The only person I ever heard sing this song was Owen McBride. That was at the Philadelphia Folk Festival one year. I asked Owen for the song and he obliged. The problem was that he was rushing for a plane, so I rushed along with him and he sang the the song for while I attempted to remember it.
Later, a friend from Boston, Deklund Hunt, put out a small song book that included the words to the song. I used the words from the song book with what I could remember of Owen’s tune. I saw Owen a few years later and realized that the “folk process” goes on; my tune was not quite the same as his.
Gordon Bok – 12 string guitar & vocal; Bob Stuart – vocal
Oh, the winter it has passed
And the summer’s come at last.
The small birds are singing in the trees,
And their little hearts are glad,
Ah, but mine is very sad,
Since my true love is far away from me.
And straight I will repair
To the Curragh of Kildare
For it’s there I’ll finds tidings of my dear
Oh, the rose upon the briar
And the clouds that float so high
Bring joy to the linnet and the bee.
And their little hearts are blessed,
Ah, but mine can know no rest,
Since my true love is far away from me.
And straight I will…
All you who are in love,
Aye, and cannot it remove,
I pity the pain that you endure.
For experience lets me know
That your hearts are full with woe.
It’s a woe that no mortal can cure.
And straight I will…