A Charm

Not sweet with wild honey from combs o' the Shee, 
But bitter with sorrow 's this song made o' me: 
Yet my song, acushla, sweet to no maid's ear, 
I lay it upon you to heed and to hear. 

Not red are my apples, nor mellow my wine: 
In shadow they ripened, these apples of mine: 
Of my wine, acushla, and my fruits unsweet, 
I lay it upon you to drink and to eat. 

Bees that stored my honey, fruits my life has fed, 
Charm you hither, hither, ere the spell be said, 
Though the Shee in pity made you deaf and dumb, 
I lay it upon you to hear, and to come.