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 trouble, too,
        Out on 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.