A Bird From The West

At the grey dawn, amongst the falling 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 turned 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: ^ M You'd think of tears, so bitter falls the rain.' !| Long over Leinster lingered we. ' Good-bye! My best beloved, good-bye for evermore.' v^ 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.