 | From the Hills of Dream |  |
113
My Birdeen.
Oh bonnie birdeen,
Sweet bird of my heart—
Tell me, O tell me,
How shall we part?
Sweet bird of my heart—
Tell me, O tell me,
How shall we part?
He calls me, he cries,
Who is father to thee:
O birdeen, his eyes
In these blue eyes I see.
Who is father to thee:
O birdeen, his eyes
In these blue eyes I see.
Thou art wrought of our joy,
Of our joy that was slain:
My birdeen, my boy,
My passion, my pain.
Of our joy that was slain:
My birdeen, my boy,
My passion, my pain.
| From the Hills of Dream | |