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Black Irish.
T'was blowing full a gale, trees raged ‘neath churning sky;
And as the lightning glared false day, the horseman thundered by,
Bent low upon his frothing steed,
Bent low 'neath riven sky, cape billowing like a shroud,
The horseman thundered by.
Steel hooves against the stony path kicked sparks, red and bright;
Fire above and fire beneath, 'companied the horseman in the night.
He felt his Hunter tiring, for many miles they'd gone,
But as if pursued by hounds from the pit, he drove the Hunter on.
And as each flash of lightning was blinded by the next,
He spurred Black Irish harder though the steed was sorely vexed.
Claire, sweet Claire, had sent a note, they'd quarreled; she was contrite,
And ’twas the whip that lashed him as he urged Black Irish in full flight.
She'd jeweled lips and raven hair, her smile turned night to day.
And with these thoughts his mind overflowing, he did not heed the way.
He could not know the swollen race had swept the bridge away.
His mind was filled with thoughts of Claire,
And he did not heed the way.
Claire waited nigh the arbor gate, with her hair the wind made free,
As she waited for her horseman to come thundering o'er the lea,
But riderless came the black horse, riderless to where she stayed.
She stood struck dumb by the vision, 'tis only a dream, she prayed.
For she knew he rode like Castor, while he had life saddled, he stayed.
Her heart froze in her breast. ‘Tis only a dream, she prayed.
She climbed upon the black horse and he thundered on once more,
Sides heaving like a bellows, as frightened Claire he bore.
His wind came like fire, legs quivering from the strain;
Though his heart beat like Thor's hammer, he gave no thought,
Save to the next hill he must gain.
Claire tried to slow the Hunter, for she knew the beast was in pain.
She could feel the black horse falter, but he would not answer to the rein.
Anon, he brought his charge to the water's edge and lay down 'neath a willow.
He thought it good to rest there, and use the soft earth for his pillow.
With a strength that was beyond her, Claire pulled the horseman from the rill.
His face was pale with death; herself she thought to kill.
For without her horseman, of this world, there was nothing left.
She knelt beside him, her dagger in hand; but hold, he still had breath!
She had saved the horseman; but low, there was a cost,
For his great heart had ceased its pounding, Black Irish, he was lost.
They buried Irish 'neath that willow and the horseman said this prayer,
"God, I do not know if you take note of horses,
But there's a fine one resting there."
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