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346 THE GOLDEN 7RE4SURT OF |
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THE SONG OF GLEN DUN
S
URE this is blessed Erin an' this the same glen, The gold is on the whin-bush, the wather sings again, The Fairy Thorn's in flower,—an' what ails my heart then?
Flower o' the May,
Flower o' the May,
What about the May time, an' he far away !
Summer loves the green glen, the white bird loves the
sea, An' the wind must kiss .the heather top, an' the red
bell hides a bee; As the bee is dear to the honey-flower, so one is dear to me.
Flower o' the rose, Flower o' the rose, A thorn pricked me one day, but nobody knows.
The bracken up the braeside has rusted in the air, Three birches lean together, so silver limbed an' fair, Och ! golden leaves are flyin' fast, but the scarlet roan is rare.
Berry o' the roan, Berry o' the roan, The wind sighs among the trees, but I sigh alone.
I knit beside the turf fire, I spin upon the wheel, Winter nights for thinkin' long, round runs the reel. . . . |
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