AN IRISH BLACKBIRD
This is my brave singer.
With his beak of gold;
Now my heart's a captive
In his song's sweet hold.
O, the lark's a rover,
Seeking fields above:
But my serenader
Hath a human love.
“Hark!” he says, “in winter
Nests are full of snow,
But a truce to wailing,
Summer breezes blow.
“Hush!” he sings, “with night-time
Phantoms cease to be,
Join your serenader
Piping on his tree.”
O, my little lover.
Warble in the blue;
Windless must I envy
Skies so wide for you.
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