 | Ballads of Irish chivalry |  |
THE LITTLE BIRD.
A little bird with golden wings
Flies past from bloom to blossom:
'Tis like the memory that springs
Of you within my bosom;—
He flies unto the woodland tree,
The tree he best loves only:
And thus that memory comes to me,
Where'er I wander lonely.
Flies past from bloom to blossom:
'Tis like the memory that springs
Of you within my bosom;—
197
The tree he best loves only:
And thus that memory comes to me,
Where'er I wander lonely.
II
That little bird, some magic power,Some spell has surely found him,
For when he warbles in his bower,
The woods seem glad around him;
And when I hear his dulcet voice,
I think of yours each day, love,
And memory makes my heart rejoice,
And I am glad and gay, love.
III
I miss him now the woods among'Mid dewy leaves adorning:
The wild hawk heard his lonely song,
And killed him in the morning;
But nought can kill the memory
Of you, now sweetly shining
Within my heart so constantly,
Till life that heart's resigning.
| Ballads of Irish chivalry | |