By the side of the Shannon

By the side of the Shannon was laid a young Lover,

"I hate this dull river", he fretfully cried;

"Yon tempest is coming, this willow my cover,

How sultry the air, not a zephyr", he sigh'd.

"Go, bee! -- get along -- why so idly remaining,

For here are no roses, thou troublesome thing!

Peace nightingale! Peace to that ditty complaining

Oh, can it be thus that these nightingales sing?"

But now a light form, with a smile archly playing.

All beaming in beauty, before him appear'd;

"O Ellen!" He cried, "why thus strangely delaying,

My dearest, my Ellen, what have I not fear'd."

And then so majestic the Shannon came flowing,

That bee flew unchided the blossoms among,

The sky was serene, and the zephyrs soft blowing,

And oh! How enchanting the nightingale's song!