Irish Love Song

Would God I were the tender apple blossom

That 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 your robe of lawn will dapple,

Your robe of lawn and your hair of spun gold.