Anna Moyra


There is music in the field
Where the reapers keen scythes wield
In the corn stalks half-concealed:
“Anna Moyra!”
Who is that so sweet of glance
Who among the sheaves doth dance,
And the whole glad scene enhance?
Anna Moyra!

Who so fair of form and face?
Who so full of life and grace?
Who the darling of the place?
Anna Moyra.
Weary men come home at last
Hungry to their earned repast,
Who flits round the table fast?
Anna Moyra.

She the farmer’s joy and pride;
She for whom his work is plied;
There’s not one but would have died
For Anna Moyra.
Rough men worship where she treads,
Bowing down their hoary heads,
Dreaming of thee in their beds,
Anna Moyra.

Who could give the cheering word
When no other voice was heard?
Who with love a cold heart stirred?
Anna Moyra
Who was nurse when one was ill?
Who with joy did suffering kill?
Anna Moyra

Now the farmer’s old and gray,
Time with him has had its way,
Came for him a tragic day,
(Anna Moyra)
Thou so loving, thou so pure,
Tempted by a golden lure,
Went for ever through the door,
Anna Moyra!

Now the farm is still and dead,
Now the thistle lifts its head,
All the happiness is fled,
Anna Moyra!
Mayhap now the darkening glades
When the twilight throws its shades
Thy poor spirit oft invades
Anna Moyra!