THE BALLAD OF ROBERT EMMET AND SARAH CURRAN

THE BALLAD OF ROBERT EMMET AND SARAH CURRAN
(Currin)

------ “This is a song, about one of my ancestors. She died of a broken heart*…and I a-don’t wanna end up like her.”

Of sadness, I’ve known a lot
For the British, of my true love, they did rob
For fighting for the land of the Pale
And that true spirit of the green, green Gale
Now, there’s a dark shadow hanging, over my life
Twist of fate and roll of the dice
My love is hanging, on the gallows, today
My heart, now, is lying, in the grave

Of a slender and drooping form, I did possess
Great sorrow, in my life, I did profess
I guess that was just my lot, in life---that was just my curse
Was it just this aching fear or was it something worse?
Oh, what could it be, this sad reverie?
Oh, how could this be, this suffering me?
How I miss those letters that kept me going on
Now, I have nothing, but this ghost and bones

Of ill-fated love, this is just it
With everything a reminder and nothing to forget
Home is where the heart is, so that’s what they say
Well, now, my home is only a grave away
What secrets lie, in that lost sting?
Oh, what hope is hidden there, in that tossed ring?
What pains did withered down my delicate flower
Oh, how I wish my love’s fingers could tangle, in my golden crown of hair

Now, Marie, Marie, there’s a name that means a lot
Marie, can you carry me---are you willing to bear that kind of rod?
Cos I have something I know and it’s a little bit you, it’s a little bit me
It’s a little bit God, oh, and I know that it’s what sets us free
Burn down this wilderness---I’m standing, at your heart’s bar
Waiting for to fill that empty glass---fall into the stars

Well, my love, I have been fighting on
Working for the greater good, trying to expand the kingdom
Against false dominion, I’ve fought the game
And heroism sings out my name
But I wouldn’t be who I am without your tender ties
And charms, which keep me hanging on for dear life
Though idle reports, sometimes, get passed my way
And grave situations, they call me to my fate

For I’d rather give up my own life than injure yours
For you are delicate and virtuous as a million flowers
‘Tis your name by which I live by---to which was thrown to fire
Your injured happiness, I’m sorry for, for you are my heart’s true desire
The pistol did me in, when the soldiers of the heart marched in
But I know, your forgiveness will be mine, in the end
I was only a-thinkin’ of the locks of your hair pinned to my chest
Do not fear, Dear, for we’ll forever be of one breath

Our clandestine meetings are clouded by storms that betray
Treason, she’s a strong drink that kills faith and true fate
Oh, but suffering love deepens the release and meaning
When at last destiny calls you into the valley of cold winter’s dreaming
So come, my love, and sit, for we shall drink to time and be “Monks of the Screw”
For time is our enemy and we all are just shadows passing through
For when you need someone to sail, upon the sea of all your wounds
You can always turn to me, I'll be there, in the corner of your room

Now, Marie, Marie, there’s a name that’s almost like the Mother of God
Marie, can you tarry me---are you willing to bear that kind of cross?
Cos I have something I know and it’s a little bit you, it’s a little bit me
It’s a little bit God, oh, and I know that it’s what sets us free
Burn down this wilderness---I’m standing, at your heart’s bar
Waiting for to fill that empty glass---fall into the stars

Oh, unroll that sacred curtain, whenever you feel certain
Lets let love be our epitaph, in a world full of plight
Make it shatterproof, through connection of joys and hurtin’
When you’re ready to jump into that sea of a million little lights
Just tell me, Dear, and let me be your bard and drake
So that on an altar of heavenly clay, our two hearts can bake



©2006 T/H Songs, INC. & GB Lyrics, CO

*= "Washington Irving, one of America's greatest early writers, devoted a story (The Broken Heart) in his magnus opus The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon to the romance between Emmet and Sarah Curran, citing it as an example of how a broken heart can be fatal."

See also: John Philpot Curran and Thomas Moore who penned this poem about Sarah Curran:

She is Far from the Land

She is far from the land, where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying!

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!

He had lov'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin'd him,
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own lov'd Island of sorrow!

And here's a video of the folk-tune based on the poem: