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;
Youd 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.
A Bird From The West
Dora Sigerson Shorter
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