The Coolun

Come with me, under my coat,

And we will drink our fill

Of the milk of the white goat,

Or wine, if it be thy will;

And we will talk until

Talk is a truble, too,

Out in the side of the hill,

And nothing is left to do,

But an eye to look into an eye

And a hand in a hand to slip,

And a sigh to answer a sigh,

And a lip to find out a lip:

What if the night be black

And the air on the mountain chill,

Where the goat lies down in her track

And all but the fern is still!

Stay with me under my coat,

And we will drink our fill

Of the milk of the white goat

Out on the side of the hill.