The ash grove, how graceful, how plainly tis speaking,
the harp wind through it playing has language for me.
Whenever the light through its branches is breaking
a host of kind faces is gazing on me.
The friends of my childhood again are before me,
each step wakes a memory as freely I roam.
With soft whispers laden its leaves rustle o'er me,
the ash grove, the ash grove again [alone is my home.
Down yonder green valley where streamlets meander
when twilight is fading I pensively rove.
Or at the bright noontide in solitude wander
amid the dark shades of the lonely ash grove.
Twas there while the blackbird was cheerfully singing
I first met that dear one, the joy of my heart.
Around us for gladness the bluebells were springing
the ash grove, the ash grove that sheltered my home.
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My laughter is over, my step loses lightness,
old countryside measures steal soft on my ears;
I only remember the past and its brightness,
the dear ones I mourn for again gather here.
From out of the shadows their loving looks greet me,
and wistfully searching the leafy green dome,
I find other faces fond bending to greet me,
the ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.
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