Up the airy mountain,
       Down the rushy glen,
     We daren’t go a hunting
       For fear of little men: 
     Wee folk, good folk,
       Trooping all together;
     Green jacket, red cap,
       And white owl’s feather.

From ‘Ballads and Songs.’

     ROBIN REDBREAST

(A CHILD’S SONG)

Good-by, good-by, to Summer! 
For Summer’s nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away—­
But Robin’s here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay. 
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear! 
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they’ll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It’s Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
’Twill soon be winter now. 
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear! 
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.

The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house. 
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow—­
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go? 
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear! 
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.

From ‘Ballads and Songs.’

AN EVENING

Sunset’s mounded cloud;
A diamond evening-star;
Sad blue hills afar: 
Love in his shroud.

Scarcely a tear to shed;
Hardly a word to say;
The end of a summer’s day;
Sweet Love is dead.

From ‘Day and Night Songs.’

DAFFODIL

Gold tassel upon March’s bugle-horn,
Whose blithe reveille blows from hill to hill
And every valley rings—­O Daffodil! 
What promise for the season newly born? 
Shall wave on wave of flow’rs, full tide of corn,
O’erflow the world, then fruited Autumn fill
Hedgerow and garth?  Shall tempest, blight, or chill
Turn all felicity to scathe and scorn?

     Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring
       Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird
       Of evil augury is seen or heard: 
     Come now, like Pan’s old crew, we’ll dance and sing,
     Or Oberon’s:  for hill and valley ring
       To March’s bugle-horn,—­Earth’s blood is stirred.

From ‘Flower Pieces.’

     LOVELY MARY DONNELLY

     (To an Irish Tune)

     O lovely Mary Donnelly, it’s you I love the best! 
     If fifty girls were round you, I’d hardly see the rest. 
     Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,
     Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

     Her eyes like mountain water that’s flowing on a rock,
     How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock. 
     Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower,
     Could ne’er express the charming lip that has me in its power.