Flower of Finae

Karan Casey and John Doyle are featured here in a fantastic version of Flower of Finae.  It’s one of the “big songs” in the traditional singing canon and in an upcoming Singer Q & As with Karan and John, they talk about working on the big songs.

Flower of Finae

Bright red is the sun o’er the waves of Lough Sheelin
A cool gentle breeze o’er the mountains is stealing
But fair round the islets the small ripples play
But fairer than all is the flower of Finae

Her hair is like night and her eyes like grey morning
She trips o’er the heather as if its touch scorning
But her heart and her lips are as mild as May Day
Young Eily McMahon is the flower of Finae

Who down the hillside like wild deer runs fleeter?
And who on the lakeside is hastening to greet her?
Who but Fergus O’Farrell, that fiery young gay
The darling and pride of the flower of Finae

One kiss and one clasp and one wild look of gladness
But why does it change all of a sudden to sadness?
He has told his sad fortune; he can no longer stay
He must leave his poor Eily all alone in Finae

For Fergus O’Farrell was true to his sire-land
But the strong hand of tyranny were drove in from Ireland
He joins the brigade in the wars far away
But he vows he’ll return to the flower of Finae

Fought at Cremona—she hears of his story
He fought at Casano—she’s proud of his glory
Yet sadly she sings “Siubhail a Rúin” all the day
O, come home my darling, come home to Finae

Long years have passed till she’s nigh broken-hearted
Her reel and her rock and her flax she has parted
She sails with the wild geese to Flanders away
And leaves her poor parents alone in Finae

Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging
Before him the Sassanach squadrons enlarging
Behind him the Cravats, their sections display
Beside him rides Fergus and he shouts for Finae

On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying
Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying
Outnumbered and wounded retreat in array
And bleeding rides Fergus and he thinks of Finae

In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying
And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying
That flag’s the sole trophy of Ramillies’ fray
This nun is poor Eily, the flower of Finae

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