The wind in the trees :: :: University of Virginia Library

The dewdrops were grey on the clover,
The grey mists of night were withdrawn,
The blackbird sang clear from the cover,
The hills wore the rose of the dawn.
But sweeter than blackbirds and thrushes,
Her song, whom the Graces endow,
And pinker than dawn her soft blushes,
The pretty girl milking her cow.

She sang, and the milk, sweet and scented,
Spirted white as the breast of my dear.
She sang, and the cow, grown contented,
Gave over her kicking to hear.

O wildest of little black Kerries,
You will come at her call, I know how,
Since my heart at her voice leaps and scurries,
The pretty girl milking her cow.

As she sang I drew nearer each minute,
A captive in Love's rosy chain,
And my heart every second was in it
Grew fuller of joy and of pain,
Till I cried out behind her: My storeen,
Pray guess who is holding you now?
And I felt the heart-beats of my Noreen,
The pretty girl milking her cow.

I kissed her sweet eyelids to blind her,
I kissed her black head like the silk,
The cow—who was going to bind her?—
With one kick kicked over the milk.

And then, growing bolder and bolder,
I kissed from the chin to the brow;
She was mine ere the day was much older,
The pretty girl milking her cow.