Bird of the greenwood
W. Wallace
Bird of the greenwood!
Oh! why art thou here?
Leaves dance not o'er thee,
Flowers bloom not near.
All the sweet waters
Far hence are at play —
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
Where the mast quivers,
Thy place will not be,
As midst the waving
Of wild rose and tree.
How should'st thou battle
With storm and with spray?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
Or art thou seeking
Some brighter land,
Where by the south-wind
Vine leaves are fanned?
Midst the wild billows
Why then delay?
Bird of the greenwood!
Away, away!
"Chide not my lingering
Where storms are dark;
A hand that hath nursed me
Is in the bark;
A heart that hath cherished
Through winter's long day,
So I turn from the greenwood,
Away, away!"