Charles Villiers Stanford
2 voix · Voice, Piano
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There’s a driving mist on Assynt of the shadows, (My heart is sore mo bhron my heart is sore) The glamour of the dead comes o’er me creeping And chills the pulsing of my bosom’s core. For eyes that gaze on death behold its travail, (My heart is sore, mo bhron, my heart is sore) And vain and doubly vain is hope and longing For him who turns not when his race is o’er. The shroud is white before my straining vision (My heart is sore, mo bhron, my heart is sore) The woven shroud that soon must wind for ever The sailor’s corse that heaves beyond the shore. There’s a deathly mist on Assynt of the shadows, (My heart is sore, mo bhron, my heart is sore, And in the bay there sleeps a man of Assynt, Nor life nor love Shall call him ever more.
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