All the long day the robin on the… Piped his sweet song To her who on her hidden nest Oft turned beneath her patient bre… Her pretty eggs in tender quest

This is my brave singer, With his beak of gold; Now my heart’s a captive In his song’s sweet hold. O, the lark’s a rover,

I prayed so eagerly, “Turn and see How bitter I have striven— A word and all forgiven.” I prayed so eagerly.

Wirastrua, wirastrua, woe to me th… The corpse has spoken from out his… ‘Yesternight my burning brain Throbbed and beat on the strings o… Now I rest, all my dreaming’s don…

Lift me up from this bed of sickne… I am going out to meet the summer. I will run into the arms of Sunsh… And be so comforted, the first new… “I will lift you up,' said the bla…

’Twas the dream of a God, And the mould of His hand, That you shook 'neath His stroke, That you trembled and broke To this beautiful land.

God made the man and bid him multi… Replenish the green earth, nor bre… Made by His hand; Man hearing und… He loved His work and held His la… And wherefore then does this poor…

‘Lo! I am athirst,’ said the brow… ‘And I would drink my fill.’ ‘Have I not slaked thee,’ cried t… ‘From river, stream, and rill?’ ‘I would have wine,’ said the hot…

The little red rose tapped at my w… Tapped at my window long years ago… Glad would I run then, trip to th… Who was in hiding well did I know… Last night I, nodding, heard at t…

O to be a woman! to be left to piq… When the winds are out and calling… Whisht! it whistles at the windows… There! the last leaves of the beec… All the boats at anchor they are p…

The little birds, they do not heed… The ungracious wind, the branches… The sleety burden of the jaundiced… Bring them no mourning, for the bi… Though from their beak the stolen…

As I between the dusk and dark Walked down by Hampton Towers, I strayed upon the haunted path In the forbidden hours. I paced the long and lonesome way

‘Halt, who goes there?’ 'Tis for… In long processions see what gifts… Here cometh Care with sheaf of tr… And here is Grief with dish of wo… Frail Glory, too, holds out her h…

Half seated on a mossy crag, Half crouching in the heather; I found a little Irish maid, All in June’s golden weather. Like some fond hand that loved the…

Donacha rua of Donegal, (Holy Mary, how slow the dawn!) This is the hour of your loss or g… Is go d-tigeadh tu mo mhúirnin slá… Donacha rua, but the hour was ill