A BIRD FROM THE WEST

At the grey dawn, amongst the felling leaves,

A little bird outside my window swung,

High on a topmost branch he trilled his song,

And “Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!” ever sung.

Take me, I cried, back to my island home;

Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings;

For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,

And home and home and home he ever sings.

We lingered over Ulster stern and wild.

I called: “Arise! doth none remember me?”

One turnèd in the darkness murmuring,

“How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!”

We rested over Connaught — whispering said:

“Awake, awake, and welcome! I am here.”

One woke and shivered at the morning grey;

“The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear.”

We flew low over Munster. Long I wept:

“You used to love me, love me once again!”

They spoke from out the shadows wondering;

“You’ d think of tears, so bitter falls the rain.”

Long over Leinster lingered we. “Good-bye!

My best beloved, good-bye for evermore.”

Sleepless they tossed and whispered to the dawn;

“So sad a wind was never heard before.”

Was it a dream I dreamt? For yet there swings

In the grey morn a bird upon the bough,

And “Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!” ever sings.

Oh! fair the breaking day in Ireland now.