Londonderry AirThat floats and falls from off the twisted bough To lie and faint within your silken bosom Within your silken bosom as that does now. Or would I were a little burnish'd apple For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold While sun and shade you robe of lawn will dapple Your robe of lawn, and you hair's spun gold.
Yea, would to God I were among the roses |