UP the dale and down the Imsurne, 

O'er the meadow swift we fly; 

Now we sing, and now we mourn, 

Now we whistle, now we sigh. 

By the grassy fringed river, 

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; 

Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, 

To their very hearts we creep. 

Through the blooming groves we rustle, 

Kissing every bud we pass,— 

As we did it in the bustle, 

Scarcely knowing how it was. 

Down the glen, across the mountain, 

O'er the yellow heath we roam, 

Whirling round about the fountain, 

Till its little breakers foam. 

Bending down the weeping willows, 

While our vesper hymn we sigh; 

Then unto our rosy pillows 

On our weary wings we hie. 

—George Darley