time calling
'Acushla! Acushla!
The cushat dove is cooing;
When Love is keeping holiday,
What work is worth the doing?'
Her feet were fleet, her pretty feet
Upon the hill and hollow;
She bade me stay, she cried me nay,
And still her eyes said 'Follow!'
Acushla! Acushla!
The cushat dove is cooing;
To capture her was sweet, indeed,
Yet sweeter the pursuing.

poem by Roderic Quinn
Added by Poetry Lover
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