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.