Ghost-bereft With other stories and studies in verse: By Jane Barlow |
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VI
And, whatever the raison was, after that day come the plisantest springIn me life. Ne'er a minyit too soon of a mornin' I'd hear the birds sing,
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Till I'd run out of doors and I'd find it washed over the fields wid the dew.
And the cuckoo'd be callin' and callin' and callin' away like a bell
Ringin' nigh in some country far off, wid a road to it no one could tell.
And 'twas fine only feelin' the air. Sure, those days it's ‘Red-Nob’ they might call,
Sorra bit would I fret, or go hearin' the river: What matter at all?
But I went pullin' flowers by the edge of it once, and as clear as could be,
Every step of the way it was sayin': The red gold for me, Oonah machree.
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