A Scent of Thyme (translated from ‘Ceann Dubh Dílis’, anonymous, eighteenth century) Lay your dark head upon my breast, your honey mouth with scent of thyme what man could not love you – so blest and sweet, oh love, sweet love of mine. The girls are on the march; they free their hair and mourn their laddio, the best in five parishes, but I deny them all my love, sweet love, for you.
