A Memory

Is always Age severe? Is never Youth austere? Spring-fruits are sour to eat; Autumn's the mellow time.

Pluck not the wayside flower, It is the traveller's dower; A thousand passers-by Its beauties may espy, May win a touch of blessing From Nature's mild caressing.

Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring! The stooping boughs above me

The Abbot of Innisfallen awoke ere dawn of day; Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray.

In early morning twilight, raw and chill, Damp vapours brooding on the barren hill, Through miles of mire in steady grave array Threescore well-arm'd police pursue their way; Each tall and bearded man a rifle swings,

See the pretty planet! Floating sphere! Faintest breeze will fan it Far or near;

Up the airy mountain,  Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting   For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk,   Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap,   And white owl’s feather!

These little Songs, Found here and there, Floating in air By forest and lea, Or hill-side heather,